48 hours in Bangalore

A Bangalorean tries to make sense of RCB's drought-breaking victory and city-breaking parade.

I’m going to admit something pretty terrible; I am struggling to identify with the victims of the crowd crush.

I’m from Bangalore. I support RCB. I was at the parade.

I’ve read about the failures of planning and execution from RCB and the authorities. I’m enraged by their seeming lack of empathy and remorse. I’m devastated by the stories of the unfortunate eleven that were killed.

However, I’m struggling to understand.

I don’t know what it feels like to trip and never be able to get up again.

I don’t know what it feels like to sense your body shutting down when you are in the prime of your life. Not dehydrated, not starving, not diseased, not weak. Just…crushed. Under the weight of hundreds of people, all of whom are losing control of their own bodies as an ever-growing mass of fans are constricted by artificial barricades.

To feel yourself losing the fight for survival, to feel the uncontrollable panic that must’ve swelled up, to feel the unexplainable paralysis of everything going black.

It’s the story of the underdog where the underdog is devastated. There’s no hope, no moral lesson, no silver lining. Just darkness and silence and…nothing.

How do I understand that when I was just celebrating one of the city’s greatest moments with hundreds of thousands of people who felt the same way?

*

24 hours ago, I was at a friend’s place watching RCB seemingly throw away another final. All season, Kohli and Salt have given us starts that the middle order has built upon. Tonight, Salt and surprise number three promotion Agarwal are out before Kohli even has a chance to get settled.

The commentators keep spelling out the flaws in RCB’s slow innings. Ahmedabad is a flat track, as they’ve seen all season long. PBKS just chased down 203 against MI. They’re not going to collapse against RCB twice in a week. Kohli’s thrown away another IPL final by batting at 122.85 after spending all season closer to 150.

Then Jitesh shows up and smacks 23 in 7 balls. He even inspired Livingstone to hit a six. Shit, they’re both out. How’d we go from 168 with three overs left to just 187 at the end of the 19th?! It’s okay, we’ve still got Romario.

Well, god damn it, Arshdeep. Did you really have to take 3 wickets for 3 runs in the last over? How are we supposed to defend 190 on a wicket with a predicted par score of 220? Hayden, will you shut up already. Yes, I know we’re 30 runs short.

PBKS start strong, courtesy of Romario dropping Prabhsimran. As they continue to push the pace through the powerplay, the commentators become retroactively harsher on the West Indian. The catch was initially described as tough. Then it became catchable. Then it became an obvious drop that was going to cost RCB the title. I really don’t need the comms team to match my pessimism right now.

Then Krunal shows up with a 3-run over. Is there some hope? Nope, Suyash just got hit for 15 runs. Who the hell is going to bowl those extra three overs if he’s already been played out of the game? Romario, who’s fluffed his lines with the bat and in the field?!

Well, what do I know.

I’m not sure how to deal with good luck as an RCB fan. Sure, we got Shreyas, but we’ve already delayed two overs. Another one, and we’ll be penalised 5 runs. That’s how we’re going to lose right? A stupid little technicality that ranks up there with New Zealand’s misfortune in 2019?

Wait, why is everyone celebrating? Hazlewood could still bowl a no ball. God damn it Krunal, you have to stop that boundary. Wait, is that another six? AND ANOTHER?! WE’RE SO SCREWED, HOW DID WE THROW THIS AWAY, HOW…wait, what do you mean the game is over?

We won?

*

An hour later and I’m leaning against a street sign, watching fans on bikes fly up and down the road screaming “RCB, RCB, RCB” at the top of their lungs. Just for added effect, parked two-wheelers are revving in perfect unison to the three-beat chant.

I’m still in a daze. The fog of burning fuel probably doesn’t help.

We won?

*

I get up to a series of messages from RCB buddies expressing the same disbelief and joy. 18 years. 18 very long, very disheartening years. This is awesome.

I jump out of bed without the usual 20 minutes of screen time. It’s time to go baby. There’s going to be a celebration today! A parade! In Bangalore! For RCB! I’ve got to do as much work as possible in the morning if I’m going to take the afternoon off.

The parade is rumoured to start at 3:30. I catch the metro at 2:30 and stick it out in a packed carriage for the 15-minute ride to Vidhana Soudha. I spend the entire ride looking over the shoulder of a stranger, watching muted RCB edits on his phone. I don’t think he ever notices me creeping on him, thank god.

We finally reach the station, and everyone has their phones out videoing the hundreds of RCB fans singing as they make their way out. The cops are thoroughly irritated that we’re not crossing the barricades fast enough!

There’s about 30 steps up to the exit. With each foot forward the excitement builds. You can hear the thunderous chants building, you can feel the shared lightning of a city starting to accept a very simple fact.

We won!

*

Two hours later, I’m sitting in a café a kilometre away frantically retweeting posts to get a simple message out – GET AWAY FROM CHINNASWAMY. We don’t know what’s going on, but it’s not good. Walk away, stay away.

Meanwhile thousands are still streaming towards the stadium outside the window.

Wait, did RCB just put up a post praising their fans for showing up en masse to show the team love?

What the fuck is going on?

I’m a kilometre away and there’s nothing I can do except impotently retweet messages on Twitter.

People are still walking towards the stadium outside the window.

Why won’t anyone in an actual position of power ask them to stay away? How do I convince them to go back when RCB still has a post up promising a parade at 5 PM? They think they’re running late, so they’re running towards their heroes.

Is it starting to rain?

*

4 dead. No, 7. It’s up to 11 now. And almost 50 more in the hospital, many in critical condition.

The café is full of displaced and confused RCB fans. Those who enter are whispering to each other while hunched over their phones. Their hushed disbelief quickly turns to stunned silence.

It’s a very odd sensation to be in a packed establishment that’s making no noise. That coffee machine is way louder than I realised.

What are we supposed to do now?

*

24 hours later, I’m in another café in another part of town. There’s a couple on a date. There’s a work-from-home employee on a Zoom call. There are some startup bros talking about the next big idea.

I can’t hear the coffee machine.

*

I’m not an artistic person. I’ve tried. I’ve gotten pretty decent at sketching. But I can’t transpose what I’m feeling onto a piece of paper. I can never draw the image I see in my head. The same goes for other non-linear forms of expression – I’m tone deaf, and I’ve got two left feet.

But I can write. I’ve always been able to write. That’s what comes from growing up in a family where my mom runs libraries and my dad runs schools. Reading is an ingrained priority, and writing is just a knock-on skill from consuming books endlessly.

I’ve been sitting at this café for hours going nowhere. I’ve written at least 15 different intros for this article. Metaphors about the bloody taste of a Budweiser Magnum, about holding your breath under water, about the philosophical nature of mathematics.

None of it makes sense. I’m getting lost in the metaphor and straying away from what I’m actually feeling. Because what I’m feeling is broken. It’s a ringing gong somewhere in a deep recess of my brain, refusing to let me think straight.

Eleven people are dead. Eleven RCB fans who walked to the parade with the same excitement I did. Who felt the same electricity in the air, who felt the same magical interconnectedness with the hundreds of thousands of people around them. Who were on a euphoric cloud so high that nothing could bring them down.

Until, suddenly, they felt nothing.

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I want to appreciate Indian Express’ Johnson T A who went to the hospitals and morgues to give the nameless, faceless victims some of their humanity back;

Manoj Kumar was an 18-year-old in his first year of college. His father is a pani puri vendor who only wanted to give his son a chance at a better life.

Prajwal G was a 22-year-old engineering student and RCB super fan whose mood was brightened immeasurably by the victory on Tuesday night. He died in an RCB shirt on Wednesday night.

Divyanshi was a 14-year-old schoolgirl who came with her extended family to the celebrations. Her aunt said that the authorities were focussed on protecting the dignitaries, and they had to organise their own car amidst the chaos to get her to the hospital. They reached too late.

Kamakshi Devi was a 29-year-old immigrant who went to the celebrations alone to soak up some of the atmosphere. Her colleague was despondently waiting by her body at the morgue as her parents drove up from Tamil Nadu.

Sanaya was a new-to-the-workforce and new-to-Bangalore 21-year-old who went to the parade with her new colleagues. They are still in shock.

Poorna Chanda, a well-built 25-year-old who got married a few days ago, was identified by friends via viral videos of people trying to give him CPR.

The other victims were Akshata (26), Shivalingu (17), Shravan Kumar (26), Bhoomika (18), and Chinnaiah (19).

Their average age was 21.

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