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privilege that can be granted today and withdrawn tomorrow, without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




