Thirukkural with the Times explores real-world lessons from the classic Tamil text ‘Thirukkural’. Written by Tamil poet and philosopher Thiruvalluvar, the Kural consists of 1,330 short couplets of seven words each. This text is divided into three books with teachings on virtue, wealth, and love and is considered one of the great works ever on ethics and morality. The Kural has influenced scholars and leaders across social, political, and philosophical spheres.
Motivational speaker, author and diversity champion Bharathi Bhaskar explores the masterpiece.
The word stampede can be traced back to the Spanish ‘ estampida’, an uproar. Yet, what it leaves behind is never noise; but silence, of those who lose their kin in the crush of humanity.
History has recorded such incidents too often. In AD 80, Josephus wrote of Passover pilgrims in Jerusalem. A soldier’s taunt, a moment’s panic, and thousands were trampled into death. Since then, the list has grown: Mecca Tunnel, Mina, Baghdad Bridge, Kumbh Mela, New Delhi Railway Station, Bangalore’s RCB rally, Pushpa II’s premiere in Hyderabad—and now, Karur, where more than 40 lives were snuffed out, some of them children. What began as a gathering of hope became that of despair. The patterns are cruelly familiar: crowds underestimated or dismissed, brittle barricades, packed paths, first responders unable to reach the fallen.
Unanswered questions linger. Why was a narrow venue chosen for a rally that all locals knew could not hold such a crowd? Why did the leader arrive late? Were miscreants planted to unleash chaos? None of these questions find easy answers. But each whispers of carelessness that borders on disrespect for life itself.
German physicist Dirk Helbing once coined the term crowd-quake. When there are more than six bodies in every square meter, even the slightest motion unleashes a shock wave. At that moment, people are pushed, pulled, and crushed like twigs. To survive, experts advise: move with the crowd, place your arms around your chest to avoid breaking of your ribcage by pressure, avoid walls and do not scream as you have to conserve oxygen, stay upright as much as possible. But what of the children of Karur? Could they shield their tiny chests? Could they ‘flow’ with the sea of bodies? No instruction manual can answer their shrill cries, now frozen in our memories.
And the cycle repeats. Each time, organizers and authorities play their parts in the tragedy; grief is turned into blame, inquiries, and eventual forgetting.
But the families who watched their children disappear in the chaos will never forget. Their silence will remain an open wound.
In the corporate world, there is a practice called a pre-mortem analysis. Before any launch, be it product, marketing or event, a group brainstorms on all that could go wrong, lists down what would be the worst that can happen and then mitigation is planned. What if our leaders, event organizers, and police, practiced this? What if duty meant not afterthoughts but foresight?
Thiruvalluvar, with timeless clarity, had already given us the warning in Pochavaamai—Do not neglect your duties:
“Munnurak kaavaadhu izhukkiyaan thanpizhai
Pinnooru irangi vidum”
Kural 535
He who fails to guard against calamities beforehand will repent, too late,
When disaster strikes
The verse is not just a counsel; it is a mirror. Every stampede reflects our failure to heed it. Karur is not merely an accident—it is an indictment of negligence, of blindness to the obvious.
The cries beneath the crowd may be hushed, but they will not vanish. They ask us, relentlessly: will we continue to learn nothing, or will we at least listen to wisdom that has echoed for centuries?
Motivational speaker, author and diversity champion Bharathi Bhaskar explores the masterpiece.
The word stampede can be traced back to the Spanish ‘ estampida’, an uproar. Yet, what it leaves behind is never noise; but silence, of those who lose their kin in the crush of humanity.
History has recorded such incidents too often. In AD 80, Josephus wrote of Passover pilgrims in Jerusalem. A soldier’s taunt, a moment’s panic, and thousands were trampled into death. Since then, the list has grown: Mecca Tunnel, Mina, Baghdad Bridge, Kumbh Mela, New Delhi Railway Station, Bangalore’s RCB rally, Pushpa II’s premiere in Hyderabad—and now, Karur, where more than 40 lives were snuffed out, some of them children. What began as a gathering of hope became that of despair. The patterns are cruelly familiar: crowds underestimated or dismissed, brittle barricades, packed paths, first responders unable to reach the fallen.
Unanswered questions linger. Why was a narrow venue chosen for a rally that all locals knew could not hold such a crowd? Why did the leader arrive late? Were miscreants planted to unleash chaos? None of these questions find easy answers. But each whispers of carelessness that borders on disrespect for life itself.
German physicist Dirk Helbing once coined the term crowd-quake. When there are more than six bodies in every square meter, even the slightest motion unleashes a shock wave. At that moment, people are pushed, pulled, and crushed like twigs. To survive, experts advise: move with the crowd, place your arms around your chest to avoid breaking of your ribcage by pressure, avoid walls and do not scream as you have to conserve oxygen, stay upright as much as possible. But what of the children of Karur? Could they shield their tiny chests? Could they ‘flow’ with the sea of bodies? No instruction manual can answer their shrill cries, now frozen in our memories.
And the cycle repeats. Each time, organizers and authorities play their parts in the tragedy; grief is turned into blame, inquiries, and eventual forgetting.
But the families who watched their children disappear in the chaos will never forget. Their silence will remain an open wound.
In the corporate world, there is a practice called a pre-mortem analysis. Before any launch, be it product, marketing or event, a group brainstorms on all that could go wrong, lists down what would be the worst that can happen and then mitigation is planned. What if our leaders, event organizers, and police, practiced this? What if duty meant not afterthoughts but foresight?
Thiruvalluvar, with timeless clarity, had already given us the warning in Pochavaamai—Do not neglect your duties:
“Munnurak kaavaadhu izhukkiyaan thanpizhai
Pinnooru irangi vidum”
Kural 535
He who fails to guard against calamities beforehand will repent, too late,
When disaster strikes
The verse is not just a counsel; it is a mirror. Every stampede reflects our failure to heed it. Karur is not merely an accident—it is an indictment of negligence, of blindness to the obvious.
The cries beneath the crowd may be hushed, but they will not vanish. They ask us, relentlessly: will we continue to learn nothing, or will we at least listen to wisdom that has echoed for centuries?
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