Dr Rekha Jad
The Mansa Devi temple in Haridwar is a place where spirituality meets stunning natural beauty. Perched atop Bilwa mountains , near Harki pauri it offers panoramic views of the Ganges and the sacred city below. For many, the ropeway ride is a small adventure; for others, the uphill trek is invigorating and soul-stirring.
But for me, this hilltop shrine is also where faith once nearly cost me my life.
Two years ago, I found myself caught in a jostling, suffocating crowd as I approached the sanctum. The wide, open path narrowed abruptly, funneling thousands of devotees into five or six dense rows. It was person to person, shoulder to shoulder, bumper to bumper-not even enough space for my chest to expand while breathing. The humid, sultry monsoon air, the sticky sweat, the rising panic made every breath feel borrowed. When I finally stumbled out, I was enraged, shaken, and numb with disbelief that I had even made it out alive. Offering prayers became secondary, almost forgotten.
What stayed with me, beyond the physical terror, was the brazen opportunism of certain priests, coercing donations and exploiting the chaos. It felt like an insult piled on injury, a reminder that devotion often comes at the cost of dignity-and, sometimes, safety.
So, when I heard of the recent stampede at Mansa Devi temple-six young lives lost, several critically injured-I was devastated, but not surprised. This was not a freak accident. It was a tragedy foreseen and feared, not just by me but by anyone who has felt that crushing wave of humanity and thought, “One slip, one surge, and it’s over.”
And it is not just Mansa Devi. Such stampedes are a recurrent horror across India’s holy sites. We’ve seen it at Vaishno Devi, Banke Bihari in Mathura, the Kumbh Mela, the Jagannath Rath Yatra, Chhath Puja, and even at satsangs led by self-proclaimed custodians of faith.
Why does this keep happening? The answer is as uncomfortable as it is clear. God gave us mind, intellect, and body-but we often leave all three at home. Pilgrimage sites are not amusement parks or casual weekend getaways. They are no place for tiny children or frail elders when massive crowds are expected. Devotees, driven by a mix of faith and frenzy, rarely consider their own vulnerability-or the risks they impose on others.
But this is not solely about personal responsibility. Administrative apathy plays an equal, if not greater, role. Crowd management is often left to chance, with no strict caps on numbers, minimal regulation of entry, and virtually no safeguards against bottlenecks or surges. When something goes wrong, officials point to “unforeseen circumstances” as though tides of people at these festivals are somehow unpredictable.
The truth is, we are a berserkly populated country-but far more berserk is our behavior in crowds. Frenzy overtakes faith, and the line between devotion and danger blurs.
The solution is not elusive. Staggered entry, barricading, strict visitor caps, advance registration, trained crowd marshals, and real accountability can prevent most of these tragedies. Devotees, too, must learn restraint: choose off-peak times, avoid dragging vulnerable family members into hazards, and remember that God is no less reachable when worshipped from home than when fought for in a mob.
Until both authorities and pilgrims take this seriously, India’s holy sites will remain what they have far too often become: not just places of worship, but recurring headlines of horror.
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