I was speaking to some friends — cricket fans, passionate, sweaty, emotionally over-invested. I casually remarked, half-joking, half-serious:

“𝘐𝘧 𝘙𝘊𝘉 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘴, 𝘪𝘵’𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴. 𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘤 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘺 — 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦.”

And as always, common sense did what it does best — got ignored until the damage was done.

Then came the win. And with it, madness — in its purest, most grotesque form.

Death. Injury. Chaos.

Not in a warzone. Not for a revolution. But for a game. A win that meant everything — and yet, in reality, meant nothing.

People died in Bengaluru — celebrating RCB’s win. And I mourn them. Truly. But what I mourn more… is the massacre of reason. The disembowelment of identity. Because RCB is not Karnataka. It’s not Kannada. It’s a 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥 —
Owned by a liquor company that makes millions selling addiction in bottles while families implode silently in the background. They say, “cheers; we count tears.”

RCB doesn’t speak Kannada. It doesn’t care to. That’s fine — celebrities are above language, above culture, and apparently above gravity too, because they never seem to touch the ground. But the fans do. Oh yes, the fans fall — from bikes, from buildings, from rational thought. They die chasing borrowed glory.

Not long ago, Karnataka won the Vijay Hazare Trophy — a team of real Kannadigas, representing the state, the soil, the soul. No fireworks. No stampede. Just muted pride and a few WhatsApp forwards. Because apparently, local isn’t cool enough. In modern India, being rooted has become a rural disease — something to outgrow, to escape, to forget.

I am a Kannadiga. I speak Kannada. I dream in Kannada. But my tradition never taught me to drown in madness.
𝘖𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘭𝘺 — 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥𝘭𝘺. 𝘖𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘥𝘰𝘮, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘰𝘣𝘴.

As someone said:

“𝘈 𝘮𝘰𝘣 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺-𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯.”
That monster danced through the streets, howling for a victory that was never truly theirs.

They died — not for Karnataka, not for Kannada — they died for a logo. For merchandise. For a celebrity’s tweet — from someone who will never know their name.

This is not celebration. This is civilizational amnesia dressed as fandom. What a tragic waste of human potential — people who could build, write, lead, love — now reduced to hashtags in the footnotes of a sport they never even played.

𝘗𝘭𝘢𝘺. 𝘞𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩. 𝘓𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦’𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘺. 𝘉𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 — 𝘺𝘦𝘴, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 — 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘯.

The Vedas remind us:

“Uttishthata Jāgrata Prapya Varān Nibodhata”
“𝘈𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦! 𝘈𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦! 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘢𝘭 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥.”

And the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad say: “𝘈𝘩𝘢𝘮 𝘉𝘳𝘢𝘩𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘮𝘪” — Not a fan. Not a pawn. Not a number. You are eternal, full of knowledge, blissful beyond mundane.

So Rise.

Cheer with joy, not frenzy.

Celebrate with heart, not hysteria.

𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧 — 𝙣𝙤 𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙥𝙝𝙮 𝙞𝙨 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙝 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡.

– Govinda Das (ISKCON Member)