Cricket Under Hegemony: How India Turned a Regional Game into a Power Instrument

In South Asia, power has never been exercised only through borders, armies, or treaties. It has flowed through trade routes, water sharing, media, and quietly but decisively through cricket. What we are witnessing today is not a sporting dispute but the consolidation of regional hierarchy, with India at the apex and the rest of South Asia forced into varying degrees of compliance.

Pakistan’s Defence Minister Khawaja Asif’s call for an alternative global cricket body was quickly dismissed by Indian commentators as political theatrics. Yet such calls emerge only when institutional pathways collapse. His accusation that the International Cricket Council has become “hostage to Indian political interests” reflects a deeper South Asian anxiety: that multilateral platforms no longer function as neutral spaces when India’s interests are involved.

From Regional Power to Regional Enforcer

India’s dominance of cricket mirrors its broader regional posture assertive, asymmetrical, and increasingly intolerant of dissent. The Board of Control for Cricket in India is no longer just a sporting body; it is a strategic actor projecting Indian power across South Asia.

Under the current ICC revenue model, India controls nearly 40% of global cricket income. This financial concentration replicates a familiar regional pattern: economic dependency used to discipline neighbours. Smaller South Asian nations, Bangladesh and Sri Lanka are structurally discouraged from challenging Indian preferences because the costs are existential.

In such an environment, “choice” becomes theoretical.

Pakistan: Too Big to Obey, Too Risky to Exclude

Pakistan occupies a unique and uncomfortable position in this hierarchy. Unlike smaller neighbours, it cannot be easily absorbed or ignored. Its boycott threat ahead of the T20 World Cup was not an act of withdrawal but a geopolitical signal, participation without consent.

This is precisely why Jay Shah, wearing both ICC authority and Indian institutional legacy, was pushed into reluctant diplomacy. The India–Pakistan fixture is not just a match; it is the single most valuable commodity in global cricket. Excluding Pakistan would fracture the commercial spine of the tournament.

The ICC’s response, dispatching Deputy Chair Imran Khwaja for quiet back-channel talks, exposed the truth: the institution cannot enforce neutrality when its biggest shareholder is also a regional hegemon.

Bangladesh and the Cost of Defiance

If Pakistan represents resistance, Bangladesh represents vulnerability.

The BCCI’s unilateral decision to release Mustafizur Rahman from the IPL, citing “political developments” - triggered a chain reaction that ended with Bangladesh refusing to tour India and being replaced by Scotland. This was not a scheduling issue; it was disciplined by substitution.

In South Asian terms, the message was unmistakable: defiance invites isolation. This is how hierarchy is maintained, not through overt bans, but through quiet rearrangements that punish without announcing punishment.

Normalising the Unthinkable

Former Indian cricketer Harbhajan Singh openly declared that India does not need Pakistan and can survive without it. Such statements matter not because they are policy, but because they reveal a mindset where exclusion is considered a legitimate option.

This is how dominance becomes normalised. First rhetorically. Then administratively. Finally, structurally.

South Asia has seen this pattern before, in trade negotiations, river water disputes, and regional diplomacy. Cricket is simply the latest arena.

The ICC as a Hollow Multilateral Shell

In theory, the ICC is a global institution. In practice, it resembles many South Asian multilateral frameworks where one power sets the rules while others adapt. When India controls revenue, scheduling, hosting rights, and broadcast windows, neutrality becomes impossible.

The result is a system where:

Smaller South Asian nations hesitate to speak.

Pakistan is managed as a “problem” rather than a stakeholder.

Decisions are framed as commercial inevitabilities rather than political choices.

This is not governance; it is a managed imbalance.

The Long-Term Cost for the Region

India’s approach may deliver short-term control, but it carries long-term risks. A region where sport mirrors political hierarchy will eventually fracture. Associate nations will stagnate. Bilateral distrust will harden. And cricket, once South Asia’s rare shared language, will become another theatre of rivalry and resentment.

You cannot build regional legitimacy on unilateral power.

If the ICC continues to function as an extension of Indian dominance rather than a counterbalance to it, South Asia will not see a golden age of cricket but a familiar story of centralised authority, silenced peripheries, and institutional decay.

Cricket does not need a new empire. It needs a genuinely plural order. Without it, the game will survive, but only as a reflection of power, not as a contest of equals.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

When Cricket Stops Pretending to Be Neutral: India, Power, and the ICC’s Double Standards

Pakistan's decision to boycott its T20 World Cup match against India has been framed by much of the global media as an act of politicisation. That framing is misleading. What the boycott actually exposes is a far more uncomfortable truth: international cricket has long ceased to be neutral, and the International Cricket Council (ICC) now operates within an ecosystem structurally tilted in India’s favour.

The immediate trigger for Pakistan’s decision was security and diplomacy. Following deadly, coordinated attacks in Balochistan, attacks Pakistan’s interior minister publicly attributed to India, Islamabad chose not to proceed, with a high-profile sporting encounter against its rival. Whether or not one accepts Pakistan’s allegation, the principle involved is not novel. National governments have repeatedly exercised discretion over participation in ICC events based on security and political considerations.

What is novel is the selective outrage.

Bangladesh, Neutral Venues, and Selective Fairness

Tensions had already been building before Pakistan’s announcement. In January, Bangladesh requested that its World Cup matches be shifted away from India, citing security concerns. The ICC rejected the request outright and then went further, removing Bangladesh from the tournament altogether and replacing it with Scotland.

This decision was extraordinary. Historically, the ICC has accommodated such requests. India itself has refused to play in Pakistan for years, with its matches routinely shifted to neutral venues. England, Australia, and New Zealand have all declined tours or fixtures in the past without being expelled from tournaments or financially penalised.

Yet when Bangladesh sought identical consideration, it was denied. The principle of “neutral venues for security reasons,” long treated as legitimate when invoked by India, suddenly became unacceptable when invoked against India.

This asymmetry is the real scandal.

The ICC–BCCI Blur

The controversy has also reignited scrutiny over the increasingly blurred line between the ICC and the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI). The perception, fair or not, is that global cricket governance is now effectively anchored in New Delhi.

That perception matters because money matters.

An India–Pakistan World Cup match is not merely a fixture; it is the tournament’s financial engine. Advertising slots during such games sell for astronomical sums. Broadcasters price entire tournament valuations around this single matchup. When Pakistan withdrew, panic followed, not in cricketing circles, but in boardrooms.

This reaction reveals the structural dependency of the ICC on India-centric commercial logic. When India advances deep into tournaments, revenues soar. When India exits early, as in the 2007 World Cup, broadcasters panic and financial models collapse. That dependency has quietly reshaped governance priorities.

Fairness, under such conditions, becomes conditional.

Precedent Matters And Pakistan Is Within It

The charge that Pakistan is “politicising cricket” collapses under historical scrutiny.

In 1996, Australia refused to play matches in Sri Lanka. In 2003, England and New Zealand declined tours citing security concerns. Zimbabwe skipped the 2009 T20 World Cup. None faced revenue sanctions. West Indies continue to receive full ICC distributions despite repeated failures to qualify for global events.

These are not exceptions. They are precedents.

ICC revenue allocation has always been structural, not punitive. Participation has never been enforced through financial coercion. To suggest otherwise now—implicitly threatening Pakistan with “long-term consequences” marks a dangerous departure from established norms.

The India Exception

What truly undermines the moral argument against Pakistan is India’s own record. India has unilaterally suspended bilateral cricket with Pakistan for over a decade without consequence. Entire Future Tours Programme cycles have been disrupted. The ICC did not intervene. No fines were imposed. No lectures were delivered about “the global game.”

Political selectivity, in other words, has already been normalised, primarily when it serves Indian preferences.

Pakistan’s response, therefore, is not radical. It is reciprocal.

Power, Not Principle

It is also worth noting that Pakistan is no longer institutionally dependent on ICC revenue in the way it once was. The Pakistan Super League has created an independent commercial base, placing the PCB among a small group of boards with financial leverage outside ICC distributions.

That reality alters the power equation. The implicit assumption that Pakistan must comply to survive is outdated.

The Real Question

This episode forces cricket to confront an uncomfortable question:

Is the ICC a multilateral sporting body, or a revenue management arm of Indian cricket?

If neutral venues are acceptable for India but unacceptable for Bangladesh, that is not governance; it is a hierarchy.

If political discretion is legitimate for some but condemned for others, that is not neutrality; it is power.

Pakistan’s boycott does not politicise cricket.

It merely exposes who has been doing so all along.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Sachin Tendulkar’s Perth Masterpiece: A Lone Warrior Amidst the Ruins

India arrived in Perth battered and bruised, trailing 0-3 in the five-match series. Facing an Australian pace quartet at the peak of its powers on a treacherous WACA wicket was a daunting prospect. The pitch, notorious for its trampoline bounce, promised little respite for a lineup already struggling against relentless hostility. The Australians had posted 333, a total that, in the given conditions, was neither intimidating nor insubstantial. India’s response soon unfolded into a familiar pattern of capitulation.

When Krishnamachari Srikkanth miscued a pull against Craig McDermott, sending the ball spiralling into David Boon’s waiting hands at short-leg, India’s scoreboard read 69 for 2. The impending collapse seemed inevitable. Yet, in this bleak moment, history was about to be written.

The Arrival of a Prodigy

The 18-year-old Sachin Tendulkar strode out at No. 4, a position he would make his own in the years to come. A diminutive figure in his cricket boots, he appeared almost incongruous amidst the towering presence of Australian fast bowlers. But any reservations about his ability to cope with the ferocity of Perth’s conditions were quickly dispelled.

The first boundary was a statement of intent—a deft steer between slips and gully. What followed was a masterclass in technique and temperament. He let the bouncers go when needed, cut fiercely when width was offered, and drove with pristine timing when the bowlers over-pitched. Against an unrelenting attack, Tendulkar batted with an authority that belied his years.

For a fleeting moment, with Sanjay Manjrekar providing able support, the scoreboard read a respectable 100 for 2. It was, however, a mere illusion of stability.

A Lone Warrior in a Losing Battle

Merv Hughes, burly and bustling, found his mark. He induced an edge from Manjrekar, lured into an on-drive, and Dean Jones flung himself horizontally to complete a stunning catch. Soon after, Dilip Vengsarkar perished in an eerily similar fashion, Mark Taylor completing the dismissal at slip.

Even as wickets crumbled around him, Tendulkar remained an immovable force. Hughes was square-cut with venom, McDermott was dispatched with a regal drive, and Paul Reiffel was subjected to an exhibition of precise stroke play. But the resistance was solitary.

At 130 for 5, Mohammad Azharuddin’s reckless pull before the end of play epitomized India’s batting frailties. The scoreboard read 135 for 5 at stumps, with Tendulkar on 31—undaunted, unshaken.

A Fight Against Fate

The next morning, nightwatchman Venkatapathy Raju perished without troubling the scorers. Tendulkar responded in kind, a fierce cut off Hughes bringing up his half-century. But even as youth displayed resilience, experience floundered.

Kapil Dev’s ill-judged hook landed safely in the hands of long leg, and two balls later, Manoj Prabhakar slashed straight to gully. At 159 for 8, India seemed on the brink of complete disintegration. The field closed in as Allan Border sought a swift end.

Yet, Tendulkar refused to succumb. He drove Whitney down the ground with elegance, guided Hughes to the fine-leg boundary, and square-drove Reiffel with pristine precision. Kiran More, dogged in defence, provided invaluable support. A partnership of 81 was stitched together, remarkable in both circumstance and quality.

At 96, a brace of runs brought Tendulkar closer. Then, in an act of poetic symmetry, McDermott over-pitched, and a sumptuous straight drive sealed his hundred. Helmet off, bat raised, the boy revealed his youth to the world. He had played one of the most luminous innings ever witnessed on that treacherous surface.

Having reached his hundred, Tendulkar sought quick runs, unfurling daring strokes over the slip cordon. But Whitney had the final say, extracting steep bounce from a good length, forcing a fend to second slip. He departed for 114 off 161 balls, his innings spanning 228 minutes and decorated with 16 boundaries. From 159 for 8, he had propelled India to 240, but his disappointment at dismissal was palpable. As the WACA crowd rose in admiration, he struck his bat against the ground, knowing that this was just the beginning of a journey.

The Verdict of the Match, The Verdict of History

India’s innings folded at 272, with More contributing a gritty 43. Australia, relentless in their pursuit of victory, piled on the runs and set India an insurmountable target. The final act was brutal—a surrender to Mike Whitney’s precision, sealing a 300-run defeat. Australia clinched the series 4-0.

Yet, amidst the ruins, India had unearthed its future. Tendulkar’s innings was more than a hundred; it was an announcement. Against the best attack in the world, on the hardest pitch imaginable, a teenager had showcased a brand of batting that would define an era. This was not just the arrival of a prodigy; it was the birth of a legend.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

When Collapse Refused to End: Karachi and the Art of Pakistan’s Reversal

Test cricket is rarely impatient. It prefers erosion to explosion, pressure accumulated grain by grain, outcomes disguised as endurance. Drama, when it arrives, is usually earned late.

Karachi, on that grey morning, ignored the tradition entirely.

The pitch wore an unfamiliar green, the light sagged under cloud, the air hinted at movement. Yet even these omens failed to predict what unfolded. Irfan Pathan began the match as a bowler on probation: two wickets in the series, increasingly readable, emblematic of India’s thinning pace menace.

Six deliveries later, reputations were irrelevant.

Salman Butt feathered to slip. Younis Khan was trapped by angle and indecision. Mohammad Yousuf, the axis of Pakistan’s batting, the calm around which chaos usually rotated, watched his stumps dismantled by late, venomous movement.

A hat-trick. The first over. Pakistan 0 for 3.

It was unprecedented. Even Chaminda Vaas’s famous hat-trick in 1999 had allowed the match to breathe first. This did not. This was rupture, not rarity, an opening that felt less like advantage and more like execution.

And yet, the match refused to die.

Kamran Akmal and the Logic of Survival

At 39 for 6, Pakistan were not playing for dominance or even respectability. They were negotiating survival. Fifty runs looked ambitious; the crowd prepared for surrender.

Into this vacuum walked Kamran Akmal, a cricketer better known as a punchline than a pillar. Volatile behind the stumps, erratic with the bat, he was an unlikely custodian of rescue. Which is precisely why his innings mattered.

Akmal did not answer chaos with counter-chaos. He answered it with thought.

By retreating deeper in his crease, he delayed commitment, blunted swing, and reduced deviation. It was not dramatic, just intelligent. In Test cricket, intelligence is resistance. Where others lunged and failed, Akmal waited. Where panic had consumed the top order, he imposed sequence.

His 113 from 148 balls was not aggression masquerading as courage. It was calibration. Partnerships with Abdul Razzaq and Shoaib Akhtar did more than rebuild a total; they restored balance. Momentum, once violently skewed, was slowly reclaimed.

It was the thirteenth century of the series. But unlike the others, statements of superiority, this was architecture under siege. Not dominance, but defiance.

Three Fast Bowlers, Three Different Truths

Pakistan’s recovery was not confined to batting. It was formalised by a bowling unit that understood asymmetry, how difference, not uniformity, wins Test matches.

Mohammad Asif, barely introduced to the format, bowled as though untouched by consequence. His height created awkward angles; his wrist position delivered movement that arrived too late for correction. Dravid fell to precision, Laxman to deception. There was no hostility, no theatre, only inevitability.

Abdul Razzaq, long reduced to the label of “utility,” rediscovered his primary function. His pace was modest, but his control absolute. Length became discipline, seam a suggestion rather than a threat. On a ground where he had once taken his only five-for, he repeated the feat—this time with clarity and authority.

And then there was Shoaib Akhtar.

Not so much a bowler as a disturbance.

He did not operate in spells; he arrived in bursts, like weather systems. He rushed Tendulkar, bruised Yuvraj, dismantled Dravid and Sehwag. His impact cannot be captured by wickets alone. He distorted footwork, compressed decision-making, and accelerated error. He was the fear that magnified everything around him.

Asif and Razzaq shared fourteen wickets. Shoaib supplied the menace that made those wickets inevitable.

India and the Cost of Rigidity

India, by contrast, revealed an uncomfortable inflexibility. Beyond Pathan’s opening eruption and Ganguly’s intermittent interventions, their bowling plans stagnated. As the pitch softened, so did their threat. Movement disappeared; imagination did not replace it.

The statistics are unforgiving. All seven of Pakistan’s top-order batsmen crossed fifty, only the second time in Test history such collective success had occurred, the first in 1934.

Younis Khan and Mohammad Yousuf extended their quiet mastery, assembling yet another century partnership, their fourth of the series. But the most resonant innings belonged to Faisal Iqbal.

Absent from Test cricket for three years and burdened by the inheritance of Javed Miandad’s name, he finally authored an identity of his own. His maiden hundred was built on assurance rather than defiance, secure back-foot play, measured front-foot intent. Where Miandad had thrived on instinctive rebellion, Faisal offered composure shaped by modern precision.

Pakistan surged beyond 600. The declaration felt less tactical than ceremonial.

India were set 607. Not a target, but a conclusion.

Collapse, Resistance, and the Shape of Meaning

India survived just over four sessions across both innings. The collapses were symmetrical: 56 for 4, then 74 for 4. These were not accidents of form but structural failures.

Yuvraj Singh’s century burned brilliantly against the wreckage. It was the fifteenth hundred of the series, equalling a long-standing record. Yet it felt solitary, artistry without reinforcement, expression without consequence.

When Razzaq claimed the final wicket, Pakistan had won by 341 runs, their largest victory by margin. A match that began in shock ended in command.

Beyond the Scorecard

This Test was not simply about skill. It was about reversal.

It was about marginal figures stepping into authority: Akmal through intellect, Asif through precision, and Razzaq through rediscovered purpose. It was about Shoaib Akhtar, not as a wicket-taker, but as a force that bent the game’s emotional climate.

It was also a reminder to India: dominance is conditional. Even the most vaunted batting orders fracture when challenged by variety and intent. Even favourable surfaces demand imagination.

And for cricket itself, it reaffirmed an old truth. Pakistan do not merely play matches, they transform them.

From disaster, they do not retreat. They reorganise.

And sometimes, they turn collapse into legend.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

Clash of the Titans: India vs. Pakistan, Chennai 1999 - Pakistan Script Dramatic Victory, Tendulkar's Heroics Fail

Three weeks before the highly anticipated cricket series was set to commence, an act of calculated sabotage unfolded at Delhi’s historic Ferozeshah Kotla Stadium. Approximately 25 supporters of the Shiv Sena, a right-wing political party wielding significant influence in Maharashtra, desecrated the pitch, effectively rendering it unplayable. This stadium, originally designated as the venue for the first Test, became a symbol of the fraught intersection between sport and politics. 

Barely a fortnight later, another incendiary incident shook Indian cricket. Vandals infiltrated the BCCI headquarters in Mumbai, wreaking havoc on property that included the nation’s cherished 1983 World Cup trophy. The desecration of this emblem of national pride evoked widespread anguish. "I cried all night," lamented Kirti Azad, a member of that victorious squad, his words underscoring the emotional toll of such an affront. The fallout prompted officials to reshuffle the venues for the first and second Tests, a logistical decision emblematic of the precariousness of the situation. 

Meanwhile, Shiv Sena leader Bal Thackeray, unrepentant and resolute, boasted of dispatching party operatives to Chennai to assess the security arrangements for the series. His rhetoric escalated ominously, with threats of deploying suicide squads and even releasing venomous snakes onto the field, a chilling metaphor for the venom coursing through the veins of political dissent. 

The tension reached a grim crescendo on January 24, just four days before the match. The Times of India in Chennai reported the tragic death of Palani, a 40-year-old autorickshaw driver who had self-immolated in protest against Pakistan’s participation in the series. His sacrifice, though extreme, laid bare the raw, visceral emotions the series had provoked among certain sections of the populace. 

As the match approached, the atmosphere in Chennai was suffused with unease. Journalists found themselves barred from entering the stadium until late on the eve of the game, a restriction emblematic of the heightened security apparatus. Photographers operated under strict surveillance, and parking zones around the stadium were subject to unprecedented scrutiny. “For the first time, every car parked in the stadium required a pass bearing the police commissioner’s seal,” recalled Keshav Sriraman, a member of the Tamil Nadu Cricket Association’s executive committee. Police officers stood vigil over the pitch, their unyielding presence a stark reminder of the fragile line between celebration and chaos. 

The Contest at Chennai Begins

The opening day of the Test saw Pakistan electing to bat, but their innings began on a precarious note, teetering at 91 for five. Amid the ruins, Yousuf Youhana and Moin Khan staged a gritty counterattack, each crafting resilient half-centuries that steadied the innings. Wasim Akram added a defiant 38, his strokes marked by characteristic audacity, before Anil Kumble, in a masterful display of precision and guile, dismantled the tail to claim figures of six for 70. 

India’s reply was buoyed by the debutant Sadagoppan Ramesh, who, alongside VVS Laxman, stitched together a brisk opening stand of 48 on his home ground. However, Wasim Akram, ever the wily campaigner, struck twice in quick succession after the evening's break, dismissing both openers and tilting the balance. Saqlain Mushtaq then began weaving his web, enticing Tendulkar into an uncharacteristic misjudgment. Charging down the track, Tendulkar mis-hit a looping delivery to backward point for a third-ball duck, an anticlimactic dismissal that underscored Saqlain’s mastery. 

Despite these setbacks, Rahul Dravid and Sourav Ganguly anchored India’s innings with poise, guiding their team to a slender 16-run lead. Yet, the spinners remained relentless. Shahid Afridi, better known for his exploits in limited-overs cricket, showcased his versatility with the ball, claiming the final three wickets with his leg-breaks, a precursor to his heroics with the bat. 

The third day belonged unequivocally to Afridi. Renowned for his blistering 37-ball century in one-day cricket, he defied his reputation as a mere dasher by constructing an innings of extraordinary discipline and flair. Over five hours at the crease, Afridi compiled a majestic 141, laced with 21 boundaries and three towering sixes. His partnerships with Inzamam-ul-Haq and Salim Malik seemed to place Pakistan in an unassailable position at 275 for four. 

But the game, like fate, can be capricious. After tea, the narrative took a dramatic turn. Joshi’s dismissal of Malik triggered a collapse of epic proportions. Venkatesh Prasad, in a spell of breathtaking precision, tore through the lower order with five wickets in 18 balls, conceding not a single run. His final figures of six for 33 stood as a career-best, encapsulating a spell that transformed the match. 

India faced a daunting target of 271, a total that loomed large against the weight of history. Their highest successful fourth-innings chase at home—a nervy 256 for eight against Australia in 1964-65—seemed an eternity away. As the players departed the field, the air was thick with anticipation, the outcome poised delicately between possibility and improbability. 

Waqar Younis Strikes, Sachin Tendulkar Stands Firm

 As the shadows lengthened late on the third evening, India found themselves at a precarious 6 for 2, chasing a daunting 271. The atmosphere in the stands was a volatile mix of hope and apprehension when a helmeted Sachin Tendulkar emerged from the pavilion. VVS Laxman, his brief stay at the crease cut short by a venomous in-ducker from Waqar Younis, was still within earshot as Tendulkar strode to the middle. The crowd, a sea of rising bodies and fervent voices, seemed to channel a collective plea: “Score if you can, but for heaven’s sake, don’t get out.”

The first two deliveries Tendulkar faced were dots, but they carried a weight far beyond their numerical insignificance. Years later, he would recount this moment in *Playing It My Way: My Autobiography*: "Waqar welcomed me to the crease with a couple of bouncers and even walked up to me on one occasion to say, 'Ball nazar aayi?' (Did you see the ball?) I didn't say a thing, but my eye contact was enough to give him the message. I hardly moved, and he was soon walking back to his bowling mark. I remember muttering to myself, 'You are not bowling that quick, my friend.'”

The tension in the air was almost tangible, and when Tendulkar finally opened his account with a well-judged two, the crowd exhaled in unison, a brief respite from their collective anxiety. Four more dot balls followed, each one steadying the nerves, until Tendulkar produced a moment of sublime artistry. Facing Waqar, he unfurled a cover drive that seemed to transcend the game itself. The movement was poetry in motion: the right leg back and across, the left leg hovering momentarily above the ground, the bat meeting the ball with a crisp, resonant crack. The red blur scorched the grass, and as the left leg returned to the turf, Tendulkar completed the stroke with a delicate sideways hop, a knight in shining armour prancing across the diagonal.Ball nazar aayi?

The shot elicited a spontaneous outpouring of admiration. "What a shot," Harsha Bhogle exclaimed on commentary, his voice tinged with awe, carrying the moment into millions of homes. It was a shot that encapsulated not just technique but defiance, a declaration that the battle was far from over. 

As the day drew to a close, India stood at 40 for 2, still 231 runs adrift. The target loomed large, but with Tendulkar at the crease, hope flickered, fragile yet persistent, like a candle resisting the wind. 

The Thrilling Fourth Day – Story of Drama, Heartbreak and Joy

On the warm morning of January 31, 1999, the MA Chidambaram Stadium in Chennai stood as a cauldron of tension and anticipation. Half an hour before the fourth day’s play, a police cordon encircled the pitch, a fortress of security amid the fervent crowd. Among the spectators, a group chanted provocatively in Hindi, *“Harega bhai harega, Pakistan harega”*—a linguistic affront in Tamil Nadu, as pointed as the taunt itself. The air carried a mix of salty breeze and the faint, pungent aroma from the nearby Buckingham Canal, a reminder of the city's unique character. After 12 long years, an Indo-Pak Test on Indian soil was poised to deliver high drama. 

This was the ground where Sachin Tendulkar had orchestrated symphonies with his bat. In 1993, he had dismantled England here; in 1998, he had reduced Shane Warne to a spectator, slog-sweeping the leg-spinner’s around-the-stumps delivery into the midwicket stands. Ian Chappell, then on commentary, would later declare that shot a turning point in the series. Now, playing his fifth Test against Pakistan and his first as a fully realized batsman, Tendulkar had entered the fray with a mission. 

But the wily Pakistanis, led by the indomitable Wasim Akram, were not inclined to surrender. On the second day, Tendulkar’s attempt to dominate Saqlain Mushtaq ended in ignominy—a mistimed loft off a doosra, ballooning to backward point. Out for a third-ball duck, he left the stage under a cloud of disappointment. 

Day four brought another chapter of attrition. The crowd roared as Wasim Akram unleashed a spell of artistry that seemed to transcend the limitations of a subcontinental dust track. Against Rahul Dravid, the ball danced to his command—seaming in, seaming out, as if choreographed. Akram had trapped Dravid lbw earlier, only for the umpire to miss the pad-first contact. Undeterred, he returned with a delivery that pitched on middle and clipped off-stump, leaving Dravid bewildered. Years later, Dravid would reflect on this moment in Sultan: A Memoir: “Wasim was a real inspiration for fast bowlers all over the world, especially in the subcontinent. When he was bowling, you were captivated. Easily one of the most skilful bowlers I have played against.”

The collapse continued. Mohammad Azharuddin misjudged a straighter one from Saqlain and was trapped leg-before. Sourav Ganguly’s square drive ricocheted off silly mid-off, bounced awkwardly on the pitch, and landed in the wicketkeeper’s gloves—a bizarre double-pitch catch. Umpires Steve Dunne and Ramaswamy deliberated briefly before sending Ganguly on his way, prompting cries of “Ramaswamy down, Steve Dunne up up” from the stands. India were reeling at five down, and the mood in the dressing room during lunch was sombre. 

Nayan Mongia, India’s wicketkeeper, recalled the silence and a single technical insight that changed their approach: *“Saqlain Mushtaq had created havoc in the first innings. Most of us hadn’t read his variations. But Mohinder Amarnath had written that Saqlain’s ball from close to the stumps would go away from the right-hander, while the one from wide of the crease would turn in. Once we learned this, it became easier.”

Saqlain was at the zenith of his powers, his doosra a weapon of deception. His first three Test wickets in India—Tendulkar, Azharuddin, and Dravid—were scalps of the highest pedigree, each a master of spin, each undone by his guile. Yet, his triumphs came amidst personal turmoil. His father’s recent passing and a family tragedy had cast a shadow over his form. Questions about his suitability for Tests loomed, but Saqlain found solace in Wasim Akram’s camaraderie. “Wasim brings out the best in me,” he admitted. 

After lunch, Saqlain and Wasim bowled in tandem, a relentless assault on India’s hopes. Tendulkar, burdened by expectation, faced the challenge with steely resolve. At the other end, Mongia battled his own demons—a fever of 102 degrees, a saline drip, and injections to keep him on his feet. “It was so hot, I was batting in a sweater!” he later recalled. Meanwhile, Akram, battling groin pain, admitted to taking *“six to seven painkillers” to keep going. 

Tendulkar Conquers Pain o Esaay and Epic

As the second session wore on, Sachin Tendulkar’s body began betraying him. He frequently walked toward square leg, his movements laboured, his hand instinctively clutching his lower back. Each over seemed an ordeal, each delivery a test of will. By the time tea arrived, his condition had worsened; his grimaces were no longer fleeting but etched into his expression. Yet, India survived the session without losing a wicket, reducing the target from 185 to 126. 

In the dressing room, Tendulkar lay flat on a towel, cold compresses covering him in a desperate attempt to lower his body temperature. Cramping and exhaustion wracked his body, and the thought of batting for another two hours seemed insurmountable. Meanwhile, the Pakistan dressing room was steeped in tension. A Channel 4 documentary captured Wasim Akram sitting alone, running his fingers through his hair, his usually unflappable demeanour showing cracks. Someone muttered, *“Joh ho gaya woh ho gaya”* (Whatever has happened has happened), a resigned acknowledgement of missed opportunities. 

 

Azhar Mahmood later reflected on that moment: “We had so much respect for Sachin. Watching him play Saqlain and Wasim with such ease that day was unbelievable. Reverse swing, bounce, turn—everything was in our favour. And yet, he got a hundred.”

The third over after tea brought Tendulkar’s response. Saqlain Mushtaq, bowling with his trademark drift and guile, delivered the first ball. Tendulkar pulled it to midwicket for four. The next ball was paddle-swept for another boundary. Sunil Gavaskar, on commentary, couldn’t contain his admiration: “Even as he played that shot, my fellow commentator [Ramiz Raja] had his hands up in applause.”* 

Then came a moment of fortune. Tendulkar charged Saqlain, misjudging the length of a doosra, and got a bottom edge that ballooned toward Moin Khan. The wicketkeeper had three opportunities—catch, stump, or silence the crowd with a lullaby—but he fluffed them all. Saqlain, already mid-celebration, froze in disbelief and slumped to the ground. Moin stood motionless, hands on hips, a vice-captain bereft of words. Yet, Akram clapped immediately, a gesture of encouragement and reassurance. 

Two balls later, Tendulkar paddle-swept Saqlain for another four, followed by a cross-batted smack to the boundary. Sixteen runs off the over. The target now stood at 103. 

Pakistan opted for the new ball with 95 runs still required. Tendulkar’s back had “all but given up,” but he and Nayan Mongia decided to take calculated risks. Mongia, a former opener, felt more comfortable against the hardness of the new ball than the treachery of reverse swing. The next five overs yielded 33 runs. Tendulkar was all elegance, driving straight and through the covers. Mongia played the aggressor, whipping and chipping over the infield. A bouncer from Akram flew over both Mongia and Moin to the boundary, while Saqlain’s flighted delivery was dispatched over midwicket. 

“The thing with that Pakistan team,” Mahmood later said, “was that we always had options. Wasim and Waqar were masters of the new ball and reverse swing, and Saqlain could bowl with both. With such a lethal attack, you always had hope.”

Hope flickered to life when Mongia slogged Akram across the line. The top edge spiralled toward the covers, the ball seemingly suspended in time as the crowd screamed in vain. Waqar Younis steadied himself and completed the catch, silencing the stands. 

Sunil Joshi walked into a cacophony of nerves, greeted by Tendulkar’s anguished admission: “Jo, mera back is getting stiffer and stiffer. I can’t take it anymore. I’m going to swing.” Joshi reassured him: “You just stay here. I’ll score.” True to his word, Joshi took on Saqlain, lofting him for six over long-on.“I always felt I could read Saqlain,” Joshi later said. 

But Tendulkar’s body was breaking down. Every movement was agony, every shot a crescendo of pain. Desperation overtook calculation. Facing Saqlain, he attempted to hit a doosra over mid-off. The ball bounced more than expected, taking the leading edge and soaring skyward. 

Akram, standing at mid-off, steadied himself under the skier. On commentary, Harsha Bhogle captured the moment with poetic finality: “Oh dear… he’s got the leading edge… man’s under it… it’s taken… what have we got here… Sachin Tendulkar’s knocked on the door… it’s still closed…”

As Akram clasped the catch, the door indeed remained shut. Tendulkar’s heroic innings, one of defiance and grit, had ended. For Pakistan, the game was once again theirs to lose. 

India Collapse, Pakistan Win

The silence was fleeting. In moments, the Chennai crowd rose in unison, not in despair but in reverence, to honour a monumental innings. Tendulkar had fallen, but as the poet Balakumar once wrote, the Chepauk faithful laid out a bed of cotton for their fallen hero. 

Before departing the stage, with India still 17 runs adrift, Tendulkar turned to his partner with a parting message, a blend of hope and expectation: *“Jo, match finish kar ke aana”* (Jo, finish the match and come back). Sunil Joshi, now entrusted with the task, stood alongside three fellow Karnataka players, ready to script the final act. 

"I told Anil, avanu thirugsalla [he won’t turn it]. Saqlain is only bowling doosras. I’ll take the scoring chances; you just play out Wasim,” Joshi later recalled. 

But fate had other plans. Anil Kumble, playing for the team’s hopes, misjudged a Wasim Akram delivery that straightened after pitching. The umpire’s finger went up, and Kumble was gone for 1 off 5 balls. 

When Javagal Srinath joined Joshi at the crease, the strategy shifted again. “We thought Srinath could chance his arm against Saqlain,” Joshi recounted. “I told him: anything pitched up, swing. If it’s short, just block it. I’d take the single and give him the strike.” 

Yet the pressure mounted. In his attempt to steer India closer, Joshi miscued a shot, offering a simple return catch to Saqlain. He walked back for 8 off 20 balls, his disappointment palpable. “That dismissal still haunts me,” he admitted years later. “I wanted to be there at the end. I wanted to finish it.” 

In the stands, disbelief turned to resignation. The once-roaring crowd now sat in stunned silence, as though watching a car hurtling downhill, its brakes long gone. The wreckage was inevitable; the only question was how soon. 

“The moment Sachin got out, you could feel the air shift,” said Venkitasubban, a spectator. “The fielders seemed revitalized as if victory was now a certainty.” Saqlain Mushtaq emboldened, zipped through his overs, each delivery tightening the noose. At the other end, Akram surged in, his strides longer, his pace sharper, the aura of inevitability growing with each ball. 

For those in the crowd, memories of Bridgetown 1997 resurfaced unbidden. Then, too, India had been tantalizingly close, chasing 120 only to crumble for 81. The parallels were inescapable. The narrative of collapse had taken hold. 

Srinath, playing with a heavy burden, succumbed to Saqlain, and bowled for 1 off 8 deliveries. 

The scoreboard told the cruel story: Tendulkar out at 254. India all out for 258. 

As the Pakistan players celebrated, the Chennai crowd, ever gracious, rose once more. This time, the applause was for the game itself—a contest of skill, grit, and unrelenting drama that had left them breathless, even in heartbreak.

The Aftermath

The crowd at Chepauk, initially struck silent by the cruel twist of fate, rose to its feet in unison. Their applause was not wild or frenetic, but steady, deliberate, and heartfelt—a collective gesture of respect for a contest that transcended rivalry. Sensing the moment, the Pakistan team began a victory lap, acknowledging the grace of their hosts. For anyone familiar with the emotional and often volatile world of India-Pakistan cricket, it was a profoundly moving scene, a testament to the shared humanity beneath the fierce competition. 

VVS Laxman, reflecting on that day in his autobiography, wrote: “I saw Sachin weep like a child [...] None of us knew how to console him.” 

Tendulkar himself would later confess, “My world seemed to collapse around me [...] I just couldn’t hold back the tears. It was the only time I refused to go out and accept the Man of the Match award. [BCCI president] Raj Singh Dungarpur tried to persuade me, but I told him I was in no state, physically or mentally.”

In the Pakistani dressing room, joy erupted without restraint. High-pitched cheers and celebratory cries filled the air, mingled with moments of quiet prayer and reflection. Some players knelt in gratitude, their emotions as raw and intense as the game itself. 

Wasim Akram, speaking to Channel 4 years later, summed up the sentiment succinctly: “We needed one wicket. We needed Sachin’s wicket.” That dismissal, a moment of triumph for Pakistan, had turned the tide irrevocably in their favour. 

The celebrations extended well beyond the field. That evening, the team visited a mosque to offer thanks, followed by a celebratory cake at the hotel. The national anthem was sung with pride, its verses echoing their sense of unity and achievement. Some players ventured out for a quiet meal, their smiles now relaxed, their shoulders lighter. 

The next day, life began to return to its ordinary rhythms. Saqlain Mushtaq, the architect of India’s collapse, was seen strolling through the streets of Chennai, shopping for a sari for his wife—a poignant reminder that even in the most intense rivalries, human moments endure. 

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

 

The Gilded Cage: Indian Autocracy and the Slow Death of World Cricket

Cricket today is no longer governed; it is managed, monetized, and manipulated. What was once a multilateral sporting ecosystem has been reduced to a hierarchical order dominated by a single actor: the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI). By 2026, the erosion of cricket’s global character is no longer subtle. It is structural, institutional, and deliberate, enabled by an International Cricket Council (ICC) that has surrendered regulatory authority in exchange for commercial survival.

This is not dominance through excellence; it is autocracy through leverage.

Financial Capture: How the ICC Became a Subsidiary

Under the current ICC revenue-sharing model, the BCCI absorbs approximately 38.5% of global cricket revenues. England and Australia, historical pillars of the game, receive around 6% each, while most full members survive on allocations below 5%. Associate nations remain permanently dependent, structurally incapable of closing the gap.

This is not redistribution. It is rent extraction.

India’s control over nearly 80% of global cricket’s commercial value, driven by broadcasting rights, sponsorship concentration, and advertising markets, has allowed the BCCI to convert market size into veto power. The ICC, rather than counterbalancing this asymmetry, has institutionalized it. The result is a governance monoculture in which every major decision, Future Tours Programme scheduling, tournament formats, hosting rights, even leadership appointments, as presumed, requires implicit Indian approval.

Global cricket is no longer planned around sporting equity; it is optimized for Indian television ratings.

The Myth of Neutrality: The Hybrid Model as a Political Weapon

The most glaring manifestation of this imbalance emerged during the 2024–2026 tournament cycle, particularly in the selective application of the so-called “hybrid model.”

For the 2025 ICC Champions Trophy, India refused to travel to Pakistan, citing vaguely defined “security concerns”despite multiple international teams touring Pakistan without incident. The ICC capitulated immediately, relocating India’s matches to the UAE, effectively granting them a de facto home environment.

Yet when other nations raised parallel concerns regarding conditions and fairness during the T20 World Cup, co-hosted by India and Sri Lanka, the same flexibility vanished. Scheduling was structured almost entirely around Indian prime-time viewership, forcing players into brutal heat, compressed recovery windows, and intercontinental travel patterns designed to maximize broadcaster revenue rather than athletic integrity.

Neutrality, it turns out, is available only to India.

Bangladesh’s Defiance: A Rare Breach in the Wall

Against this backdrop of institutional submission, the Bangladesh Cricket Board (BCB) unexpectedly emerged as a fault line in the system. The 2026 standoff—sparked by BCCI pressure on IPL franchises to sideline Bangladeshi players, most notably the Mustafizur Rahman episode, exposed how league power is now weaponized to discipline smaller boards.

Bangladesh’s refusal to participate in the T20 World Cup in India was not a tantrum; it was a mirror. India’s own precedent, refusing to travel to Pakistan while demanding accommodation elsewhere, made Bangladesh’s position not only legitimate, but logically unassailable.

When the ICC refused to relocate Bangladesh’s matches to neutral Sri Lanka, despite having done precisely that for India months earlier, it stripped the organization of its last claim to procedural fairness. As Bangladesh’s sports advisor Asif Nazrul noted, the episode confirmed that ICC “justice” is conditional, hierarchical, and transactional.

For once, a board refused to sell the dignity of 200 million supporters in exchange for compliance.

From Big Three to Big One: The Hollowing Out of the Game

What began as the “Big Three” era has collapsed into a “Big One” system. Test cricket is being starved of funding to accommodate an ever-expanding IPL window. Associate nations are kept in a permanent state of dependency, funded just enough to exist, never enough to compete. Competitive balance is treated as a threat, not an objective.

This is not stewardship. It is managed decline.

Cricket, under BCCI-driven governance, is being reshaped into a scripted commercial product where outcomes, venues, and calendars orbit a single national interest. The sport’s global legitimacy is the collateral damage.

India’s dominance is not rooted in superior diplomacy or a coherent vision for cricket’s future. It rests almost entirely on demographic mass and market coercion. By reducing the ICC to an administrative shell, the BCCI has secured short-term profits while accelerating long-term irrelevance outside the Indian market.

The Bangladesh Parallel, and the Moral Inversion

Bangladesh’s objections mirror India’s own stance during the Champions Trophy, yet with greater moral consistency. India not only maintains an openly hostile political narrative toward Bangladesh, but continues to shelter Hasina Wajid, a fugitive convicted by the International Crimes Tribunal, linked to the deaths of over 1,400 Bengalis.

In this context, Bangladesh’s refusal to travel is not merely procedural, it is ethical.

What is truly damning is the spectacle of ICC board members accepting these contradictions without protest. The Champions Trophy was not merely compromised for Pakistan; New Zealand and South Africa paid a tangible sporting price through forced travel that directly impacted their knockout-stage performances. They complied, and were punished for it.

A Game Held Hostage

World cricket today operates inside a gilded cage: lucrative, polished, and fundamentally unfree. Until boards collectively challenge this concentration of power, the erosion will continue, quietly, efficiently, and irreversibly.

The “Gentleman’s Game” is no longer governed by gentlemen. It is governed by a bully with a balance sheet.

And history suggests that no sport survives for long when only one nation’s interests are allowed to matter.

Twilight in Dhaka: The Day India Chased the Impossible in the Shadows of History

When the Impossible Took Root in Dhaka

In January 1998, as twilight loomed over the National Stadium in Dhaka, India conjured a chase so improbable, against a mighty Pakistan side, under failing light, and with the pressure of history, that it blurred the lines between sport and legend. The 1997-98 Independence Cup, celebrating 50 years of India's freedom and partition, brought together the subcontinent’s cricketing past and present. But on one unforgettable evening, it offered more: a staggering display of collective grit, anchored by the elegance of Sourav Ganguly and the composure of a little-known left-hander named Hrishikesh Kanitkar.

This was not merely a cricket match. It was a theatre of nerves, stamina, and strategy, played under the dimming skies of Dhaka, where every run felt like a rebellion against fate, and every over became a countdown to either collapse or catharsis.

A Tournament of Uneven Stakes

The structure of the 1997–98 Independence Cup was, in itself, unconventional. Three round-robin matches between India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh, followed by a best-of-three final, meant the finalists were all but pre-decided. Bangladesh, still an Associate Member of the ICC and years away from Test status, provided spirited resistance but remained largely peripheral to the narrative carved out by their subcontinental superiors.

India edged past Bangladesh in their opening match, navigating a brief wobble to secure a nervy four-wicket win. The second clash saw India outplay Pakistan in a fog-shortened 37-over contest, thanks to Tendulkar’s multi-faceted brilliance. Pakistan then comfortably overpowered Bangladesh to complete the formalities, setting up a tri-final showdown between two old rivals.

The first two finals mirrored each other: one-sided contests dictated by early dominance. India thrashed Pakistan in the opener, while Pakistan returned the favour in the second. It was now down to a decider, a single match to crown the champions. What followed was one of the most dramatic ODIs in cricket history.

Pakistan Paints a Masterpiece

Winning the toss, Azharuddin gambled on chasing, a move that had paid off in both prior finals. But this time, Pakistan had other plans.

After early setbacks, Saeed Anwar and Ijaz Ahmed launched a merciless counterattack. The flat track, combined with fielding restrictions, was tailor-made for destruction. Between Anwar’s graceful domination and Ijaz’s raw aggression, India’s bowlers wilted. The duo added a staggering 230 in 202 balls , then a record for the third wicket in ODIs, dismantling Sanghvi, Srinath, and the rest with clinical ease.

Anwar’s 140 and Ijaz’s 117 powered Pakistan to 314 for 5 in 48 overs, a total that had never been chased in the history of ODI cricket. The question was now not whether India would win, but how long they could delay defeat.

The Tendulkar Fire and Ganguly-Robin’s Forge

Tendulkar’s reply was swift and searing,  a 26-ball 41 that ripped into Azhar Mahmood and Afridi with audacity. But his departure, skying Afridi to long-off, left a vacuum. Then came a curious but masterful decision: Azharuddin sent in Robin Singh, not Sidhu or Jadeja, to partner Ganguly. What followed was a partnership that remains one of Indian cricket’s most underrated masterclasses in controlled aggression.

Robin, India’s fittest cricketer then, ran like a machine and struck like a hammer. Ganguly, regal and ruthless, found the gaps with ease and cleared the boundary with flair. The two southpaws stitched 179 in 179 balls , seamlessly blending risk with calculation, aggression with caution.

They batted with an eye on the Duckworth-Lewis cutoffs as the light faded, 242 in 30, 268 in 35, 289 in 40, and kept India ahead. Ganguly’s 124, resplendent with 11 fours and a six, was poetry under pressure. Robin Singh’s 82, full of hustle and bottom-handed fury, was the steel behind the song.

Shadows, Sweat, and the Edge of Nerves

As dusk descended on Dhaka and the National Stadium’s primitive lighting proved inadequate, chaos took over. Fielders misjudged, batsmen groped, the ball became invisible, yet India marched on, inch by inch.

Jadeja, Mongia, and Kanitkar played nervy cameos in the dark, while Srinath threw the bat with desperate intent. Saqlain, the finest off-spinner in world cricket, bowled in the dying light like a blindfolded sniper. Fielders collided. Catches were dropped. Boundaries flickered through the gloom. Every ball was a battle.

Kanitkar, a young man with limited international credentials, found himself facing Saqlain with 3 required off 2 balls. And then, with a swing across the line, he carved the ball through midwicket for four. The Indian dugout erupted. Azharuddin leapt. Ganguly, his legs barely moving after battling cramps, stormed the field. A chase once considered suicidal was now historic.

More Than a Win, A Statement

This was not just about a world record chase. It was about resilience in ambiguity. About instinct in failing light. About rising above the shadows, literal and metaphorical, to carve out victory.

Tendulkar won the Player of the Series. Azhar lifted the trophy. But the day belonged to the unsung heroes: Ganguly, the prince of off-side elegance, who charmed the Dhaka crowd like a local son; Robin Singh, whose work ethic forged a bridge between promise and possibility; and Kanitkar, who became an unlikely poster boy for poise in chaos.

In a tournament where the format was questioned and the outcome assumed, India delivered a finale scripted in drama, defiance, and destiny. That evening, as the light dimmed in Dhaka, cricket witnessed one of its brightest moments.

“Victory belongs not to those who dominate with power, but to those who endure with heart."Dhaka, 1998, a saga written in shadow, remembered in gold.

When Cricket Becomes a Border Checkpoint - How India Hijacked Cricket and Turned It into a Tool of Power

Cricket, in South Asia, was never merely a sport. It was a shared language, spoken fluently even when diplomacy failed, even when borders hardened and guns replaced dialogue. That language is now being rewritten, not with runs and wickets, but with political pressure, strategic exclusion, and calculated silence.

The recent removal of Bangladesh fast bowler Mustafizur Rahman from the Indian Premier League (IPL) is not an isolated administrative decision. It is a symptom, perhaps the clearest yet, of how India has transformed cricket from soft power into a blunt geopolitical instrument.

The Incident That Exposed the System

On January 3, BCCI secretary Devajit Saikia told India’s ANI that the board had instructed Kolkata to release Bangladesh pacer Mustafizur Rahman due to “recent developments.” Kolkata complied the same day.

That phrase,“recent developments,i"is deliberately elastic. It is the kind of bureaucratic fog that allows an institution to do something political while pretending it is procedural. No injury was cited as the reason. No sporting logic was publicly offered. The implication, widely understood in Bangladesh and echoed in Indian commentary, was that the decision was tied to the worsening political climate between Bangladesh and India after the fall of Sheikh Hasina’s government in August 2024 and her subsequent refuge in India.

In other words: the bowler was not dropped from a league; he was dropped from a relationship.

How Cricket Becomes a Punishment Tool

In a normal sporting ecosystem, franchise cricket is transactional. Players move across borders because leagues want skill, and players want careers. That is what a global sport looks like when it is allowed to behave like a sport.

South Asia is increasingly different. Here, cricket is mutating into a diplomatic lever, a tool not only for image-making, but also for discipline and punishment. And the country that can do this most effectively is India, because India is not simply a participant in world cricket. India is the market.

The IPL is the richest franchise tournament on earth. India supplies the largest audience. Money flows in one direction so overwhelmingly that many boards and institutions have learned to speak softly around Delhi, not because Delhi is always right, but because Delhi is always rich.

When a sport becomes dependent on a single treasury, neutrality becomes a luxury. And morality becomes negotiable.

The Real Message: “Access Is Conditional”

If Mustafizur can be bought at auction for an enormous fee and then removed on a politically convenient pretext, what does that tell the region?

It tells every neighbouring country and every player that entry into “Indian cricket” is not a sporting matter. It is permission-based. It is conditional. It can be withdrawn, suddenly and publicly, as a signal.

That is why this episode is being read, quite reasonably, as a statement: Indian cricket is not a platform you earn; it is a privilege India grants.

This is not soft power anymore. This is coercive power wrapped in the glamour of sport.

The Domestic Engine Behind the Decision

The ugliness does not stop at institutions. The episode reveals how quickly major cricket decisions can be hijacked by India’s domestic majoritarian ecosystem.

According to the narrative circulating in Bangladesh (and referenced in Indian critiques), hardline Hindu nationalist groups pressured Kolkata not to play Mustafizur and issued threats, including towards the franchise and its owner. The point here is not the theatre of outrage; it is what followed: capitulation.

If administrators and political authorities bend to communal agitation, they do not merely “avoid controversy.” They legitimise intimidation as a method. They teach the region that threats work—and that the boundary line between fan passion and political bullying has dissolved.

A sport that kneels to communal pressure becomes a billboard for communal power.

Security: The Question India Cannot Escape

Bangladesh’s response, banning IPL broadcasts, formally raising concerns with the ICC, and seeking to move World Cup matches out of India, was not just nationalist theatre. It was rooted in a simple, devastating question:

If India cannot ensure the security and dignity of one Bangladeshi cricketer in the IPL, what guarantee exists for an entire team, management, journalists, and travelling supporters during a World Cup?

Bangladesh’s position, as stated in your text, is that ICC’s security assessment acknowledged specific risks. Whether the ICC ultimately shifts venues or not, the damage is already done: India’s credibility as a “safe, neutral host” has been dragged into the political mud—largely by India’s own domestic climate and the BCCI’s own choices.

The Pattern Is Familiar: Pakistan Was the Prototype

For years, India’s relationship with Pakistan has shown what happens when cricket is treated as a geopolitical theatre. Tournaments get “hybrid models.” Venues become battlegrounds. Symbolic gestures, handshakes, photo-ops, and trophy presentations become diplomatic statements.

Your text cites an Asia Cup example where India’s objections drove venue arrangements and where symbolic refusals intensified controversy. The details of any specific incident can be debated, but the pattern is unmistakable: India increasingly behaves as though tournaments are not mutually governed events but negotiated spaces where Indian preference becomes de facto policy.

The problem is not that India has interests. Every country does. The problem is that India’s interests, backed by unmatched financial weight, frequently become everyone else’s reality.

What Was Lost: Cricket as a Bridge

South Asia once had a different idea of cricket—a rare shared language that could survive when everything else broke down. The 2004 India tour of Pakistan is often remembered as the high watermark: “friendship series,” leaders speaking of winning hearts, fans travelling under special arrangements. Even after Mumbai 2008, cricket diplomacy returned in flashes, like the 2011 World Cup semifinal attended by both prime ministers.

Those moments mattered because they suggested something larger: that sport could force adversaries to sit, to look, to breathe the same air.

The Mustafizur episode moves in the opposite direction. It says: we can keep you out, and we can do it with a smile, and the world will accept it because our money runs the sport.

That is a terrifying precedent.

India’s Cricket Empire and the ICC Problem

The uncomfortable truth is that the ICC, structurally, is not built to resist India. When one board dominates revenue, the regulator becomes psychologically captured, less a referee than a manager of the dominant player’s satisfaction.

Your text also points to the wider perception of institutional proximity between Indian political power and cricket governance. Even if one avoids personalising the argument, the broader issue stands: when a sport’s global governance is shaped by one country’s money and political climate, it ceases to look global. It begins to look imperial.

And empires rarely tolerate equal neighbours.

Bangladesh’s Defiance and Its Own Test

Bangladesh’s assertive response carries symbolic force. A smaller nation has said: honour first. That matters in a region where small states often learn to swallow insults for access.

But Bangladesh also faces its own test: defiance must become a strategy, not just rhetoric. A bold stance can win a moment; diplomacy must win the decade. If the region is moving toward a future where sport and politics collide openly, Bangladesh will need more than anger; it will need a clear plan: security protocols, negotiation leverage, regional alliances, and economic resilience.

Because India’s greatest advantage is not just nationalism. It is dependent on other dependencies on Indian cricket money, Indian markets, and Indian approvals.

The Verdict: This Is Not Cricket, It’s Control

So, is it still cricket?

Not in the moral sense. Not when a player becomes collateral. Not when “recent developments” becomes a euphemism for political filtration. Not when communal intimidation sets a selection policy. Not when the world’s most powerful board behaves like a state ministry, with franchises and players as its paperwork.

India has every right to be influential. It does not have the right to turn influence into punishment, to treat access like a leash, and to call it normal governance.

Cricket, at its best, is competition with restraint, power disciplined by rules, rivalry contained by ethics. When India weaponises cricket’s economy and domestic political climate to police neighbours, it doesn’t just damage Bangladesh. It damages the game’s meaning.

And once a game becomes a visa regime, once it becomes conditional entry, conditional dignity, conditional belonging, then the scoreboard is no longer the point.

The point becomes domination.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar

The 2008 Sydney Test: A Theatrical Drama of Cricket and Controversy

Cricket, often celebrated as a gentleman’s game, has seen its share of glorious triumphs, heartbreaking losses, and contentious encounters. But few matches in recent memory have encapsulated all these elements so vividly as the second Test between Australia and India at the Sydney Cricket Ground (SCG) in January 2008. What was meant to be a riveting contest between two of the sport’s powerhouses turned into a saga of umpiring blunders, allegations of unsportsmanlike behaviour, and an off-field controversy that threatened to derail the entire series. It was a game where sport and drama collided, leaving behind a legacy of both brilliance and bitterness.

A Victory Marred by Controversy 

On the final day, with time slipping away and tension reaching a fever pitch, Australia snatched a dramatic victory with just nine minutes left in the final hour. Their win ensured that they equalled their own world record of 16 consecutive Test victories, first set in 2001. Yet, while history recorded this feat, it was not a triumph untainted.

A series of erroneous umpiring decisions had a significant impact on the outcome, with most of them unfairly going against India. The Indian team’s sense of frustration escalated to such a degree that their cricket board, the BCCI, formally protested, leading the International Cricket Council (ICC) to remove Steve Bucknor from officiating in the next Test in Perth. The decision was unprecedented, a rare admission that the quality of umpiring had failed to meet the standards expected at the international level.

Adding to the controversy was an ugly off-field incident involving allegations of racial abuse. Australian all-rounder Andrew Symonds accused Indian off-spinner Harbhajan Singh of directing a racial slur at him during an on-field altercation. The ICC match referee, Mike Procter, swiftly ruled in favor of Symonds’ version of events, suspending Harbhajan for three Tests. The Indian camp, however, was outraged, arguing that there was no conclusive evidence and suggesting that the Australians had exaggerated the incident. The possibility of India withdrawing from the tour loomed large, threatening to turn a sporting contest into a full-blown diplomatic crisis. In the end, a compromise was reached—Harbhajan’s appeal was delayed until after the Test series, allowing him to play in the remaining matches, though the decision carried a whiff of political expediency rather than cricketing justice.

The Spirit of the Game in Question

India’s grievances did not end with the umpiring decisions or the racial abuse allegation. Three key aspects of Australia’s conduct further fueled their indignation. First was the relentless and, at times, exaggerated appealing, particularly on the final day, which some saw as bordering on gamesmanship. The pressure exerted on the umpires seemed to influence crucial decisions, particularly in the tense final hours of the match.

Secondly, questions were raised about the integrity of Australian batsman Michael Clarke. In the second innings, Clarke refused to walk despite edging a catch, a move that went against the traditional spirit of fair play. Later, he was at the centre of another controversial moment when he claimed a disputed low slip catch off Sourav Ganguly. The square-leg umpire was not consulted, and the on-field decision favoured Australia. This led to the immediate abandonment of the pre-series agreement that fielders’ words would be trusted in contested catches.

Finally, Australia’s conduct in victory left a bitter taste in the mouths of the Indian players. The celebrations, rather than being gracious and respectful, were seen as excessive and unsportsmanlike. Adding to the Indian team’s frustration was how their concerns were dismissed in the disciplinary hearing against Harbhajan. The Australians’ testimony was given precedence, reinforcing the perception that the system was stacked against the visiting side.

Symonds’ Fortunate Innings and India’s Resilience

The match itself had begun with India in a position of strength. The visitors exploited the early movement in the pitch to reduce Australia to 134 for six, despite missing their key pacer Zaheer Khan due to injury. However, the day’s fortunes turned on a single, glaring error—Steve Bucknor’s failure to detect a thick edge from Andrew Symonds when he was on 30. It was the first of three reprieves for Symonds, and he capitalised brilliantly, crafting a defiant, unbeaten 162.

His innings was the backbone of Australia’s recovery, aided by a crucial partnership with Brad Hogg. The duo added a record 173 runs for the seventh wicket, shifting the momentum of the match. Symonds’ fortune did not end there—on 48, he survived a close stumping decision, and later, when he was on 148, another controversial decision by Bucknor allowed him to carry his bat to a career-best score.

India’s response was one of sheer class. Laxman, a known tormentor of the Australian attack, once again displayed his mastery with an elegant century. Rahul Dravid’s patient, old-school resilience and Sachin Tendulkar’s sublime, chanceless innings reinforced India’s batting depth. Tendulkar’s 38th Test century was a lesson in precision, with singles and controlled strokes replacing extravagant drives. His partnership with Harbhajan Singh, who unexpectedly struck his first Test fifty against Australia, further boosted India’s total, ensuring they secured a crucial lead.

At this stage, India seemed the likelier victors. However, as the fourth day unfolded, luck shifted once more. Mike Hussey, another beneficiary of umpiring errors, constructed a vital century, enabling Australia to set India a daunting 333-run target.

The Final Act: A Collapse in the Face of Part-Time Spin

India’s chase was never about reaching the target; survival was the priority. For much of the final day, they seemed on course to secure a hard-fought draw. Dravid and Ganguly provided stability until disaster struck. Bucknor, already under the scanner, ruled Dravid caught behind despite the ball only brushing his pad. The verdict triggered a collapse, but India still had hope.

As the final overs approached, Ponting, in a desperate move, turned to Michael Clarke, a part-time left-arm spinner. In what can only be described as a cricketing fairy tale, Clarke produced a spell of magic, capturing three wickets in five balls. India, after withstanding so much, crumbled in the final act, and Australia emerged victorious by a margin that hardly reflected the drama that had preceded it.

Legacy of a Contentious Test

The Sydney Test of 2008 remains one of the most controversial matches in cricket’s history. While it extended Australia’s dominance and added to their rich legacy, the win was shrouded in debates over ethics, umpiring failures, and questions of fair play. The events at Sydney left deep scars, particularly for India, but they also strengthened the resolve of a team that would soon find redemption.

In the next Test at Perth, India roared back, breaking Australia’s winning streak with a stirring victory. The Sydney Test, then, was not just about one team’s victory or another’s misfortune. It was a moment that tested the spirit of cricket itself, reminding the world that while records and trophies matter, the integrity of the game is its most valuable prize.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

A Test Match in Chains: Cricket and Control in Kolkata, 1984–85

The third Test between India and England at Eden Gardens in 1984–85 unfolded less as a sporting contest than as an exposition of paralysis. Bat and ball were present, certainly, but they were secondary actors in a drama dominated by institutional power, public anger, and a captain’s strangely muted assertion of authority. This was Test cricket stripped of urgency—where time passed, runs accumulated, and meaning steadily drained away.

What remained was a match remembered not for what happened, but for what stubbornly refused to.

Before the First Ball: Authority Without Accountability

Even before play began at Eden Gardens, the Test had been compromised by events far removed from the pitch. The omission of Kapil Dev—punished for a reckless dismissal in the previous Test—had escalated from a cricketing decision into a referendum on power. Kapil’s apology mattered little. What mattered was precedent.

Under the watchful eye of BCCI chairman N. K. P. Salve, the selection committee, led by C. G. Borde, chose assertion over accommodation. Kapil would not return. The message was unmistakable: the selectors governed, and the captain complied.

For Sunil Gavaskar, this was leadership in name but not in substance. Reports suggested he favoured Kapil’s recall and preferred Krishnamachari Srikkanth in the XI. Neither view prevailed. Instead, the selectors imposed a debutant—Mohammad Azharuddin—less as an experiment than as an emblem of their authority.

Ironically, it was the one decision that worked.

Azharuddin: Grace in a Vacuum

Mohammad Azharuddin’s debut hundred was a study in composure amid confusion. Batting for over seven hours, he produced an innings of balance and assurance, becoming the eighth Indian to score a century on Test debut (ninth if one counts the elder Nawab of Pataudi Sr for England).

Yet even this milestone felt oddly detached from the match’s pulse. His record fifth-wicket partnership of 214 with Ravi Shastri unfolded at a pace that seemed almost ideological—less about conditions than caution. The pitch was slow, but the cricket was slower. Time passed without pressure, accumulation without ambition.

Azhar’s elegance deserved a more honest stage. Instead, his arrival was absorbed into a broader inertia, where personal achievement could not rescue collective stagnation.

Day Four: When Patience Turned to Revolt

By lunch on the fourth day, India were 417 for 7. The game still had one slim chance of relevance: a declaration that would force England to bat under pressure. Gavaskar declined it.

What followed was not dissent but eruption.

The Eden Gardens crowd, already agitated by the tempo and the politics beneath it, turned openly hostile. Chants of “Gavaskar down, Gavaskar out” reverberated through the stands. When the captain emerged near the pavilion, the symbolism was brutal: fruit rained down, applause replaced by projectiles. For eight minutes, play stopped—not because of rain or injury, but because a crowd had rejected its captain.

It was a rare and unsettling reversal. Gavaskar, long revered as the embodiment of Indian batting resolve, had become the focal point of mass frustration.

England’s Theatre of Contempt

England responded not with aggression but with irony. David Gower, a batsman of effortless elegance, rolled his arm over in mock seriousness. Phil Edmonds took the satire further, opening a newspaper as he waited to bowl—an unmistakable echo of Warwick Armstrong’s famous protest at The Oval in 1921.

It was cricket’s version of silent condemnation. England were no longer contesting the match; they were indicting it.

Only then—twenty minutes after lunch—did Gavaskar declare. The timing was telling. The declaration arrived not as strategy, but as concession.

Rumour, Authority, and the Fear of Disorder

Soon after, reports surfaced that police officials had urged Gavaskar to declare sooner, warning of a possible breakdown in law and order. Gavaskar denied receiving any such caution, but a BBC radio commentator insisted it was real. The truth remains unresolved—and almost irrelevant.

What mattered was the atmosphere. A Test match had reached a point where civic stability was being discussed alongside run rates. Cricket had slipped into the realm of crowd psychology and administrative anxiety.

A Draw Already Written

The match ended in a draw as predictably as it had progressed. No tactical twist redeemed it; no late surge salvaged meaning. The Test was shaped by hesitation—by selectors asserting power, a captain constrained and conflicted, and a crowd refusing to remain passive.

What should have been remembered as the birth of Azharuddin at Test level instead became a cautionary tale. This was not defensive cricket born of necessity, but conservatism reinforced by bureaucracy. The game was strangled not by pitch or weather, but by indecision and institutional rigidity.

In the end, the Eden Gardens Test of 1984–85 stands as a reminder that cricket, like any public institution, can lose its soul when authority replaces imagination, and when leadership mistakes survival for control.

Symphony at Newlands: When Tendulkar and Azharuddin Sang in the Dark

For much of the 1990s, Indian cricket existed inside a contradiction it never quite resolved: it possessed the most incandescent batting genius of his age, yet remained structurally incapable of rising to his altitude. Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar was not merely India’s best cricketer; he was its emotional infrastructure. Victories were imagined through him, defeats explained around him. His centuries rose like solitary minarets in a landscape of collapse—majestic, visible from afar, but unable to hold the city together.

This dynamic hardened into narrative orthodoxy. Tendulkar stood alone; the rest, by implication, failed him. And while that story contained truth, it was not complete. There were rare interruptions—moments when Indian batting briefly resembled a collective act rather than a one-man vigil. None were as luminous, or as futile, as the afternoon at Newlands in January 1997, when Mohammad Azharuddin—former captain, fading star, aesthetic heretic—joined Tendulkar in a partnership that did not save a Test match, but redeemed it.

Context: A Team Between Authority and Anxiety

India arrived in South Africa at a moment of uneasy transition. Tendulkar, newly entrusted with captaincy, had overseen encouraging home successes—most notably against Australia and South Africa—but the old curse of overseas fragility remained intact. England, the previous summer, had reopened wounds India had never learned to cauterise: technical uncertainty against pace, psychological submission under pressure, and a recurring inability to convert resistance into control.

South Africa, by contrast, were a nation discovering sporting coherence. Re-admitted to international cricket in 1991, they had rapidly assembled a team that fused athletic modernity with old-fashioned hardness. Under Hansie Cronje, they were relentless, pragmatic, and intimidating. Allan Donald’s pace was not merely fast; it was accusatory. Batsmen were not dismissed—they were indicted.

Durban had already demonstrated the imbalance. India were dismantled inside three days. By the time the second Test reached Newlands, the pattern seemed irreversible. South Africa’s 529 for 7 declared—powered by centuries from Gary Kirsten, Lance Klusener, and Brian McMillan—was not just a score, but a statement of superiority. When India collapsed to 58 for 5, the Test was effectively over. What followed belonged to another register entirely.

The Partnership: Rewriting Meaning, Not Outcome

When Azharuddin joined Tendulkar, the match had slipped beyond tactical relevance. And precisely because of that, the partnership became something rarer than a comeback—it became a counter-narrative.

Azhar batted as though freed from consequence. His career, by 1997, was already weighted with contradiction: elegance shadowed by suspicion, genius diluted by inconsistency, leadership defined as much by controversy as by craft. But at Newlands, he reclaimed the purest version of himself. The wrists—those famously disobedient wrists—unleashed geometry where none should have existed. Length balls became half-volleys by aesthetic decree. His strokeplay felt less like accumulation than argument.

His half-century arrived in 57 balls, his century in 110, but numbers barely captured the texture of the innings. This was not recklessness; it was expressive defiance—improvisation built on deep technical memory, like jazz that never abandons its scales.

At the other end, Tendulkar was architectural. Where Azhar curved and flicked, Tendulkar aligned and pierced. His footwork was immaculate, his bat face uncompromisingly straight. Cover drives bisected fields with surgical certainty. Each boundary was less a flourish than an assertion: that excellence, when repeated often enough, could still challenge inevitability.

Together, they assembled 222 runs in under three hours—not merely to avoid the follow-on, but to reclaim dignity. South Africa’s bowlers, so authoritative earlier, retreated into containment. Klusener, in particular, was dismembered after lunch, his confidence eroded by strokes that exposed every defensive compromise.

The surreal interruption—an on-field meeting with Nelson Mandela—only heightened the sense that this passage of play belonged outside ordinary cricketing time. When play resumed, the music did too.

Fragility Returns, but Meaning Remains

Azharuddin’s dismissal—run out attempting a sharp single—felt tragically appropriate. His innings, defined by spontaneity, ended in miscommunication. He departed to a standing ovation from a South African crowd that understood, instinctively, that it had witnessed resistance elevated to art.

Tendulkar, once again alone, pressed on. The follow-on was avoided; arithmetic respectability restored. But once he fell—caught on the boundary by Adam Bacher off Brian McMillan—the old structural weakness resurfaced. India were dismissed for 359, still 170 runs behind. The match, and the series, were lost.

Yet something else had been preserved.

Aesthetics as Defiance

This partnership did not alter the result, but it altered the register in which the match is remembered. It was not about dominance or victory; it was about refusing erasure. In an era when Indian cricket abroad often appeared apologetic, this was an act of unapologetic expression.

For Tendulkar—so frequently cast as a solitary hero—this was a rare moment of shared authorship. For Azharuddin, it may have been the final, uncorrupted articulation of his genius: unburdened by leadership, untouched by future revelations, existing briefly in pure form.

This was not support batting. It was collaboration. A two-man rebellion conducted entirely through timing, balance, and nerve.

Conclusion: What Survives Beyond the Scorecard

The scorecard has not changed. South Africa still won. India still returned home with another away series defeat added to a familiar ledger. But Newlands, 1997, survives differently—in memory, not mathematics.

Cricket, at its highest register, is not merely a competition of runs and wickets. It is a medium through which character, resistance, and beauty are expressed under stress. On that afternoon in Cape Town, two batsmen transformed a lost cause into a lasting moment.

For Tendulkar, it was one masterpiece among many.

For Azharuddin, perhaps a final aria before the silence.

For those who watched, it was proof that even in defeat, cricket can still sing.

And sometimes, that is what endures.