They were just enough to form a cricket team. The youngest was 13 and not a single one of the Bengaluru XI—those who had their lives snatched from them outside the M Chinnaswamy Stadium on Wednesday—was older than 40. They were of the city and beyond, some from other states. Girls, boys, students, dancers, software developers. Some were hardcore fans of the Royal Challengers Bangalore, who had, at long last, won their maiden Indian Premier League title. One did not even care about cricket, but was convinced by friends that a selfie at the venue would be worth the visit.
All of them had one thing in common: they were drawn to a single location to be part of a celebration. It was to be an “I was there” moment.
Not one of them could have imagined that the price to pay would be the ultimate one. When you enlist in the army, go bungee jumping, attempt to climb Mount Everest, or run with the bulls in Pamplona, you know that there is a real chance that death could come close. It’s a risk you take knowing what you are getting into.
But when you go to a cricket stadium to feel like you are part of something bigger, to share in the celebration of an achievement that has been nearly two decades in the making, the biggest worry is not the chance you have of returning alive.
To blame any of the victims would be perverse beyond belief, dealing the unkindest of cuts to the families of those who lost their lives. Yet, it is with deepest sadness that it must be recorded that what happened was not the city’s ‘defect’ or a sporting negligence—it was an Indian tragedy. Repeatedly, when crowds gather, for one cause or another, tragedy unfolds; yet, as a collective, we learn nothing.
There is no doubt that the events of Wednesday afternoon have shaken Indian society’s consciousness, but not so much that it will act as a deterrent. Not so much that there will be any changes of consequence when it comes to developing infrastructure that can safely handle large crowds, spontaneous surges of people or exuberant gatherings. Not thoroughly enough to force people in power to pause and get to the bottom of why something that should never have happened occurred.
A probe has been ordered, arrests may be made, officials suspended and monetary compensation promised. This is a templated response. You can transpose the name of the team or sport, the venue, or the occasion with a religious gathering, a clamour to board a train—and the story would remain depressingly the same.
They dare not say it aloud, but there will be a few who will look at the episode and think that only 11 people died. In India, it’s not a number of fatalities that triggers righteous outrage.
In 2005, at least 258 died in Satara, Maharashtra during a pilgrimage. In 2013, more than 115 were killed in a bridge collapse in over the Godavari in Andhra Pradesh. In 2024, the official count in Hathras, Uttar Pradesh was 121; the trigger was a tent collapse.
In sports, globally, the numbers are equally terrifying: 300 in Peru at a football game in 1964, 93 in Nepal in 1988, and 126 in Ghana in 2001.
In terms of numbers, the Hillsborough tragedy of 1989 where 97 people lost their lives at the FA Cup semi-final between Liverpool and Nottingham Forest in Sheffield is probably the most high-profile, not least because the victims’ families banded together to mount a protracted campaign for justice. It took 27 years for the UK courts to charge those responsible
In India, with the judicial system so overburdened that even the simplest of disputes can take decades to resolve, who knows when, if ever, those responsible for the events of Bengaluru 2025 will be brought to book.
“If we are not ready to hold a roadshow, we should not have [it]. As simple as it can get. I know fans do get excited, everyone gets excited; but it’s nothing compared to what happened yesterday,” Gautam Gambhir, India’s head coach, said. “I was never a believer that we need to have roadshows—never. We need to be responsible. We need to be responsible citizens and responsible in every aspect, because every life matters,” he said.
He is right, of course, in saying that no single life is worth more than another, and that we the people should be more responsible. But the human mind is such that it rarely lingers long enough to persevere towards a transformation. As individuals and a collective, as a populace and as those who govern, we move on, because if we stopped to actually take stock of each horrific incident, we might lose the will to wake up the next day.
We forget not because we are callous, but because the alternative is too painful. We forgive not because we want to, but because we would otherwise be consumed. The long road to justice for the Bengaluru XI has just begun. What shape it will take, what timeline it will follow, and what price it will extract is impossible to predict.
Only one thing is likely: before there is closure in this case, many more similarly avoidable tragedies may well unfold.
(Views are personal)
Anand Vasu is a sports journalist who has covered tournaments in several countries over 25 years