More Than a Game: Cricket, Identity, and Politics
How a childhood love for cricket has turned into a lens for questioning nationalism and colonial legacies in India vis-à-vis Manipur
Cricket is often called a religion in India, and for good reason—it’s been a passion for millions across the subcontinent for decades. Yet, the art of watching cricket, especially on television, has undergone an extraordinary transformation—a journey intricately tied to technological evolution, socio-political shifts, and the dynamics of personal engagement. Growing up in Imphal, where football is the OG sport, my cricket experiences were a mix of enthusiasm and doubt. This piece looks at how watching cricket on TV has changed—from Doordarshan to OTT platforms, black-and-white to colour screens, and how Manipur’s politics has shaped my bond with the sport.
Back in the early ’90s, tuning into a cricket match was a big deal—a shared experience that brought families and friends together. In Manipur, where power cuts were common and cricket fans were few, most TVs were black-and-white. Doordarshan was the only channel broadcasting cricket, and the picture was often grainy, and the commentary could be hard to hear, however the excitement was unmatched. I remember the 1993 Hero Cup when India took down the West Indies at Eden Gardens. I also remember the palpable excitement as if we were witnessing history. (I had also watched the 1992 World Cup but could hardly recollect anything.)
Changing channels was a hassle—sometimes you needed pliers to turn the knobs on those old sets since they were often broken or jammed. These little struggles made watching a match feel more like a ritual than just a pastime; it required real dedication. Soon, those days also marked the beginning of cable TV, which totally changed the game for cricket fans. No longer were we stuck waiting for Doordarshan and suddenly, channels like ESPN and Star Sports started airing international games in full colour, complete with replays, expert commentary, and way better production quality.
In Imphal, this change was a mixed bag. While the rest of the country was going wild for cricket, football still ruled the local scene, and it still does. People tended to watch cricket matches at home instead of gathering in public like they did for football. However, cricket wasn’t all about good times. The 1996 World Cup semi-final at Eden Gardens was a tough pill to swallow for many supporters. As India lost to Sri Lanka in that edition, the visuals of chaos in the stands reflected my own heartbreak. I felt just as crushed as Vinod Kambli was!
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| Although cricket was introduced during the colonial era, its development in contemporary India often reflects the nation’s post-colonial journey. |
Bouncers and Boundaries: Cricket’s Colonial and Capitalist Legacy
My early days as a cricket fan were all about my deep admiration for Sachin Tendulkar. His performances were more than just stats; they were milestones I carefully jotted down in my notebooks. Every run, every ball faced, and every century was recorded by hand, a true labour of love before the internet took over. I even calculated his batting average after each match, which felt just as satisfying as watching him play.
Cricket was more than just Sachin for us. It was the game we played in our leikai lampaak with plastic balls, eventually moving on to tennis balls. Winters were all about local cricket tournaments, while summers were dedicated to football. These seasonal changes reflected the cultural vibe of Manipur, where cricket and football coexisted, but again football always had the spotlight.
The year 2001 was a turning point for me, both personally and politically. The burning of the State Legislative Assembly in Imphal—in protest against a planned extension of bilateral peace talks between the government of India and the National Socialist Council of Nagaland (NSCN) Isak–Muivah faction—signaled a time of major social and political turmoil. I was in senior secondary school, wrestling with my sense of identity, belonging, and what it meant to be part of India. Cricket, once a source of uncritical patriotism, began to feel problematic. As an addendum, on the first day of the fifth test in the recently concluded Border–Gavaskar Trophy, a mob vandalised the office of Deputy Commissioner and a police official was injured in Manipur's Kuki-dominated Kangpokpi district🔺.
(🔺The incident happened on 3rd Jan 2025. This blog post was published on the 5th.)
In a place where the national anthem and Hindi movies were banned, cheering for the Indian cricket team turned into a complicated issue. It wasn’t just about rooting for Tendulkar or Dravid anymore; it was about facing the contradictions of nationalism. The political situation in Manipur, with its tense relationship with the Indian government, made it hard to see cricket as something that brought people together. Instead, it felt like a reminder of India’s neocolonial product—a game brought over by the British, mostly played in Commonwealth countries, and tied up with the legacies of empire.
Cricket’s roots are deeply connected to colonialism. The British introduced it as a way to assimilate cultures, but colonies adopted it as a form of resistance and a way to assert their identity. Nowadays, cricket is taken seriously in only a few countries, almost all of which were once British colonies. The International Cricket Council (ICC) recognises 12 full members and many associate members, highlighting the limited geographical spread of the game.
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| The British introduced cricket as a way to assimilate cultures, but colonies adopted it as a form of resistance and a way to assert their identity. |
Sweeping Covers, Sweeping Changes
The limited global reach of cricket raises questions about its relevance in a rapidly globalising world. Why does a game with such colonial underpinnings continue to command such fervent loyalty in countries like India? For me, these questions became increasingly difficult to ignore. By the early 2000s, my view of cricket had changed a lot. With the rise of the internet and social media, getting info about the game became super easy, which took away the fun of keeping track of scores by hand. Plus, the commercialisation of cricket, especially with the Indian Premier League (IPL), turned it into a flashy consumer event. Matches became shorter, more frequent, and lost some of their significance.
Cricket has evolved into a microcosm of laissez-faire system, where the essence of the game is frequently eclipsed by its commercial allure. The practice of player auctions, extravagant endorsements, and high-ticket prices illustrate the extent to which capitalism has permeated every aspect of the sport. What was once regarded as a gentleman’s game now resembles a competition to capitalise on every over, every delivery, and every cheer from the audience.
In Manipur, these shifts brought about a feeling of alienation. Cricket, which was already a bit of a niche interest, felt even more remote in a state dealing with its own political and cultural issues. The unwavering support for the Indian cricket team that marked my childhood shifted to a more critical viewpoint. Watching a game transformed from just being a fan to a deeper exploration of identity and belonging.
The players have changed too, not just in their skills. This is new. It is noticeable how their dressing style has evolved over the years. Gone are the ubiquitous tracksuits of the ’90s, which have been replaced by the social-media sights of trendy, branded gear and even endorsement and launching of labels such as Wrogn. The Indian cricket team has really stepped up its game in this department. For some reasons, though, the Virat Kohlis and Rohit Sharmas just don’t resonate with me as the Tendulkars and Dravids did. This statement might sound like the Hindi commentary of the 90s but the personal connection I used to have has faded away entirely.
Watching cricket has changed so much overall, going from a shared experience on old black-and-white TVs to a tailored, on-demand thing in our digital world. For someone from Manipur, this shift has been closely linked to the state’s social and political landscape. Cricket, which used to bring pure joy, now serves as a way to explore issues of identity, nationalism, and cultural legacy.
Spins, Swings, and Struggles: How Cricket Mirrors India’s Fault Lines
For the last decade or so, I have hardly watched any and for many people I observe that the excitement of a five-day test match has been swapped for the quick thrills of T20 leagues for many people. The capacity of cricket to unite people feels less powerful in a world that’s so divided politically and culturally. Still, I can’t forget moments like, amongst many others, Anil Kumble’s ten-wicket haul at the Kotla against Pakistan in 1999, Tendulkar’s back-to-back centuries during the Desert Storm onslaught against Australia in Sharjah in 1998, and VVS Laxman and Rahul Dravid’s partnership in the phenomenal comeback against Australia in 2011.
Those remind me of a time when cricket was more than just a game—it was a lifestyle, a dream canvas, and a reflection of a changing world. However, I have got a doosra and a googly in the same delivery now. More than looking for teams, squads, fixtures, and match results, at the moment, I’m occupied with several questions that arise infinitely far from the 22 yards:
- How does the limited popularity of cricket in Manipur illustrate the state’s distinct cultural and political identity, setting it apart from mainstream Indian narratives?
- When the national anthem and Hindi cinema are prohibited, in what ways do symbols such as the Indian cricket team in general and their matches in particular signify notions of national unity?
- How does cricket, as a colonial legacy, complicate the dynamics between Manipur and the larger Indian identity?
- In what ways have personal and political changes in Manipur altered the perception of cricket, transforming it from a source of pure enjoyment into a representation of more profound identity conflicts?
- What insights does the commercialisation of cricket, especially with the emergence of the T20 format, provide regarding India’s socio-political priorities, and how do these priorities align or conflict with the realities experienced in Manipur?
- Why has India never been able to produce real fast bowler? (Note: Jasprit Bumrah is an exception that only proves the rule.)
POSTSCRIPT ONE
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| Ever since 1996–97 with the inception of the BGT, the two teams have played 61 matches, of which India has won 25 and lost 23, while 13 matches were drawn. |
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