Representative image showing a cricket ball.
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This is not just about cricket. Whether the IPL should go on with business as usual in the wake of bloodshed isn’t just logistical or political; it is deeply moral. When grief still clings to the air, when rage and sorrow walk hand in hand across a shaken nation, can we really justify the blaring music, the fireworks, the glitter, and the relentless cheer as though none of it matters? The answer isn’t obvious. But it certainly isn’t simple. It calls for something rare these days: introspection.
No one doubts that the BCCI is in a bind. The IPL is a billion-dollar beast, contracts are locked in, and broadcasters are counting minutes, not just money. Perhaps that’s precisely why this moment matters so much. Because what’s at stake now isn’t just a tournament; it’s the message we choose to send as a nation. Cricket may be India’s heartbeat, but now, the national pulse beats with pain, fury, and mourning. To carry on with the spectacle as though nothing has changed is to risk sounding tone-deaf, even callous. Of course, some will say, “Life must go on.” And yes, it must. But what kind of life are we talking about? The kind that pauses for reflection, or the kind that rushes headlong into distraction? Soldiers are still at the frontlines. Families are still burying their loved ones. The government is weighing its next move. This is not normal, and pretending otherwise won’t make it so. This isn’t about cancellation or censorship. It’s about timing and expressing a sense of shared grief. A quiet pause showing solidarity could speak volumes. The message should be ‘We will play again. But today, we stand still, in step with those who have fallen.’ That is not weakness. That is dignity. That is a real strength, with a soul.
The BCCI must ask itself: what’s the real cost of going on? Sure, there is revenue, momentum, and global viewership to consider. But what about goodwill? What about trust? The IPL isn’t just a game – it is a national obsession, a cultural event. However, when culture is out of sync with conscience, it begins to rot at the core. A longer pause, a gesture of empathy, might be the most powerful move. And then there are the fans who adore cricket. They live for rivalries, stats, and sixes. But deep down, they also know when something doesn’t feel right. The IPL will return. The stadiums will roar again. But if it resumes too soon, under the shadow of fresh graves and open wounds, will those cheers feel joyful? Sometimes, the strongest thing one can do is step back. Restraint can be more potent than defiance. This isn’t forever. It’s a pause. A moment to show that we know the difference between games and grief, between celebration and solemnity, and between noise and meaning.
There is a quiet hypocrisy we rarely name. We mourn our martyrs, praise our soldiers, and expect our leaders to rise to the occasion, but we want our entertainment untouched and undisturbed. It’s as if grief belongs only to some, while the rest carry on with our routine. But the IPL doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It shares space with the soldiers on the borders, the journalists in danger zones, and the families whose lives have been shattered overnight. To believe that these worlds don’t collide is not just naïve; it is irresponsible.
Of course, halting the IPL won’t bring back the dead. It won’t help dismantle terror. But the point is: should we want to be distracted so soon? When a nation fights, unity is not just about flags and slogans. Sometimes, it is shared silence. A collective pause. A refusal to pretend everything is fine.
The IPL is a ruthless business. Everyone knows that. But even the most commercial enterprises must read the room. And right now, the room is heavy. The same fans who fill stadiums are donating to relief funds and arguing about foreign policy. You can’t expect them to switch from mourning to merrymaking overnight. If the league insists on continuing, then at the very least,
let the noise dial down.
No fireworks. No choreographed pomp. Just the game. Let the bat and ball speak, not the billboards. But even that might feel like too much. Because right now, it’s not just about cricket.
So, what’s the best way forward? Just a longer pause.
A recalibration. Let the national mood settle. Give the players space to process what the
rest of the country is processing. Let the government act without the distraction of optics. Cricket will return. It always does. But for now, maybe, just maybe, the right thing to do is wait, not out of fear, but out of respect.
(The author is an educator and independent writer)