Why not Sooryavanshi now?
That question is not just about one player—it is about a pattern that Indian cricket has flirted with for decades. The tendency to delay, to overthink, to hold back raw talent until it is no longer raw but riddled with doubt.
Take the case of Shreyas Iyer. Here was a flamboyant, confident batsman who lit up domestic cricket, only to spend long periods warming the bench. When he finally got his chances, there were moments of hesitation—of uncertainty. That wasn’t the player we saw earlier. That was a player battling not just bowlers, but his own mind.
Today, Ruturaj Gaikwad seems to be sailing in similar waters. Elegant, composed, yet not fully backed when it matters most. And this is where Indian cricket must pause and reflect.
I remember watching Sanjay Manjrekar score a breathtaking triple hundred in a single day during a Moin-ud-Dowlah Gymkhana match. It was audacious, commanding, and full of flair. But when he graduated to international cricket, I saw a different Manjrekar—measured, defensive, almost in survival mode. Same player, same pitch length, same bat. Only the mindset had changed.
Why does that happen?
Because somewhere along the journey, the system teaches players not to express—but to endure.
That is why I remain grateful to the selectors who had the courage to back legends early—Sunil Gavaskar, Sachin Tendulkar, Gundappa Viswanath, and Kapil Dev. They weren’t made to wait endlessly. They were trusted, thrown into the deep end, and allowed to swim.
And they didn’t just survive—they defined eras.
Let me put it bluntly: if you want to kill a cricketer, delay his debut.
It takes years to build a player—the discipline, the technique, the hunger. But it takes very little to break him. A young cricketer begins fearlessly. He plays with instinct. But the longer he waits, the more questions creep in. “Am I good enough?” “Why am I not picked?” “What more should I do?”
Those doubts are far more dangerous than any fast bowler.
On the brighter side, we are witnessing the rise of players like Mukul Choudhary—a name that symbolizes preparation meeting opportunity. His performances are not accidents; they are the result of relentless practice. Hitting a hundred to one hundred and fifty balls every day is not glamour—it is grind. And that grind builds self-belief.
Confidence is not given. It is earned through repetition.
And today, Indian cricket seems to be brimming with exciting talent—Sooryavanshi, Mukul, Rizvi, Abhishek Sharma, Shivang Kumar. It feels like a new wave is ready to surge. India is not just moving—it is accelerating.
The only question is: will the system keep pace?
Because talent alone is not enough. Timing is everything.
I have often been sceptical about players like David Miller and Glenn Maxwell. Yes, they have produced brilliance, but often when the stakes were lower. When the pressure peaked, consistency seemed to dip. And that is where mindset again comes into play.
Big players are not defined by occasional fireworks, but by reliability under fire.
India has the talent pool to dominate world cricket for years. But if mismanaged—if delayed, doubted, and diluted—that same talent can fade before it fully blooms.
So, I ask again—why not Sooryavanshi now?
Because sometimes, the biggest risk in cricket is not failure.
It is hesitation.
