Ranji Cricket, WhatsApp Story: The Real Indian Bench Grows Through the Domestic Winter

The first message reached my phone before the press box at Bengaluru's M. Chinnaswamy Stadium opened. A reader sitting in another city was sending me a photograph from the first morning of a Ranji match in his district — empty stands, a scorecard on which a twenty-year-old boy had taken six wickets in the first innings, and a line below it: 'Sir, why don't you write about this?' I asked him why he was there. The answer was, 'I am from the same village.' Cricket's real news often arrives like this — not from a national team headline, but from a district ground at dawn, and often on WhatsApp before the press box.

I have been watching this game for fifty-three years, and over the past few seasons one thing has become clear to me: we discuss Indian cricket from its summit, while its actual scaffolding is built in its winter. The Ranji Trophy, the Irani Cup, the Duleep Trophy and second XI matches — this is the long route through which a player reaches the national team. And this is the part our cricket writing gives the least space to. In the regular season the reader watches every match; he wants the forces beneath the table — fitness, selection, strategy and patience. This article is an attempt in that direction.

In the early part of this season I toured three Ranji venues and watched two matches that had no television broadcast. What I saw there will not be found in any scorecard. One team's fast bowler was sending down only four overs in the morning spell because his knee was strapped and his coach was in the mood to 'save the season'. Another team's opener spent thirty minutes in the nets repeating a single shot — the cut to point — because next week he would face swing bowling. These are small things, but they show how domestic cricket prepares a player for the national stage. In my experience, a player who has endured the pressure of four days in Ranji is less nervous in the short format of international T20 — because he has learned to hold his patience through a long innings.

The numbers this season confirm this. Look at the Ranji data of the last three seasons and one pattern is clear: most of the bowlers who took more than 40 wickets in two successive domestic seasons made the Indian team's Test bench within the next two years. This is not a coincidence — it is a pipeline. When we discuss the depth of the national team's pace attack, we often forget the pipeline that begins on the grounds of Rajkot, Indore and Cuttack. For me, every Ranji season is an audit — it tells you how strong Indian cricket's bench is, and where its weakness is hidden.

A moment from last year's Irani Cup comes back to me. A young batsman who had scored a century in the first innings was out for just twelve in the second. After the match I asked him what happened. He said, 'Sir, I was in a hurry to repeat the rhythm I had built in the first innings.' That is the lesson domestic cricket teaches — and which no T20 league can. National selectors now look beyond runs and wickets; they also look at how a player fought through the second innings. This is a shift that has come over the past few years, and in my view it is a good one.

But here is a contradiction. When we talk about domestic cricket, we often dismiss it as 'glamourless'. The truth is that news from domestic cricket is still confined to WhatsApp groups and local newspapers. National media does not look there unless a big name is making a comeback. This season I watched a bowler who won his team three matches in a row, yet his name never appeared in the headlines of any major newspaper. In his village his father had put up a small board outside his shop — 'The boy from here took six wickets in Ranji.' That is the story that should reach cricket's real audience.

Another thing about the media ecosystem bothers me — the question of whether a beat reporter covers the news or works for the board. Fifty years of access means officials call me first. But I have made a rule for myself: when a source tells me something, I first ask who benefits from this news, and whether the official could not have said it himself. If the answer is not satisfactory, I do not write it. This season, on one selection controversy, I got three different stories from three different sources. I noted all three, but published only the part confirmed by two independent sources. Being first to a rumour is not the same as being first to the story.

Another feature of this season is the growing domestic structure of women's cricket. The Women's Ranji Trophy and the Senior Women's One-Day tournament are now playing more matches than before, and this is having a direct effect on the depth of the national team. This year I watched a women's match in which a young spinner took five wickets in the first innings of three successive games. The control in her bowling came from playing a steady run of domestic matches. This is the same pipeline that has worked in men's cricket for decades, and it is now visible in women's cricket too. The WPL broadcast deal is a big step in this direction, but the real question is whether domestic women's cricket will get the same broadcast and financial support. In my view, if the promises made by the WPL do not reach the domestic level, it will remain a tournament rather than becoming a movement.

Now a sharp question that troubled me repeatedly this season. Domestic cricket's biggest problem is not a lack of talent. The problem is that cricket there is still played for the 'system', not for the 'spectator'. Stadiums stay empty, there is no broadcast, and the player does not feel that his game is being seen by anyone. I watched a Ranji match in which a centurion had only twelve spectators to stand before. He later told me, 'Sir, when the ground is empty, the taste of a hundred is incomplete.' This is the same isolation I have discussed with players — national team players mention it too, but at the domestic level it runs deeper. An empty stand is not just a lack of atmosphere; it has a direct effect on a player's morale.

There is a reverse side to this, which I call the 'outsider's misreading'. When we treat domestic cricket as weak, we often forget how tough the competition there is. Playing ten matches in a Ranji season and staying standing for four days in each — that is as hard physically and mentally as any international series. I have heard many players say that the pressure of Ranji is different, because you have to prove yourself in every match without the shelter of a big name. That is why, when a player reaches the Indian team from Ranji, he brings not just talent — he brings the experience of a long struggle. The real strength of the Indian team is not in its stars but in the depth of its bench, and that depth is built in the domestic winter.

One more thing that keeps bothering me is the use of data. I am data-curious, but my training is from the print desk. That means I do not want to use numbers as decoration. Every figure in this article has been checked against the match situation rather than the season average. For instance, when I say a bowler took 18 wickets in three matches, I also say in which innings and under what conditions those wickets came. If a stat does not overturn a hunch, I cut it. That method was handed down to me — story first, number second, verification last.

This season has shown another shift in the media ecosystem — regional-language commentary and the growing role of social media. A commentator in a local language told me he has more viewers for Ranji matches than before, because people now want to know the players from their own region. This change did not come from any board programme; it came from audience demand. Regional commentary has carried the game to its actual audience, and it has moved faster than any official initiative. This is what I saw in Russia during the 2026 FIFA World Cup — Indian football fans there had spent their savings to watch matches, and their passion was different from cricket's star-worship. I thought then that the same change would come to cricket. It is now arriving, slowly.

Another overlooked story of domestic cricket is the role of scouts. Zonal selectors once travelled to far-flung grounds. That role has now been taken by scouts and team management. This season I spoke to a scout who had watched 22 matches across three states. He told me he does not look only at the scorecard but at how a player reacts under pressure. That is the 'long route' I am talking about — and it is Indian cricket's real search.

Now, what next. The question after this season is whether domestic cricket will get the same broadcast and financial support that the IPL gets. In my view, if the board begins televising domestic matches and promotes commentary in regional languages, it will be a big change for the game. But that will happen only when spectators demand it. And spectators will demand it only when they know what is happening there. That is the media's role — and that is my job.

At the end of this season I remember the reader who sent me that first message. I will not name him, but he was right — that boy's story should have been written. The next time you watch a Ranji match, look beyond the scorecard at the eyes of the player who has walked onto that ground for the first time. The next chapter of Indian cricket begins there. And perhaps, the next time a piece of news reaches your WhatsApp before the press box, think before you read it — is it true, and is it the whole story?

For me, the biggest lesson of this season is that cricket is not just the national team's game. It is the game of the hundreds of players who take the field every winter, without a big name, without a camera. Their stories arrive on WhatsApp first, in the press box later. And if we stop listening to them, we will lose Indian cricket's real strength.