In the predawn hours of January 29, 2025, the air in Prayagraj was thick with devotion. Pilgrims, wrapped in shawls against the winter chill, pressed forward towards the Sangam, the sacred confluence of the Ganges, Yamuna, and the mythical Saraswati. Some had traveled thousands of miles, their journey fueled by faith and the promise of spiritual cleansing. The river shimmered under the first light of day, a silent witness to history being rewritten, yet again, by tragedy.

In a moment, the hum of prayers gave way to screams. A sudden surge, a misstep, a barricade that buckled under pressure—and chaos unfurled. Within minutes, dozens were crushed, suffocated, trampled under the weight of devotion. The 2025 Maha Kumbh Mela had become yet another entry in India’s long ledger of stampede disasters, a testament to the delicate balance between faith and safety in a country where religion is the pulse of public life.

A History Written in Grief

India has seen this before. In 1954, a similar stampede at the same event killed over 700 pilgrims. In 2013, a railway station in Allahabad, overwhelmed by Kumbh visitors, turned into a death trap for 42 souls. In 2005, a Mandher Devi temple celebration in Maharashtra ended in 291 deaths when a fire and a surge of devotees triggered a deadly crush. In 2013, over 115 people perished on a bridge leading to the Ratangarh Mata Temple in Madhya Pradesh when rumors of its collapse sent thousands into a panic.

This is not a new phenomenon. India’s history is dotted with similar catastrophes, all of them strikingly similar in cause and consequence. In 2008, the Chamunda Devi Temple in Jodhpur saw 224 devotees killed in a stampede when people rushing in collided with those trying to exit. In 2011, the Sabarimala pilgrimage in Kerala ended with 106 deaths after a vehicle accident on a narrow forest pathway led to a mass panic. And in 2022, an altercation among devotees at Vaishno Devi temple escalated into a deadly crush, leaving 12 dead.

A police officer carries a stampede victim at the Chamunda Devi temple inside the massive 15th century Mehrangarh fort in Jodhpur, India, Tuesday, Sept. 30, 2008. At least 80 people were killed and more than 150 injured when thousands of pilgrims stampeded Tuesday at a Hindu temple in the historic town of Jodhpur in western India, police said.

Each tragedy brings fresh debates, promises of inquiries, and vows for reform. Yet, the cycle repeats.

The Cultural Psychology of Devotion and Risk

Why do these tragedies keep happening? To the untrained eye, stampedes seem like spontaneous, uncontrollable acts of panic. The reality, however, is more complex. Psychologists studying crowd behavior argue that stampedes are not caused by irrationality but by systemic failures—by bottlenecks that force bodies into unnatural compression, by the lack of information that leads people to move against their best interest, by poorly trained personnel who react too late or too aggressively.

On January 29, 2025, a stampede at the Triveni Sangam (confluence of three rivers) in Prayagraj, India, during the Maha Kumbh festival, resulted in over 30 deaths and 60 injuries as large crowds gathered for a holy dip on Mauni Amavasya.

And yet, the underlying issue is more than logistics—it is cultural. To understand why stampedes happen in India’s religious spaces, one must first understand the psyche of the Indian devotee. Faith, in this country, does not function as an abstract principle. It is embodied, it is physical. The act of bathing in the Ganges, of touching the feet of an idol, of reaching the sanctum of a temple is not symbolic; it is real, immediate, necessary. Devotees endure unimaginable hardship to complete their pilgrimages—fasting, walking barefoot for miles, sleeping in open spaces—because the reward is believed to be divine.

A woman cries next to the body of a victim killed in the stampede at Ratangarh temple which killed 115 people on October 13, 2013.

Fatalism plays a significant role in these gatherings. In many parts of India, there is a deep-seated belief that one’s fate is preordained by karma. The presence of death, too, is not always a deterrent. “What better way to go than in God’s presence?” is a common sentiment among pilgrims. In this equation, risk is not merely tolerated; it is part of the sacred experience.

The Role of Ritual Urgency and Crowded Spaces

Time is another critical factor. Many of India’s deadliest stampedes occur at highly specific moments—during aarti (prayer rituals), before the closing of temple doors, or at the peak of auspicious bathing hours in the Kumbh. The belief that a particular window of time is spiritually superior leads to overwhelming surges.

The death toll in the stampede at Allahabad railway station on Feb 11, 2013 reached 36.

The Vaishno Devi tragedy of 2022, for instance, happened on New Year’s Eve when devotees rushed to offer their prayers exactly at midnight. The 2013 Ratangarh temple disaster was exacerbated by a belief that performing rituals at a particular moment would yield greater divine blessings. The Kumbh Mela disasters occur during peak bathing days when millions believe that immersing in the Ganges at a precise moment can absolve them of sins. These beliefs, deeply ingrained in Hindu ritualism, create choke points that turn sacred gatherings into sites of mortal peril.

When Faith and State Collide

Authorities, caught between honoring devotion and ensuring safety, often err on the side of inaction. To impose strict crowd limits is to deny people their spiritual rights. To prioritize security over faith is to court backlash. The balance is a difficult one, but history shows that the cost of failing to find it is paid in human lives.

There are solutions. Some are practical—better exit routes, stricter capacity controls, real-time crowd monitoring using AI. Others require a cultural shift—changing the way religious spaces are designed to accommodate faith without endangering lives. There is precedent for such shifts. In Mecca, where millions gather for the Hajj pilgrimage each year, a sophisticated crowd management system, complete with designated times for rituals and emergency protocols, has significantly reduced fatalities. India, with its ever-growing pilgrimage economy, must take similar steps.

Can India Break the Cycle?

How these tragedies are framed in public discourse matters. Often, news coverage of stampedes focuses on government lapses, but rarely does it explore the cultural mindset that contributes to them. Is it enough to blame the authorities without questioning the deeply held beliefs that prioritize faith over safety? Sensationalist headlines may drive viewership, but real change will come from deeper discussions—ones that bridge faith, policy, and public responsibility.

But the question remains: will it? The past suggests that after each tragedy, the mourning is brief, and the changes are cosmetic. The sanctity of religious gatherings is held above reform, and another stampede lurks around the corner, waiting for its moment in history.

In the days after the 2025 Mahakumbh disaster, authorities promised inquiries, new protocols, stricter monitoring. But on the banks of the Sangam, pilgrims still arrive, still push forward, still believe. For them, faith is worth any risk. The real question is: should it be?
The intersection of devotion and danger in India’s religious spaces is not accidental; it is systemic. To change it will require more than better logistics—it will require a transformation of how faith, risk, and responsibility are understood. Until then, each stampede will not be an anomaly but an inevitability.