A celebration that shouldn't have ended in tears

Time of India

4 hours ago

Barsha Nag Bhowmick has an opinion on anything and everything. A scribe for more than two decades, she writes on various topics including art, literature, relationships, lifestyle and anything that arouses her interest from time to time. When not into writing, she paints. Follow @barshanag on Twitter LESS ... MORE
I have always been the kind who shies away from chaos. Loud cheers, elbowing crowds, the frenzy of thrill… it overwhelms me. I prefer taking the quieter road, walking at my pace, letting the world rush past.
Amrish bhai, my spirited neighbour, often nudges me with a half-joke, 'Why are you just walking? Run, yaar… live a little.'
After the tragic stampede in Bengaluru last week, I found myself asking… why do we run? And, more importantly, where?
Many lives lost. So many families shattered in seconds.
It happened during what was meant to be a moment of joy… the felicitation of the Royal Challengers Bangalore (RCB) team at M Chinnaswamy Stadium. Rumours began to circulate that free tickets would be distributed there. Fans poured in… by the thousands. Some say tens of thousands. The numbers swelled far beyond what the space could hold.
Excitement turned into desperation as people pushed past each other at the gates. Too many people. Too few entry points. No proper coordination. No crowd control. In that crush, dreams collapsed. So did lives.
Among the many heart-wrenching stories, one refuses to leave me… that of a father waiting at the mortuary, holding on to hope that had already slipped away. 'We have just one child… give me my child back,' he said quietly, his voice heavy with grief. His son, just 22, had gone to see his favourite team. He never returned.
The father didn't ask for explanations. He didn't want an autopsy. He just wanted his boy. 'I haven't lived without him for even an hour,' he whispered. 'I cared for him every day for 22 years. And now, in all this chaos, I've lost him. Please… send him back.'
This wasn't a war zone. It wasn't a protest. It wasn't even a ticketed concert with wild crowds. It was supposed to be a moment of celebration. A city's tribute to its beloved cricket team.
We talk about passion, loyalty, and the magic of sports. But somewhere along the way, we have begun chasing moments like prizes. As if standing in a crowd somehow makes us part of the action. As if getting there first proves something.
It's easy to blame the organisers… poor crowd management, inadequate planning, failure to anticipate turnout. And yes, they must be held accountable. But what about us? Why are we drawn to such chaos? For a photo? A glimpse? A freebie?
I remember feeling a similar anxiety a few months ago when a few of my friends attended the Kumbh Mela. I understood their faith, their excitement. And I'm not comparing the two events. But I do remember how uneasy I felt, silently praying that they stayed safe. Sometimes, it's not about being brave or spiritual… it's just about staying alive. And that should count too.
Amrish bhai's words echo again. 'Run, yaar.'
But I think I will still walk.
Not because I fear missing out. But because I now know what some runs can cost. And I'm not just talking about bruises or breathlessness. I'm talking about sons who never come home. Fathers who leave stadiums with nothing but silence.
My heart goes out to every family who lost someone that day. No game, no celebration, no free ticket is worth a life. We owe it to the dead, not just to mourn, but to learn. To pause. To question. And maybe, just maybe, to stop running mindlessly and start walking mindfully, with care.
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Views expressed above are the author's own.