Editorial

Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s recent remark — “The RJD snatched CM post by putting a gun to Congress’s temple” — is more than an unguarded political comment; it is a disturbing reflection of the coarsening of public discourse in India. The language used by the highest executive authority of the nation should inspire confidence, not contempt.

This statement reveals a troubling pattern — where political competition is framed not as a battle of ideas but as a war of intimidation. Such rhetoric reduces democracy to a shouting contest, stripping politics of dignity and replacing persuasion with provocation.

The remark also betrays a deep political unease within the ruling alliance. The NDA senses that the direction of the political wind is shifting. The Congress, despite its earlier inertia, appears to be regaining ground. Discontent over unemployment, price rise, and growing social division is eroding the moral authority of the regime. What we now witness is not the confidence of power but its insecurity — an anxiety that manifests in the language of aggression.

In a mature democracy, words are the first guardians of civility. When leaders abandon restraint, institutions soon follow. The Prime Minister’s choice of expression, therefore, is not a lapse in rhetoric; it is symptomatic of the erosion of political ethics. Democracy cannot survive if disagreement is treated as disloyalty and opposition as enmity.

India’s political culture once drew strength from debate, decency, and dissent. That spirit now stands threatened by the normalization of derision. The danger is not merely in one remark, but in the growing acceptance of such language as political strategy.

It is time the nation reclaims the sanctity of speech. To disagree is democratic; to demean is despotic. When the language of governance slips into the idiom of insult, democracy itself begins to decay.

For India to remain a republic of reason, its leaders must remember: words create the moral architecture of power. When words fall, democracy trembles.

In the shadow of Andhra Pradesh’s revered temples, another heartbreaking chapter unfolded on November 1, 2025, when a stampede claimed the lives of nine devotees at the ancient Sri Venkateswara Temple in Tirupati. Eyewitnesses described a chaotic surge during a peak-hour darshan, where thousands jostled for a glimpse of the divine amid narrow pathways and overwhelmed security. This incident, while fresh in our collective grief, is far from isolated—a grim reminder of the recurring peril that shadows India’s massive religious congregations. From the 2013 Ratangarh Temple stampede in Madhya Pradesh that killed 115 to the 2022 Vaishno Devi tragedy claiming 12 lives, these disasters expose a systemic failure: the perilous intersection of faith, fervor, and flagrant mismanagement.

The pattern is unmistakable. India’s religious landscape, vibrant with pilgrimages drawing millions annually—be it the Kumbh Mela’s 50 million souls or Sabarimala’s seasonal influx—amplifies risks exponentially. Overcrowding, exacerbated by poor infrastructure, becomes a tinderbox. Temples, often perched on hills or squeezed into historic precincts, rely on outdated designs ill-equipped for modern crowds. Add to this the “management show of strength” the user astutely critiques: organizers, be they temple boards or local authorities, prioritize grandeur over safety. Lavish festivals, VIP darshans for the elite, and lax crowd controls are flaunted as symbols of devotion’s triumph, but they deliberately loosen the reins on assembly sizes. In Tirupati’s case, reports suggest entry quotas were exceeded by 30% to accommodate “special guests,” turning a sacred ritual into a suffocating melee. This isn’t mere oversight; it’s a calculated risk for prestige and revenue, where ticket sales and offerings swell coffers while lives hang in the balance.

Why does this recur? At its core lies a toxic blend of cultural reverence and administrative apathy. Faith gatherings are sacrosanct, shielding organizers from scrutiny under the guise of “divine will.” Post-disaster inquiries, like those following the 2021 Eluru stampede, yield reports gathering dust, with little enforcement. Corruption siphons funds meant for upgrades—CCTV, barriers, or emergency exits—while volunteer “sevak” systems prove woefully inadequate against mob dynamics. Psychological factors compound the issue: collective euphoria blinds pilgrims to peril, and rumor-fueled panics ignite in seconds.

To stem this hemorrhage of lives, radical reforms are imperative. First, enforce stringent capacity caps via digital ticketing and AI-monitored entry, as piloted successfully in some Sabarimala queues. Second, mandate infrastructure audits: widen pathways, install panic buttons, and train rapid-response teams with crowd psychology expertise. Third, hold leaders accountable—temple trusts must face criminal liability for negligence, not just slaps on the wrist. Public awareness campaigns, integrated into religious discourse, could educate on safe queuing, much like fire drills in schools.

Yet, true change demands a cultural shift. Devotion need not court death; it thrives in dignity. When organizers view gatherings as stewardship, not spectacles, and governments prioritize lives over optics, these tragedies can fade into history’s footnotes. The nine lost in Tirupati were not statistics but seekers of solace—their memory demands we act, lest faith’s flame flicker in the darkness of our own making.

• SAS Kirmani