When will we learn to prioritise safety?

The joy of victory turned into the pain of loss outside Bengaluru’s M. Chinnaswamy Stadium. What began as a thanksgiving celebration for a long-awaited cricket triumph became a national tragedy. Eleven lives were lost in a stampede that could have and should have been prevented. Dozens more remain in hospitals, some clinging to life, others haunted by trauma that will linger far beyond this news cycle. The numbers alone are staggering. The stadium’s capacity is around 35,000. However, according to the officials, nearly two lakh people gathered in and around it—fans from across
the city and beyond, united by the ecstasy of an 18-year wait finally ending. The crowd’s size should have sounded an early alarm. Instead, there was silence, no contingency plan, no crowd regulation, and no safeguards because there was no planning at all.

The original plan for a victory parade was wisely cancelled, given Bengaluru’s infamous traffic snarls. But what replaced it was a hastily announced felicitation event that, too, barely 24 hours after the final in Ahmedabad, was no safer. In fact, it turned out to be far more dangerous. One cannot help but question the timing. Why the rush? Why not wait a few more days? And why two events in two venues that are bound to tax the police? Were logistical obligations and media appearances more important than human safety? When victory becomes more urgent than life itself, something is deeply broken in our public priorities. By mid-afternoon, the chaos had already begun. Crowds were spilling into adjoining roads, pressing into barricade-less spaces, extending as far as Vidhana Soudha. The police were outnumbered, overwhelmed, and ill-equipped. Entry points were undefined. Exit plans were non-existent. Medical preparedness was virtually invisible. In a cricket-
mad city like Bengaluru, could this outcome really not have been foreseen?

The government cannot absolve itself. It approved the event. It knew the scale of sentiment, emotional pitch, and logistical nightmare, yet it pressed ahead. Whether driven by the lure of political capital or the desire to bask in reflected glory, the administration failed in its most basic duty: to protect lives. And while the opposition is now calling for resignations, it must pause and reflect, too. This is not a moment for political point-scoring. It is a moment to ask: when will we stop gambling with people’s lives for applause? To its credit, besides a magisterial inquiry, the government has announced a solatium for the victims’ families and for those injured.
That is a necessary gesture and a humane one. But no cheque can bring back a lost life. No compensation can undo the heartbreak of a mother searching for her son in a crowd that turned deadly.

What wounds most deeply, perhaps, is that the celebration didn’t stop. Even as bodies were being rushed to ambulances and morgues, music echoed through the speakers. Leaders smiled for the cameras. The show went on. In our obsession with image-making, we have lost the ability to pause, honour the dead, and grieve. Is celebration so sacred to us that death itself becomes a footnote?

Worse still, this isn’t a one-off. In the past twelve months alone, India has seen six stampedes in temples, religious congregations, political rallies, and public festivals. How many more must die before we learn? These are not unpredictable, once-in-a-generation tragedies. They follow a pattern of poor planning, lax regulation, and wilful ignorance. If history keeps repeating itself, it is because no one is truly listening.

While the public may be swept up in the euphoria, the government cannot afford to be. Emotion may drive fans to flood streets and gather en masse. However, administration demands restraint, foresight, and cool judgment. That is the difference between being a fan and being in charge. Disaster is inevitable when those in power behave like spectators instead of stewards. The tragedy at Chinnaswamy was not merely a failure of logistics. It was a failure of judgment, of empathy, of leadership. Cricket is a game. Celebrations are fleeting. But death is forever. Each of the eleven who died had a name, a dream, a place in someone’s heart. They were not collateral damage.

Let this not be just another grim statistic. Let this not be another memory we collectively blur with time. As citizens, organisers, and leaders, we must carry this wound and learn from it. We must never again allow joy to trample over judgment. Let the memory of those who died in celebration remind us that some moments are too precious to be rushed, too fragile to be left unguarded.

Let this be the reckoning. Let this be the last time.

(The writer is former professor and dean, Christ Deemed to be University, Bengaluru)