In the serene predawn light of Kasibugga village, nestled in Srikakulam district of Andhra Pradesh, thousands of devotees gathered for the holy observance of Ekadashi—a day when faith rises on silent wings and candles flicker with hope. Ekadashi is a significant day in the Hindu calendar, considered auspicious for spiritual activities and the worship of Lord Vishnu. The recently inaugurated Sri Venkateswara Swamy Temple, often referred to as the ‘mini Tirupati’ by locals, stood ready to welcome worshippers into its halls of prayer.
What was anticipated to be a morning of grace and prayer, a sacred gathering under the rising sun of Ekadashi, took an unexpected turn at Kasibugga’s Venkateswara Swamy Temple in Andhra Pradesh’s Srikakulam district. As thousands of faithful devotees pressed forward to offer their prayers, the iron railing near the temple steps gave way—a moment’s fracture that unleashed chaos.
By 11:30 AM, the chants had turned to cries. Bodies stumbled, hearts raced, and in the confusion, faith was tested by fate itself. At least nine devotees lost their lives, and many others were left injured—victims not of disbelief, but of devotion carried beyond safety.
Kasibugga sub-division in-charge DSP Lakshman Rao confirmed the tragedy, his voice heavy with sorrow as rescue teams struggled through the crowd. What should have been a festival of peace now stands etched in memory—a day when faith trembled yet refused to fade. The community’s resilience in the face of such a tragedy was truly admirable. Their strength and unity in the face of adversity should invoke a sense of admiration in all of us.
In the aftermath of devotion undone, the truth surfaced like a quiet confession. Standing before the crowd of grieving families and restless reporters, Srikakulam Superintendent of Police P. K. V. Maheswara Reddy spoke with a heaviness that matched the weight of the morning’s loss. “There was only one queue line,” he said softly, “used both for entry and exit.” What should have been an orderly line of faith had become a narrow corridor of peril, a stark reminder of the preventable nature of this tragedy. This stark truth should ignite a sense of urgency for safety reforms to prevent such incidents in the future.
The iron grill, unable to bear the crush of thousands, gave way—and the seven-foot descent that followed turned divine steps into a slope of tragedy. “The devotees fell from about seven feet,” the SP explained, pausing as though the words themselves resisted release. “It’s a private temple, built on private land. No permissions were sought. No intimation was given to the police.”
Inside the temple, administrator Harmukund Panda could still hear the echo of that collapse. His voice broke with disbelief as he spoke. “Usually around 2,000 people come,” he said. “We never imagined that on this auspicious day, so many thousands would gather. We didn’t inform the police. We didn’t prepare for this.” His words echoed the lack of foresight that led to the tragedy.
“From New Delhi, the nation’s sorrow found an echo in the words of Prime Minister Narendra Modi, who expressed his anguish over the tragedy that unfolded at Srikakulam’s Venkateswara Swamy Temple”
And then came the names—whispered, written, remembered. Eduri Chinnammi. Rapaka Vijaya. M. Neelamma. Duvvu Rajeswari. Chinni Yasodamma. Rupa. L. Nikhil (13). D. Ammulamma. Brunda.
Each name is a life, a story, a prayer left unfinished. Three others still fight for theirs, lying in hospital wards where the scent of antiseptic replaces the fragrance of incense.
Outside the Venkateswara Swamy Temple, the steps stand scarred — not just by the fall of iron, but by the weight of devotion unguarded. What was meant to be a morning of faith now endures as a lesson carved in grief: that even belief needs structure, that reverence must walk hand in hand with responsibility.
When faith faltered and grief swept through Kasibugga, the voices of leadership rose with sorrow and resolve. The tragedy that unfolded at the Venkateswara Swamy Temple did not just claim lives — it shook the conscience of an entire state. However, it also sparked a collective determination to prevent such tragedies in the future, a hope that resonated in the voices of the leaders. This collective responsibility should empower us to act and ensure the safety of our sacred places.
Deputy Chief Minister Pawan Kalyan, his words weighed by compassion and urgency, directed officials to ensure that no temple in Andhra Pradesh would again bear witness to such heartbreak. He ordered immediate reforms—stronger crowd control, safer structures, and vigilant oversight—especially on sacred days when faith draws thousands to a single flame of devotion.
Chief Minister N. Chandrababu Naidu, visibly shaken, called the news “devastating.” In his statement, he extended his condolences to the grieving families and assured swift aid for the injured. “The death of devotees in this tragic incident is extremely heartbreaking,” he wrote, his message shared widely across the nation. “I have instructed officials to ensure immediate medical care for the injured and requested local representatives to personally oversee relief measures at the site.”
As the sacred calm of morning dissolved into confusion, devotion gave way to despair. Some devotees collapsed where they stood; others held on to their injured loved ones, whispering prayers that trembled between faith and fear. The air, once filled with chants of divinity, now carried the raw sound of anguish. Near the sanctum, where countless hearts had gathered for a fleeting glimpse of the deity, a surge of humanity turned holy reverence into heartbreaking chaos — a moment meant for blessing, now remembered in silence.
From New Delhi, the nation’s sorrow found an echo in the words of Prime Minister Narendra Modi, who expressed his anguish over the tragedy that unfolded at Srikakulam’s Venkateswara Swamy Temple. “Deeply pained by the incident,” he wrote, “my thoughts are with the families who have lost their loved ones, and I pray for the swift recovery of those injured.” His message carried both empathy and resolve — a nation’s leader mourning with his people yet urging comfort where loss had struck deepest. To aid the grieving, he announced an ex-gratia of Rs 2 lakh for each bereaved family and Rs 50,000 for the injured, drawn from the Prime Minister’s National Relief Fund—a gesture of solidarity in a moment when words alone could not heal.
President Droupadi Murmu, too, offered her condolences in a heartfelt message: “Shocked to learn about the loss of lives in this tragic incident at Sri Venkateswara Swamy Temple in Srikakulam. I offer my heartfelt condolences to the families left grieving and hold in my prayers those who battle pain and uncertainty tonight. May strength finds the sorrowful, and healing reach the wounded—for no loss should dim the light of faith, and no wound should silence the spirit that endures.”
As dusk settled, rescue teams and police personnel worked through the fading light. Ambulances ferried the injured to nearby hospitals; volunteers handed out water, comfort, and quiet prayers. Local authorities restored order, their faces reflecting the same exhaustion seen in the mourners they comforted. The aftermath was a scene of chaos and sorrow.
In an official statement, the district administration expressed its condolences and reaffirmed its commitment to supporting those affected. “We stand with the families of the deceased,” it read. “All necessary medical and relief measures are being provided to the injured.”
And so, as the temple bells resumed their solemn rhythm, the air carried not the joyous chants of celebration, but the muted prayers of remembrance. For the nine souls who left too soon, the state mourned as one—a reminder that faith, though eternal, must always walk hand in hand with care.
The structure, built over 12 acres, was expected to hold a few thousand devotees. But that morning, the crowd swelled to maybe 25,000—moving like a sacred tide toward the sanctum. Among them were women carrying puja baskets, children trailing behind grandparents, and young couples seeking blessings. Inside the temple’s corridors, the chant of mantras echoed. Outside, the sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the steps. Among the bustle, no one anticipated how swiftly devotion would turn to horror.
A SUDDEN COLLAPSE, A WHISPER THAT ROARED
At approximately 11:45 AM, as the ocean of believers moved toward the sanctum, an iron railing near the staircase gave way beneath the overwhelming pressure. The railing collapsed, causing several panicked bodies to tumble.
In the fraction of a second that followed, calm turned to chaos. Feet slipped. Voices screamed. The narrow entry and exit routes—used by all—became a funnel where fear met flesh.
Suddenly, people were falling. Some gasped for air, others lay still,” recalled a witness, her voice quivering.
In the heart of the crowd, a grandmother’s hand slipped from her granddaughter’s; in another corner, a young boy stalled on the stairs as bodies pressed against him. A dream pilgrimage became a nightmare in the blink of an eye.
THE TOLL OF SILENCE
When the dust settled, the temple grounds were bathed in green tarps and hushed whispers. Emergency services arrived. Onlookers formed human chains to pull others to safety. Yet, amid the chants and candles, there was a heavy absence.
At least nine people—including eight women and one boy—were reported dead. Scores more were injured—bruised, shocked, bleeding. According to officials, the death toll may yet rise.
Their names began to surface: Eduri Chinnami, Rapaka Vijaya, Lotla Nikhil—and each life carried a story, a family, a tomorrow that would never come. The temple’s marble steps, once echoing with laughter and devotion, had become a tableau of loss and unanswered questions.
GRIEF CARRIED IN PRAYER
As news spread, the temple’s bells fell silent. In homes across the region, lamps glowed in memory of those who had passed away. In the local hospital, doctors worked into the night, stitching wounds, calming sobbing relatives, offering solace where none seemed enough.
In the temple’s courtyard, sorrowful figures walked with folded hands. Candles flickered in the dusk breeze. A boy held his mother’s photo; a woman touched the bricks of the fallen railing, as though seeking an answer in stone.
BEHIND THE GATES: OVERCROWDING AND OVERSIGHT
Official reports noted glaring lapses. The temple, privately managed and not registered with the Endowments Department, was not equipped to handle such a massive influx of people. Its stamped capacity is 2,000–3,000 people. On this day, it bore tens of thousands.
The entry and exit channels were the same. Construction was still underway. Proper permissions were not sought. Barriers were missing. The collapse of the railing was the spark; the tinder had been months in the making.
A minister described it plainly: “Capacity was 3,000, but we saw 25,000 arrive.”
And in that discrepancy lies a national conscience waiting for answers.
STORIES AMONG THE FALLEN
Among the lost was a grandmother, who waited all year for this pilgrimage. A teenage boy who had carried his aunt’s footwear and basket across the threshold. A woman clutching her daughter’s hand until she lost it in the pandemonium.
Their stories now circle the temple—they linger in the cool air, in the flowers placed at the railing, in the weeping hearts of loved ones. The lives cut short become a silent choir of “what-if-s” and “if-onlys.”
HOPE AMID THE CRACKS
In the wake of tragedy, there were also echoes of compassion. Locals offered chai and blankets. Medical volunteers stretched themselves thin. Rescue workers carried out their duties despite grief.
One doctor remarked: “When you stop calling them victims, they become names again—people.”
MOURNING THE FAITH OF A PEOPLE
Temples teach surrender. They teach stillness. But here, devotion crashed against its own limits. Faith ascending, bodies falling.
In the winds that swept the temple steps after dark, prayers still drifted upward. For the deceased. For the injured. For a system that must learn to hold the many without losing the few.
As the inquiry unfolds, questions multiply: How many temples remain in limbo, built on devotion but lacking oversight? How many rushes transform sacred festivals into hazards? And what must be done so that such grief is never repeated?
For now, the answers rest in blue folders, in click-throughs, in headlines. But the honest answer must live in design: wide exits, emergency protocols, fewer crushed dreams.
Until the steps speak lullabies again, rather than cries. At the outer gates of the temple, a young woman lit a lamp for her mother. She placed a flower at the broken railing and whispered a prayer that tomorrow would be kinder.
The steps remain worn, the railing still bent. But the flame flickers. And through it, hope may yet return. Because devotion is not cancelled—not even by tragedy. And in mourning them, we honour not just the lost but the faith that carries us onward.
