Let us get to the real thorn in the side of modern Test cricket — the tiresome excuse of “rest.” Every time a player is asked to turn up for a Ranji game, a workload chart magically appears, and suddenly, a five-day match becomes an unbearable burden. England’s cricketers play four gruelling months of county cricket without a breather. In Australia and India, players appear in barely seven to nine first-class matches a season. Yet somehow, it is here that “rest and rotation” has become a sacred doctrine. Rest for what, exactly?
The uncomfortable truth is this: India’s domestic cricket — particularly the Ranji Trophy — is quietly crumbling because the very players who should be anchoring its standards are absent. Skip a T20 game, fine. Miss a meaningless bilateral ODI, no one will notice. But a Test hopeful missing Ranji or Duleep? That is where decline begins.
And decline has, unmistakably, begun.
Our selectors, meanwhile, have turned remarkably short-sighted. They speak proudly of “pathways” and “structures” — Under-19 to Ranji to Duleep to India A. Sounds impressive. But go back a few decades, before spreadsheets replaced cricketing sense. Selectors then needed just a handful of Ranji matches to identify world beaters. Sunil Gavaskar didn’t need a four-step ladder. GR Viswanath didn’t require a data analyst’s blessing. Mohinder Amarnath, BS Chandrasekhar, Erapalli Prasanna — these giants were spotted through pure cricketing instinct, not a bureaucratic checklist.
Contrast that with today. What more do selectors want to see from Ruturaj Gaikwad? How many match-winning knocks must Rinku Singh play before earning a permanent place? How long will they keep Tilak Varma in waiting mode? And Washington Sundar — the man who should have debuted in Tests right after his Under-19 World Cup — is now another talent being polished and repolished in white-ball cricket until the shine begins to dull.
This obsession with grooming players through T20 leagues and short-format cricket has a predictable consequence: once a naturally gifted long-format player enters white-ball circuits, his originality starts eroding. His footwork trims itself to the crease. His technique adjusts to survival, not mastery. He becomes efficient, not exceptional.
I’m reminded of a game in Nagpur where a fiery young Krishnamachari Srikkanth once sat merely as a spectator, watching Sunil Gavaskar bat in a limited-overs match. Even in that condensed format, Gavaskar’s Test match poise was unmistakable. There was a clarity, a stillness, a straightness that came only from the grind of first-class cricket — the very grind today’s players seem increasingly eager to avoid.
Which brings me to the uproar over India’s Test series debacle in South Africa. Everyone has an opinion — pitches, selections, preparation, fatigue, even luck. But here is a simpler, sharper question that cuts right to the centre of the crisis:
Is “straight-bat cricket” still a reality — or has it quietly become a myth?
Until India stops treating domestic cricket as an inconvenience, the answer, unfortunately, will continue to lean toward myth.
