As I reach the fag end of my sixties, I feel compelled to write on cricket—the most lovable sport in almost every Indian family, cutting across generations, caste, creed, and religion. In fact, cricket itself is a religion in India. In the absence of electronic and digital media, cricket once reached us through radio, newspapers, and exclusive sports magazines. From the 1960s to the 2020s, cricket’s journey has shown the world that not only is it refusing to become obsolete, but it is spreading far and wide—threatening to occupy space in the USA, Europe, and South America—though in the West Indies, it remains as natural as the sunrise.
What began as a fully dressed five-day match was soon condensed to three days, and then to the 50-over one-day matches—in tune with the inversely proportional equation of time and money. Greed and money grew exponentially, while time became the biggest hurdle. This ultimately gave birth to the much-talked-about 20-over format, popularly known as T20.
During our teens, five-day matches were a boon. They kept our ears glued to that great running commentary, full of life, giving out ball-by-ball excitement. During drinks, lunch, and tea breaks, discussions on the progress of the match evoked tremendous interest. Studies could not be skipped—match or no match. The next morning, all eyes turned to the sports pages to do a post-mortem of the previous day’s performances.
Those black-and-white pictures, each a competitive exclusive of newspapers, were cut out and pasted into notebooks dedicated to cricket. They were treasured, argued over, and re-examined, with passionate debates about batsmen, bowlers, fielders, and sometimes even wicketkeepers. With the passage of time and technology, the five-day matches shrank to three days, raising the adrenaline of players and spectators alike.
As if that wasn’t enough, the one-day 50-over matches arrived, with artificial lights matching the power of the sun. Day-night games became the new normal. This transformation brought impatience to all stakeholders and invited criticism about growing commercialism. Money began to dominate, and players faced unimaginable pressures to either hit out or get out. Bowlers, too, were under siege. Even umpires were not spared, except for the relief offered by technology—the third eye that never tired or erred. While debates about five-day and three-day matches lasted for weeks, one-day matches lived only a day or two in public memory.
And then came the 20-over match, an instant hit that killed the very spirit of cricket as an enjoyable game. Players began to be auctioned like bulls and buffaloes at Ongole cattle markets, with crores changing hands. Adding fuel to the fire, the game was injected with cheerleaders to signal a four, six, or wicket—robbing cricket of its very essence as a sport and turning it into a gambling spectacle.
Every ball, every run, every player became a betting commodity. The focus shifted from enjoying the game to making (or losing) money. The number of betting-related deaths in T20 matches is the highest in cricket’s history—tragically unheard of in earlier formats.
I am often asked how I can be so “insensitive” to India playing against Pakistan, especially after the Pahalgam incident. My answer is simple: ban T20 altogether, let alone matches against Pakistan. Normally, even bitterest enemies set aside enmity in sports. But Pahalgam was not about rivalry—it was cruelty. And Pakistan, of late, doesn’t even have a team worth India’s might, whether on the battlefield or the cricket field. Yet money seems to cover up both enmity and cruelty. There can be no crueller joke than this.
T20 has deprived us of the Great Wall, Rahul Dravid, who made people forget the Great Wall of China, and the Australian tormentor, VVS Laxman. There are dozens of such players, matches, catches, and runs that run through the nostalgia of every true cricket fan.
Let us not rush through cricket like a McDonald’s burger—drive in, grab, gulp, and drive out. Let people relax, enjoy, savour, and ruminate on the lovely process that cricket once was. T20 is fast food, ruining our sporting health, unlike the slow aroma, taste, and digestion of five-day, three-day, or even one-day cricket. Money doesn’t always bring happiness, and neither does T20. Both can wait.
Let the youth not be rushed into becoming overnight millionaires. Instead, let us nurture future Jaisimhas, Pataudis, Kapil Devs, and countless stalwarts too many to name.
If I were in Jay Shah’s place—which I can never be—I would immediately revert to at least the one-day format, though my heart belongs to those bindaas five-day and three-day matches. Those born after the 2000s may prefer T20, but if only they sat with their parents or grandparents, they too would discover the joys of earlier formats—just as they still enjoy the timeless songs of Rafi, Kishore, and Lata even today.
