Before Jagannath, There Are No VIPs, There Are Only Devotees
An eyewitness account of faith, privilege, administrative lapses and the timeless philosophy of Lord Jagannath, who steps out to meet every devotee without distinction.
By Kasturi Ray
Published : July 18, 2026 at 12:12 PM IST
Lord Jagannath does not need VIPs to witness His leela. He needs people like you and me.
Every year, Lord Jagannath leaves the sanctum of the Srimandir and comes onto the Bada Danda. It is the one day when the Trinity steps out to meet those who cannot come to Him. Kings and commoners, ministers and labourers, the wealthy and the poor - all distinctions dissolve before Him.
That is the philosophy of Rath Yatra. For devotees, Rath Yatra is not merely a festival. It is the one day the Lord Himself comes looking for His people, instead of waiting for them to come to Him.
This year, standing on the Grand Road as an eyewitness, I witnessed something very different.
The rain came in spells, cooling the oppressive humidity but doing little to calm restless hearts. Every shower only renewed the determination of devotees to inch closer, to touch the sacred ropes and become a part of Jagannath’s annual journey to the Gundicha Temple.
For nearly six to seven hours on the morning of Rath Yatra, lakhs of devotees stood waiting with patience and bated breath. As the hours passed, fatigue settled into their faces, but it never eclipsed the one emotion that united them all - the longing for a glimpse of the Lord atop the Nandighosa.
Many neither had food nor water. Yet hunger hardly mattered. Their hearts were already full.
Some had lost their slippers in the relentless surge of humanity. Sarees were torn and stained. Children perched on their parents’ shoulders, their tiny eyes searching for the first glimpse of the chariot. Frail men and women in their seventies and eighties leaned on sons, daughters and grandchildren, refusing to let age deny them their annual rendezvous with Jagannath.
They had travelled from villages, towns and cities across Odisha and beyond. They carried little except faith.
None of them expected comfort. They expected only darshan.
Not far away sat an elderly widow, clutching a coconut tightly in her weathered hands, not fighting the crowd, not complaining about the rain, not asking for comfort. She was simply waiting. Perhaps she was arguing silently with her God - for denying her even a distant glimpse despite her faith.
A few yards away, however, stood another world.
Rows of neatly arranged white chairs. Tarpaulins shielded heads from the rain. Food and refreshments arrived at regular intervals. There was no anxiety. No pushing. No uncertainty.
The Chief Minister, the Deputy Chief Ministers and the Governor receiving official protocol was understandable. Constitutional offices carry ceremonial responsibilities. But the question was never about them.
It was about the ever-expanding circle around the who's who. Relatives. Relatives’ relatives. Friends. Political associates. Acquaintances and the list is endless.
People who had little official reason to be there but somehow found themselves inside the cordoned enclosure, proudly displaying the coveted “cordon pass” as though it were a badge of privilege rather than an administrative necessity.
Many appeared more interested in capturing the perfect selfie than seeking the perfect darshan. Most boasted proudly their position in the secured enclosures.
Equally disturbing were scenes around the police station opposite Singhadwara. Its terrace, lined with hundreds of chairs, had become another privileged viewing gallery. They were probably orderlies, in uniform though, escorting families of the high and mighty, their guests, visitors, arranging access and attending to their needs.
The irony was impossible to miss.
The Lord who leaves His temple every year to come among His devotees once again found Himself separated from many of them by invisible barriers created not by faith, but by power.
The moment chariots began to roll, years of faith, hours of waiting and an overwhelming desire for a closer glimpse of the Lord erupted all at once.
The crowd surged forward. Barricades strained. Police lines buckled. Security personnel appeared overwhelmed by the sheer force of devotion transformed into movement.
That raises a pertinent question. Why crowd management appeared to collapse despite months of preparation, repeated review meetings and the deployment of the state’s most experienced officers. On paper, little appeared left to chance. Yet when lakhs of devotees converged on the Grand Road, the administrative blueprint seemed to unravel at precisely the moment it was expected to perform.
Sadly, from among the swarm of 12 lakh devotees down there on the Bada Danda (Grand Road), many were injured while lakhs stood their ground. Some were carried by rescue teams to first-aid centres, while many had to be taken to hospitals. There were devotees who collapsed from exhaustion. There were two deaths.
The government quickly responded that the injuries or deaths were not due stampede. Yet the larger question remained unanswered. What caused the situation to spiral so badly? Why were thousands left in circumstances where such tragedies became possible?
In the midst of the chaos, there were however, a few officers who continued battling the swelling crowd long after barricades gave way. For nearly half an hour, they struggled to restore order and clear the chariot corridor. Their efforts were visible.
Come to think of it, the tragedy of the day was not merely administrative. It was philosophical.
The festival that symbolises accessibility seemed, in places, to have become a celebration of access. While faith waited patiently outside the barricades, privilege appeared to move through them with remarkable ease.
Senior BJD leader Pramila Mallik came down heavily on the police administration, alleging that much of its attention had been devoted to managing VIPs and their entourages instead of the lakhs of devotees gathered on the Grand Road. According to her, that misplaced priority lay at the heart of the day’s mismanagement.
Former BJD minister Sanjay Das Burma, after visiting the District Headquarters Hospital to meet the families of two devotees who lost their lives, also questioned the government’s handling of the festival. He too alleged that excessive emphasis on VIP movement had come at the cost of effective crowd management.
The government rejected the criticism.
Chief Minister Mohan Charan Majhi reiterated that there had been no unruly situation. Everything was done with perfection. Health Minister Mukesh Mahaling also maintained that the deaths were caused by suffocation and not by a crowd crush.
Whether it is described as a stampede, a crowd crush or suffocation, the reality remained unchanged. Lives were lost. Hundreds were injured.
That alone warrants an honest review - not merely of what happened, but of why it happened.
Rath Yatra is often described as the Lord’s journey to His people. But somewhere along the way, we seem to have mistaken access for devotion and privilege for participation. For faith does not recognise hierarchy. Nor, it seemed, did the crowd.
Perhaps that is why the images from this Rath Yatra will linger long after the official statements have faded. Because they revealed a deeper contradiction.
The Lord who leaves His sanctum every year to erase the distance between Himself and His devotees was, once again, surrounded by barriers created in His name. Rath Yatra has never merely been about pulling chariots. It has always been about the philosophy that the Lord belongs to everyone.
He has never distinguished between the powerful and the powerless.
Had He done so, He would never have accepted the humble offering of Dasia Bauri. Legend has it that the Lord Himself accepted the simple coconut offered with unflinching faith by a devotee who was denied access to His temple.
Had He done so, He would never have paused for Salabega. Even today, the chariot of Lord Jagannath is believed to halt near the samadhi of the Muslim devotee, honouring a bond that transcended religion, caste and every social divide.
These real-life stories explain the philosophy of Jagannath. He is Patitapabana - the redeemer of all.
Every year, He leaves the sanctum of the Srimandir not because He needs a grand procession, but because countless devotees cannot enter His abode. Rath Yatra is His journey towards them. On the Bada Danda, everyone is equal. That is Jagannath’s idea of justice.
As I walked away from the Grand Road that evening, one image refused to leave me. It was not of politicians. Nor of senior bureaucrats. Nor of celebrities seated in privileged enclosures.
It was that of the elderly Charulata. She was still holding her coconut close to her chest which was broken as an offering to the Lord. She was content to have pulled the ropes of the three chariots braving the crowd at the age of 83. All this when she had no cordon pass. No invitation. No reserved enclosure. No one to clear a path for her. She possessed only what millions of devotees bring to Puri every year.
Faith.
“I will be happier to die here than live for 100 years,” her words echo for a while. And perhaps that is the only pass Lord Jagannath has ever recognised. He comes to meet each of his devotee whose heart is filled with faith.
The barriers are ours. The distinctions are ours. The VIP passes are ours.
Jagannath never asked for them. For, before Jagannath, there are no VIPs. There are only devotees.
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