The tragedy that unfolded at Bengaluru’s M Chinnaswamy Stadium—where a celebration spiralled into a stampede—was synthetic, foreseeable and entirely self-inflicted. It was not a case of public enthusiasm gone awry; it was the culmination of a toxic brew of political theatre, administrative apathy and corporate vanity. It laid bare a deeper crisis: a collapse of institutional judgement and a contemptuous disregard for the sanctity of public life. The government’s response—suspending the city police commissioner and other senior officers in haste—only served to expose the rot. Scapegoating of honest officers has become the easiest way to deflect accountability. This time, it crossed an ethical line.
When spectacle replaces governance, tragedy ensues. What exactly was the occasion for the grand felicitation? Royal Challengers Bengaluru—a private IPL franchise that, let us remind ourselves, had only won a trophy—was feted like a conquering army on the grand steps of the Vidhana Soudha, the symbol of Karnataka’s democratic and constitutional dignity. With the governor, chief minister, deputy CM, and chief secretary playing hosts, it resembled a swearing-in ceremony, not a sports meet.
Why does the state machinery spring into action to elevate a private commercial venture? The RCB brand is not a public institution; it is a business. Unlike our Ranji Trophy-winning state teams that have brought glory to Karnataka for decades but have never been feted in this manner, RCB’s success—modest and long in coming —was transformed into a photo-op, a media spectacle. The motivation was not celebration; it was proximity to celebrity, optics over ethics, and power over prudence. The people came not just because they loved the sport or the team—they came because the state, the Karnataka State Cricket Association , and RCB whipped up a frenzy. Social media was used irresponsibly to amplify the call. No prior assessment was done of the crowd expected. No crowd control plan was in place.
Was any consultation done with the police commissioner—the person whose job is to ensure the security of citizens? Was his and his ground-level team’s advice heeded? When things went tragically wrong, the same officer was summarily suspended. A career officer known for his integrity and professionalism was cast as the villain in a theatre of public incompetence. This has rightly caused outrage. The public recognises what this is: an old playbook of punishing the wrong person so that those truly responsible may escape scrutiny.
John Stuart Mill observed, “The worth of a state in the long run is the worth of the individuals composing it.” If the state chooses to discard its honest officers to protect political vanity, what message does it send to its institutions? That loyalty matters more than law and optics more than outcome? This episode is not a lapse; it is a moral and administrative failure. When a state’s senior civil servant becomes the anchor for a private sporting event, the lines between governance and theatre blur. When the constitutional head of state, the governor, stands on the same stage without questioning the propriety of the setting, silence becomes complicity.
This was the theatre of the absurd. To be clear, this was not about cricket. It was about politics using sport as a stage, and sport embracing politics as a sponsor. When a private franchise is celebrated on public property using state resources, with no accountability for security or crowd control, the idea of responsible governance is inverted. The political economy of such spectacles relies on one assumption: that the public will forget. That after a few days of outrage, the news cycle will move on. But governance is not a media cycle; it is a responsibility. And this time, the public is not forgetting.
If nothing else, it is a democratic republic, not a personal fiefdom. The Vidhana Soudha is not a stage for private parties; it is a temple of democracy. The Constitution, which sanctifies its steps, demands that power is exercised with restraint and responsibility. B R Ambedkar warned us in the Constituent Assembly that however good the Constitution, its success would depend on the people who implement it. This moment demands reflection. When did we start using constitutional spaces as photo backdrops for brand amplification? When did our senior-most bureaucrats become event managers for celebrity appearances? When did accountability become a game of musical chairs?
This is not only about preventing future tragedies. It is about restoring the sanctity of governance. It is about drawing a clear line between the political and the constitutional, public duty and private ambition. This is a time for correctives. The state must undertake a review of the entire chain of decision-making that led to the event. Who authorised the use of the Vidhana Soudha? Was there any formal assessment of crowd management? Why was the police commissioner not consulted? And why has no action been taken against those in the administrative and political hierarchy who enabled this mindless theatre?
The stampede is a wake-up call. Not just for the government, but for all of us who care about how institutions function and public trust is preserved. To let this moment pass without accountability would be to signal that life is cheaper than spectacle. We must reject that proposition and assert that the state once again becomes what it was meant to be—a guardian of public welfare, not a participant in celebrity worship. Then, perhaps, those who suffered might receive justice.
Gurucharan Gollerkeri is a retired IAS officer and a former Visiting Fellow at the Centre for Public Policy, IIM Bangalore
(Views are personal)