The 260 at Wankhede, the Smell of Linseed Oil, and the Empty Upper Tier: Trying to Understand Indian Cricket's Biggest 'Silence'

The sound that was missing from the empty upper tiers of Wankhede during the 2026 Ranji Trophy final was the first sign of the biggest truth behind today's IPL glare. Amol Muzumdar batted for two days for 260 in that match, and I covered it only because the senior writer had a wedding to attend. The dressing-room corridor smelled of linseed oil, and the groundstaff clapped every single as though it were a wicket. My editor cut 900 words to 300 and kept one line: "Cricket is the only art form where the audience is allowed to interrupt." That line has stayed with me, but its meaning has changed by 2026.

The structure of Indian cricket has changed enormously since then. In 2026, the Ranji Trophy was the biggest stage in the domestic circuit. After Test cricket, if any match got space in the newspaper, it was the domestic final. But in 2026 the IPL arrived and everything changed. I was handed the Mumbai Indians beat and spent three seasons in team hotels. There I saw which player travelled with his mother and which one was quietly broke. On 2 April 2026 at Wankhede, when Dhoni made 91* and hit Nuwan Kulasekara for a six, the ball landed eight rows below my press seat. I have never heard 33,000 people make that sound since.

But behind that noise was another story, which I kept hearing for three seasons. The IPL did not kill Test cricket, as is claimed every year. It hollowed out the relevance of the Ranji Trophy. The numbers speak: since 2026, telecast of Ranji matches has been nearly zero. In the 2026-25 season, only knockout-stage matches were broadcast, and that too on limited regional channels. Whereas in the 2026 IPL season, 74 matches were broadcast in 12 languages and digital viewership crossed 500 million. This is not just a gap in numbers, it is a gap in priorities.

You could say that broadcast rights are determined by market demand, and viewers want to watch the IPL. But the question is: when were viewers given the option to watch Ranji? In the 1990s, Doordarshan telecast the Ranji final live. I watched that 2026 final on TV myself, and at that time the commentary mentioned how many balls Amol Muzumdar had faced. Today, if you want to see the scorecard of the Ranji final, you may have to click three times on the board's website. This is a crisis of transparency, not of audience interest.

The biggest paradox for me is that we talk a lot about 'grassroots' and 'domestic structure', but the people who keep that structure alive get neither publishers nor broadcasters. In 2026 I spoke to a senior Ranji player who had played 60 first-class matches. He said, "My children don't know what I do simply because they have never seen me on TV." This is not just one player's story, it is the failure of the entire system. When a player plays 10 years of first-class cricket and his family cannot watch him play, what grassroots are we talking about?

My argument is not that the IPL is bad. The IPL gave cricket money, gave players confidence, and gave a platform to players from smaller towns. But the same IPL created an ecosystem where only the April glare matters. The months in between—June to March—belong to Ranji, Duleep Trophy, and domestic cricket, but in those months there is no broadcast, no space in newspapers, and no discussion on social media. This is the 'winter ledger' I have been watching for three decades.

This year I saw something else. In the IPL 2026 auction, a 19-year-old player got ₹8 crore despite not having played a single first-class match. Meanwhile, a 32-year-old Ranji veteran with over 4,000 first-class runs went unsold. This is nothing new, but it shows whom the market rewards. I am not comparing anyone, but it is a fact that the 'skill' of domestic cricket is no longer as valuable as 'potential'.

There is another aspect I have been tracking for three seasons: the Women's Premier League (WPL). Since its start in 2026, it has raised a different kind of hope. But in the 2026 season, viewership saw a decline—the final match's television rating was 18% lower than in 2026. This is not just a number, it is a question of whether we are also viewing women's cricket through the same frame of 'April glare'. The WPL's broadcast rights were sold for ₹951 crore in 2026, but by the third season it was not clear which direction this investment was heading. When I asked a broadcaster how priority is decided between Ranji and the WPL, he said, "We show what the market pulls." That is an honest answer, but it exposes the problem of the entire system.

Now I will say what may displease many. We often call the 1990s a 'golden age', when cricket was watched on Doordarshan and long reports were printed in newspapers. But in that era, women's cricket did not get a full-time beat. In 2026, the Indian women's team won the World Cup, but its coverage was not even in the newspaper I worked for. So when we remember that era, we should also remember that this 'golden age' was not golden for everyone.

The essence of my point is not that we should cry for Ranji or the WPL. My point is that we must understand that cricket is not just a game, it is an ecosystem. When we see only the IPL's glare, we do not see the thousands of players who stake their lives in Ranji every year. When we talk only of Test cricket, we forget the domestic matches that are the foundation of that Test cricket.

Earlier this year I heard in a committee meeting that the board is considering a new digital platform for Ranji matches. This is good news, but the question is whether it will be just a scorecard or also live streaming? And will it be promoted the way the IPL is? I don't know. But I do know that until domestic cricket gets its place, our system will remain incomplete.

Finally, I return to that 2026 final. Amol Muzumdar's 260 is still recorded in the scorecard. But how many people who watched that match remember it today? When I remember that empty upper tier, I feel that emptiness was a symbol of something else. That emptiness was of the thousands of players whose names never made headlines. And until we try to fill that emptiness, cricket's true victory will remain incomplete.

My question is: do we have a plan to fill that emptiness, or do we lose ourselves in the same noise every April?