“Was any official held liable? Was any department reprimanded? Were protocols audited by an independent authority? Or did the system simply reset, hoping better arrangements this year would erase the failures of the past?
Accountability is not just about punishment—it is about trust. When citizens see that lives can be lost without consequences, confidence in governance erodes. Faith, ironically, becomes safer than the systems meant to protect it.
The Shirgao jatra is no ordinary gathering. It is a high-risk, high-density religious event involving fire-walking rituals and massive crowds concentrated in a geographically constrained area.”
Every year, the Shirgao Lairai Devi jatra draws lakhs of devotees in a powerful expression of faith. Every year, the state machinery promises “comprehensive safety.” And yet, after lives were lost in last year’s tragedy, one question continues to haunt Goa: where is accountability?
The Goa government has now assured the High Court that “adequate safety measures” are in place—traffic regulation, police deployment, crowd monitoring, CCTV surveillance, and staggered entry systems. On paper, it sounds reassuring. In court, it appears sufficient. But outside the courtroom, on the narrow roads of Shirgao where faith meets chaos, such assurances ring hollow.
Because this is not the first time.
Last year’s stampede during the same jatra claimed multiple lives and left many injured—a tragedy widely described as preventable.
That single word—preventable—should have triggered resignations, independent inquiries, and systemic reform. Instead, it has been buried under bureaucratic language and seasonal promises.
The uncomfortable truth is that India, and Goa in particular, suffers from a dangerous pattern: tragedy, outrage, assurances, and then amnesia.
The government’s affidavit to the High Court lists logistical improvements. But logistics are not accountability. Regulating traffic or installing CCTV cameras may reduce risk, but they do not answer the most basic question: who was responsible for last year’s deaths?
Was any official held liable? Was any department reprimanded? Were protocols audited by an independent authority? Or did the system simply reset, hoping better arrangements this year would erase the failures of the past?
Accountability is not just about punishment—it is about trust. When citizens see that lives can be lost without consequences, confidence in governance erodes. Faith, ironically, becomes safer than the systems meant to protect it.
The Shirgao jatra is no ordinary gathering. It is a high-risk, high-density religious event involving fire-walking rituals and massive crowds concentrated in a geographically constrained area.
The risks are not unknown. The vulnerabilities are not new. Which makes last year’s tragedy even more damning—it was not an unforeseeable disaster, but a failure of planning and execution.
And yet, the government’s current stance reflects a troubling complacency. By focusing solely on “measures in place,” it avoids confronting the deeper issue of institutional failure. It is easier to promise better policing than to admit past negligence.
Even the High Court’s role, while crucial, appears limited to procedural satisfaction. The court has accepted the government’s assurances and disposed of the petition, albeit with liberty to raise future concerns.
But should judicial closure be mistaken for administrative absolution?
There is also a deeper moral question. In a democracy, are lives lost in public events simply collateral damage? Do we accept that large gatherings will inevitably result in casualties, as long as “efforts” were made?
This normalisation of preventable deaths is perhaps the most dangerous outcome of all.
What is needed is not just better crowd control this year, but a structural shift in how such events are governed. Independent safety audits must be mandatory. Responsibility must be clearly fixed across departments. Real-time decision-making should be backed by accountability frameworks, not just protocols. And most importantly, when lives are lost, there must be consequences—visible, transparent, and just.
Without this, every assurance becomes a ritual in itself—repeated annually, believed selectively, and forgotten conveniently.
The devotees who gather at Shirgao do so in faith. They trust that the state will safeguard their lives as they honour their beliefs. That trust cannot be repaid with affidavits alone.
Until accountability is established, every claim of “adequate safety” will remain incomplete. Because safety is not measured by plans made, but by lessons learned.
And in Shirgao, it seems the most important lesson is still being ignored.
