The 1975 Paleti Ganga Festival Tragedy: A Riot, a Fire, and a Forgotten Massacre

A Tragic Tale Witnessed by Brahmaiah Boddeboina – One of the Main Priests of the Paleti Ganga Bhavani Temple This story is told by one of the main Pujaris of the Paleti Ganga Bhavani temple in Vengalapuram. He personally witnessed a tragic and unforgettable incident that occurred during the annual festival. It’s a memory etched deeply in his heart – one that will stay with him forever. I was just nineteen years old at the time. It was peak summer. The Paleti Ganga festival in Vengalapuram – a grand event that draws crowds not only from nearby villages but from across districts. The whole place buzzes with devotion, energy, and celebration. But that year… it turned into something else. Something dark. "I was running… not knowing where I was running. The only thought in my head – I have to reach home. I have to see my father. I need to hug him. Around me, people were screaming, running in every direction, dust rising like smoke. It felt like the earth was trembling beneath our feet. Will I survive? Will I see our Ganga Bhavani again?" Just hours before that, everything seemed normal. The festival was in full swing. Every street was filled with colors, songs, and the sound of celebration. Stalls stood on either side of the roads. Children laughed, women sang, and elders prayed. Even the pickpockets had found their stage — and the police, having caught a few, locked them in a temporary jail made of sticks near the Vengalapuram and Kanigiri-Kandukur road junction. The real spectacle, however, was the arrival of the Electric Prabhas — massive, hand-crafted towers built on bullock carts by village folk. One such Prabha, nearly 50 feet tall, was slowly making its way from a western village to the temple. Hundreds of people surrounded it, guiding the ropes that kept the tall structure balanced. This procession was not just devotion — it was pride. But when they reached the Kanigiri–Kandukur junction, police asked them to move the Prabha to the side. The organizers hesitated, saying the ground wasn’t stable and the Prabha might fall. Tensions escalated. In the heat of the argument, a policeman pushed one of the volunteers. Tempers flared. And then… a warning shot fired into the air. But when they reached the Kanigiri–Kandukur junction, the police asked the organizers to move the cart aside to ease the traffic. The villagers warned them — the road was uneven, and any shift might topple the tall Prabha. Words turned to arguments, arguments to shouting. A policeman shoved someone. Chaos cracked the sky. One of the police fired a bullet into the air, trying to scare the crowd. But in the confusion, people thought they were being shot at. Fear turned into fury. And when that happens, humans forget they are human. The jailed thieves broke free and merged with the crowd, adding fuel to the fire. People picked up sticks, rods, stones — and attacked. The police were outnumbered, pushed back toward the temple. Some of them rushed into the Paleti Ganga temple to take shelter. I was inside the temple at that time with my cousin brother. He was 21. We didn’t know what to do. I begged him, “Let’s run home!” But he insisted we hide inside the temple. I knew a shortcut through the forest behind the temple, a path I had taken many times. I chose to run. He chose to stay. After I ran into the forest, the mob saw the police entering the temple. In their fury, they locked the temple doors from outside… and set it on fire. The police inside died due to the smoke. My cousin, too, suffocated and died. I still remember his last glance before we split – full of fear, yet firm in his decision to stay. I ran through the forest, barefoot, my heart racing. Near the village, I found my father walking with some elders toward the temple. I fell into his arms and told him what had happened. He held me tight, silently, not knowing whether to feel relieved or shattered. The next morning was pure horror. Bodies lay on the roads. Over 20 lives lost. Hundreds injured. The temple stood charred. The smell of smoke and death lingered in the air. Some elders in our village say – every hundred years, the earth drinks blood. I had heard those words before, but never thought I’d live to see them come true. That festival, which was meant to bring people together in prayer and celebration, turned into a nightmare. And though the years have passed, that night still plays in my mind – like a flame that refuses to die.