Ved Panse • 21 June, 2023
Cricket was never introduced to me — it simply existed, like ceiling fans and monsoons. In India, you don’t “get into” cricket. You absorb it. It’s ambient. It’s structural. It’s the one thing that can unite a tea vendor and a software architect in a three-hour argument over strike rates.
The game operates on many levels: national obsession, social equalizer, and occasionally, substitute for traffic control. At any given moment, in any urban or semi-urban street, there is a non-zero chance that someone is using a brick as a stump and calling themselves captain.
I first got pulled into cricket during an evening walk with my grandfather — a group of kids were playing nearby, and I stayed. Not for five minutes. For the rest of the evening. That moment turned into a habit. For a while, any flat surface and spherical object in the house were considered fair game. Guests had a higher-than-average chance of being greeted with a casual underarm delivery.
In school, I was an opening batsman — aggressive, occasionally effective, and perpetually convinced that the opposing fielders were standing in the wrong place. Most of my reputation was built in tennis-ball circuits, where bounce is unpredictable and rules are enforced with the democratic efficiency of shouting.
Over time, my engagement with the game shifted from participation to observation. I don’t play competitively anymore, but I follow the sport closely — with the practiced cynicism of someone who’s lived through multiple ICC knockout campaigns. Like many, I’ve come to appreciate the finer details: field placements, bowling variations, and the physics-defying confidence of batters trying to reverse scoop at 150 km/h.
Cricket remains a fixture — not in a nostalgic sense, but in a cultural one. It’s a game that offers everything from tactical depth to spontaneous absurdity. It’s where a tailender can become a national hero for scoring seven not out, and where millions will pause their day to argue about whether that edge carried.
I no longer play every day. I don’t bring a bat to family gatherings. But when the first ball of a match is bowled and the commentary team clears their throats — something still clicks into place.