Thirty-nine lives. Snuffed out in an instant. Mothers, fathers, children—reduced to statistics in what has become one of Tamil Nadu’s worst stampedes in recent memory. And yet, even before the bodies were cremated, the political circus began. Instead of grief and accountability, what the people of Karur, Tamil Nadu, and India at large have been treated to is a familiar, disgraceful spectacle: leaders pointing fingers, parties scoring points, and officials scrambling to cover tracks. Let us be clear. A political rally that ends in mass deaths is not a mere “accident.” It is a monumental administrative and political failure. Whether it was the fledgling Tamilaga Vettri Kazhagam (TVK) led by actor-turned-politician Vijay failing to follow protocols, or the Karur police misjudging and underestimating the crowd, or—worse—deliberate sabotage by local officials trying to please their political masters, the fact remains: law and order is the state’s responsibility. Period. Chief Minister M.K. Stalin’s government cannot pass the buck. When citizens step out to participate in a political event, the state machinery is duty-bound to ensure their safety. And yet, in Karur, this duty was criminally neglected. Reports of sudden power outages at the rally—triggering panic—must be investigated thoroughly. Was it an avoidable lapse? Or was it a mischievous act by overzealous local functionaries desperate to show loyalty to their political overlords? Such questions cannot be brushed aside with bland assurances or the usual “we will look into it.” But here is the real danger: entrusting the probe to the state police. The people of Tamil Nadu have seen this movie too many times before.
From custodial deaths to riots to accidents, “internal inquiries” almost always end in scapegoating the lowest rung while shielding the powerful. What is needed here is not another routine magisterial inquiry that gathers dust, but either a judicial commission or an independent probe by a central agency. Of course, the DMK will cry foul if the Centre steps in, accusing Delhi of trying to malign a state government. But this is precisely why Stalin must take the high road: order a judicial probe, clean up his own house, and send a message that political loyalty does not come before people’s lives. This tragedy also exposes a truth about Tamil Nadu politics that has been brushed under the carpet for decades: the dangerous cocktail of cinema, politics, and blind fandom. From MGR to Karunanidhi to Jayalalithaa, Tamil leaders have harnessed the silver screen to build cults, not constituencies. Vijay, with his Tamilaga Vettri Kazhagam, is merely the latest inheritor of this tradition. His youth appeal, his timing, and the widespread disenchantment with both Dravidian parties explain the unprecedented crowds he is drawing. But with great crowds come greater responsibilities—for his party and for the state. Organizing rallies without adequate security protocols in a state where political fandom has often spilled into hysteria is a recipe for disaster. And disaster is what we witnessed in Karur. The bottom line is this: Tamil Nadu does not need a blame game. It needs accountability. It needs a chief minister who does not shield complacent or complicit officials but cracks the whip. It needs political parties, old and new, to recognize that people’s safety comes before their quest for votes. And above all, it needs respect for human life, not just crocodile tears once the death toll is announced. Thirty-nine lives are lost. Families shattered. Dreams buried. This is not the moment for press conferences and political one-upmanship. This is the moment for hard questions, real answers, and visible action. Anything less will be an insult to the dead.
