The Great Blame Game

What a tragic spectacle we’ve witnessed in Bengaluru, where a joyous celebration of Royal Challengers Bengaluru’s (RCB) first-ever IPL triumph in 18 years turned into a tragic stampede that claimed 11 lives and injured dozens more. The M. Chinnaswamy Stadium, once a hallowed ground for cricket fans, became the stage for chaos, heartbreak, and—predictably—a masterclass in political finger-pointing. As the dust settles and the city mourns, our esteemed leaders have rolled up their sleeves, not to help, but to hurl police officials, RCB management, and anyone else within arm’s reach under the nearest double-decker bus. It’s a tragicomedy of accountability avoidance, and the script is as old as the hills.

Let’s set the scene. On June 4, 2025, Bengaluru was buzzing with euphoria. RCB, the perennial underdog, had finally clinched the IPL trophy, and the city was ready to party like it was 2008. The Karnataka government, ever eager to bask in reflected glory, planned a grand felicitation at Vidhana Soudha, followed by a victory parade to Chinnaswamy Stadium. RCB, not to be outdone, hyped the event on social media, promising a parade and free passes on a “first come, first served” basis. Fans, naturally, descended in droves—estimates range from 50,000 to a jaw-dropping 200,000. The stadium, with a capacity of 35,000, was about as prepared for this onslaught as a paper boat in a tsunami.

But here’s where it gets interesting. The Bengaluru police, bless their overworked souls, reportedly warned the powers-that-be about the risks of holding such a massive event on short notice. They begged for more time, more personnel, maybe even a Sunday slot to plan properly. Permission for the parade? Denied, they said, citing security concerns. Yet, somehow, the show went on. The government feted the team at Vidhana Soudha, RCB posted parade details at 3:14 p.m., and fans, misled by mixed messages, swarmed the stadium gates. By 4 p.m., tragedy struck. Gate 3 partially opened, and a frenzied crowd—some with tickets, many without—surged forward, triggering a deadly crush. Eleven lives, including a 13-year-old girl and a 19-year-old engineering student, were snuffed out in the chaos.

Now, you’d think a tragedy of this magnitude would prompt soul-searching, unity, and a collective resolve to prevent future disasters. But this is Bengaluru, where the only thing faster than the traffic is the speed at which politicians dodge blame. Enter Chief Minister Siddaramaiah, stage left, with a performance worthy of a soap opera. Within 24 hours, he suspended Bengaluru Police Commissioner B. Dayananda and other senior officers, citing “negligence and irresponsibility.” Never mind that the police were stretched thin, managing both the Vidhana Soudha event and the stadium crowds with inadequate resources. Never mind that they’d sounded the alarm bells. No, the police were the perfect scapegoats—faceless, voiceless, and oh-so-easy to sacrifice.

Not content with throwing the cops under the bus, Siddaramaiah turned his sights on RCB and the Karnataka State Cricket Association (KSCA). He ordered the arrest of RCB official Nikhil Sosale—described as Virat Kohli’s “friend,” because apparently that’s a crime now—along with three others from the event management company. An FIR was filed, accusing RCB of announcing the parade without permission. The Karnataka High Court, not to be left out of the drama, began hearings, with the Bengaluru Urban Deputy Commissioner issuing notices to RCB, KSCA, and the police commissioner. It’s a veritable blame buffet, and everyone’s grabbing a plate.

But let’s not let the politicians hog all the sarcasm. RCB deserves a round of applause for their Oscar-worthy statement, expressing “deep anguish” and pledging `10 lakh to victims’ families. How generous, considering their social media posts fueled the frenzy, promising a parade that never materialized and free passes that turned into a deadly lottery. The BCCI, true to form, washed its hands of the mess, with IPL Chairman Arun Dhumal claiming they had “no knowledge” of the celebrations. Right, because the IPL’s governing body is just a bystander when its franchise throws a city into chaos.

And what of the fans, the real victims here? They came to celebrate their heroes—Virat Kohli, Rajat Patidar, and the gang—only to be crushed by poor planning and bureaucratic bumbling. Eyewitnesses described scenes of horror: fans climbing gates, police resorting to lathi charges, ambulances stuck in traffic. A 14-year-old girl, a pani puri vendor’s son, a new tech firm employee—all gone, their dreams trampled in the stampede. Yet, even as bodies were carried to hospitals, the felicitation inside the stadium continued, with “We Are the Champions” blaring. Talk about tone-deaf.

The irony is that this tragedy was entirely preventable. If the government had heeded police warnings, if RCB hadn’t whipped up a frenzy, if someone—anyone—had coordinated properly, those 11 lives might still be here.

(The writer is a senior journalist based in Mumbai.)