Bangladesh: When Turning Off the Screen Becomes an Act of Resistance

If Bangladesh’s decision to suspend the broadcast of the Indian Premier League (IPL), followed by its reluctance to travel to India for the upcoming T20 World Cup, is dismissed as an emotional reaction or a cricketing tantrum, then we have failed to read the deeper grammar of South Asian power politics. This was not an impulsive gesture born of wounded pride. It was a calculated, understated, and dignified act of resistance, polite in form, political in substance.

No slogans were shouted. No diplomatic ultimatums were issued. Instead, symbolism was deployed. And in politics, particularly in unequal relationships, symbolism often carries more weight than confrontation.

The government justified the move in simple terms: Bangladesh’s premier fast bowler, Mustafizur Rahman, was dropped from the Kolkata Knight Riders squad without any explanation. On the surface, this might appear to be routine franchise management. But the absence of explanation is precisely where the politics begin. Silence, in such contexts, is not neutrality. It is a hierarchy made visible.

In modern cricket, to exclude without explanation is not merely to sideline a player; it is to disregard a country’s cricketing dignity. It is to say that some questions do not deserve answers, because not everyone is entitled to ask them.

The Board of Control for Cricket in India has long ceased to treat cricket as a sport alone. It is now a multi-billion-dollar corporate ecosystem, where bats and balls are ornamental, and real decisions are made in boardrooms shaped by capital, political proximity, and strategic leverage. Cricketing logic is optional. Performance is negotiable. Power is not.

The IPL is marketed as the world’s greatest meritocracy, a carnival where talent triumphs above all else. In reality, it resembles a gated community: open to many, owned by a few. You may play, entertain, and generate revenue, but you may not ask questions. If you do, you are reminded—quietly but firmly, of “how things work.”

For Bangladeshi cricketers, this reality is particularly unforgiving. Their presence in the IPL is never framed as a right; it is extended as a favour. A privilege that can be granted today and withdrawn tomorrow, without explanation. To seek clarity is to risk discomfort.

Contrast this with how Australian or English players are treated. Scheduling conflicts are negotiated. Security concerns are delicately managed. Calendars bend. Justifications soften. Global cricket suddenly becomes flexible.

Is this what “global cricket leadership” now looks like?

In this lexicon, leadership means imposition. Cooperation means compliance. And the much-celebrated “cricketing family” exists only as long as everyone understands their place.

Mustafizur Rahman is not an anonymous journeyman. His cutters, variations, and composure under pressure have earned him global recognition. He is not new to the IPL. His credentials are well established. Yet neither the franchise nor the governing power felt compelled to explain his exclusion. Because power does not explain itself. It announces decisions and expects acceptance.

This is where the mask slips. Unity is celebrated when dominant interests are secure. But when smaller nations ask for parity or respect, they become inconvenient relatives, best ignored.

At this point, cricket bleeds seamlessly into politics. The IPL does not exist in isolation from the broader contours of India–Bangladesh relations, which have long been defined by asymmetry, whether in trade, water sharing, border killings, visa regimes, or diplomatic leverage. Cricket simply offers a softer, more palatable theatre in which dominance can be exercised under the banner of sport.

Bangladesh’s decision to suspend the IPL broadcast is not economic retaliation. It is a moral and political statement. No one seriously believes this will dent the league’s revenue or dull its spectacle. The IPL is too vast, too entrenched, too profitable for that.

But symbolism is not measured in balance sheets.

Suspending the broadcast sends a clear message: Bangladesh is not merely a consumer market. It is a cricket-loving nation that demands respect. Passion can be monetised. Humiliation, however, is remembered.

In India’s political ecosystem, cricket has long functioned as soft power. Fixtures, exclusions, and selective “security concerns” often double as diplomatic instruments. Who plays, who doesn’t, who is deemed indispensable, and who is dispensable—these decisions are rarely apolitical.

Bangladesh’s quiet rebuff forces an uncomfortable question: is cricket still a global game? Or has it become a stage where the largest shareholder decides who plays, who watches, and who is expected to absorb indignity in silence?

The IPL will go on. Cameras will roll. Stadiums will fill. The festival will resume. But outside the glare, some will stand apart, aware that this celebration is not equal for all.

If cricket continues down this path, where power consistently eclipses merit, its future is already visible. The game will cease to be global. It will become a franchised entertainment system, where players are assets, questions are unwelcome, and rules are rewritten without explanation.

In that version of cricket, the “Man of the Match” will no longer be decided by bat or ball. It will belong to institutions that write the rules, bend them when convenient, and never feel obliged to justify themselves.

Bangladesh’s restraint offers a reminder: submission is not the only response to power. Sometimes silence itself is resistance. And sometimes, turning off the screen says more than any protest ever could.

Thank You

Faisal Caeasar