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By:

Waleed Hussain

4 March 2025 at 2:34:30 pm

When T20 Cricket Finally Admitted It Was Professional Wrestling with Pads

At the Arun Jaitley Stadium, Delhi Capitals committed the ultimate act of sporting arrogance. They racked up 264 for 2, patted themselves on the back, and presumably started drafting victory tweets. KL Rahul delivered a masterclass 152 not out, Nitish Rana chipped in with 91, and the Delhi dugout looked like they had just invented fire. The bowlers? They were already mentally booking spa appointments to recover from the trauma of watching the ball sail into the stands like it owed them money....

When T20 Cricket Finally Admitted It Was Professional Wrestling with Pads

At the Arun Jaitley Stadium, Delhi Capitals committed the ultimate act of sporting arrogance. They racked up 264 for 2, patted themselves on the back, and presumably started drafting victory tweets. KL Rahul delivered a masterclass 152 not out, Nitish Rana chipped in with 91, and the Delhi dugout looked like they had just invented fire. The bowlers? They were already mentally booking spa appointments to recover from the trauma of watching the ball sail into the stands like it owed them money. Enter Punjab Kings — the team that treats every run chase like a personal vendetta against bowlers’ self-esteem. What unfolded wasn’t cricket. It was a carefully orchestrated heist, a stand-up routine where the punchline was delivered in sixes, and the audience (Delhi’s bowling unit) was left questioning every life choice that led them to this moment. Prabhsimran Singh swaggered to the crease like a man who had already won the match in the parking lot. 76 off 26 balls. Nine fours, five sixes. The powerplay? A grotesque 100+ runs of pure, unadulterated violence. Bowlers weren’t just getting hit — they were being publicly shamed, their economy rates dragged through the mud and left there to dry under the Delhi sun. Priyansh Arya joined the carnage, and suddenly the target of 265 started looking as intimidating as a “Wet Floor” sign in a flooded bathroom. Shreyas Iyer, the dignified captain, played the role of “responsible adult” with 71 not out off 36 deliveries. In any other match, this would be carnage. Here, it passed for calm stewardship. While others swung like they were trying to chop down trees, Iyer collected runs with the serene expression of a man wondering if he should order paneer or butter chicken post-match. Punjab polished off the target in 18.5 overs, six wickets intact, seven balls to spare, and the sort of casual swagger usually reserved for people returning overdue library books without a fine. The broader satire writes itself. Modern T20 cricket has become an arms race where the only loser is the concept of a “respectable total.” Bowlers, once proud warriors, are now glorified ball-fetchers in a batting-dominated circus. Pitches are flatter than election promises, boundaries shorter than Gen Z attention spans, and rules so batter-friendly that even the umpires look sympathetic. Delhi built what should have been a monument — a glorious 264 on a road so true it could have doubled as a highway — only for Punjab to drive a monster truck through it while blasting horns and waving at spectators. Cricket purists are in full meltdown mode, huddled in dimly lit rooms, clutching faded copies of Wisden and muttering about “the good old days when maidens existed.” Commentators exhausted every superlative in the English language and resorted to incoherent screaming. Social media, naturally, lost its collective mind. One half celebrated Punjab as gods of the new era; the other half demanded a return to red-ball cricket, preferably with uncovered pitches and bowlers allowed to glare menacingly without fear of a demerit point. This result wasn’t merely a win. It was a cultural reset. Punjab Kings, long the lovable underachievers of the IPL, have now authored the top two highest successful chases in league history. They’re not just winning matches — they’re embarrassing the very idea of defending a total. At this rate, future IPL auctions will see teams bidding for “bowlers who can at least pretend to try” while batters demand appearance fees for showing up. Delhi Capitals deserve a special mention for their contribution to this farce. They provided the perfect setup: a record total, star performances, home advantage, and the quiet confidence that physics and common sense would finally prevail. Instead, they became the straight man in Punjab’s comedy routine. Rahul’s heroics? Reduced to a footnote. The match? Less a contest, more performance art. In the end, this is what we’ve come to love and loathe about T20 cricket. It’s loud, ridiculous, utterly devoid of restraint, and endlessly entertaining. Bowlers may demand hazard pay or form a union. Traditionalists may threaten to boycott. But the crowds will keep coming, the sixes will keep flying, and records will continue to fall like overpriced IPL franchise valuations. Punjab Kings didn’t just chase 265. They chased away any remaining illusion that this sport still resembles the gentleman’s game our grandparents watched. In its place stands a glittering, chaotic, six-hitting machine — and honestly? We’re all better for it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to check the points table. Apparently, defending anything above 200 is now considered radical extremism.

The Multilingual Mind

Updated: Mar 17, 2025


Multilingual Mind

On a muggy evening at a railway platform in Mumbai, I watched a middle-aged man struggle to ask the chaiwala the price of tea in Hindi. He fumbled, flustered, before another passenger stepped in to translate. “New to Mumbai,” he admitted with a sheepish smile. “Only Tamil.”


I thought of how different my own experience had been. By fifteen, I navigated three languages without needing a translator. At school, I learned English, Hindi and Marathi - my teacher spoke was nothing like what my paternal grandparents used - as if they were two entirely different languages masquerading under the same name. It was my first lesson in the great Indian paradox: not only do we speak multiple languages, but even one language refuses to be just one thing.


At home, we spoke Kannada, a language steeped in family and tradition. My best friend’s household was Gujarati, and after countless hours at his home, I absorbed it without effort.


In Mumbai, a train ride was a linguistic symphony - Marathi banter between vendors, passengers humming Hindi film songs, a rush of Tamil or Kannada in hushed phone calls, and the rhythmic chatter of Gujarati traders. To grow up in the city was to be multilingual by default.


I never thought of it as learning multiple languages. It was as natural as breathing. And yet, despite its practical benefits, the idea of learning more than two languages is fiercely debated today.


The Three-Language Formula in India’s National Education Policy (NEP) 2020 has reignited debate, particularly in Tamil Nadu, where it is seen as a veiled attempt to impose Hindi. While most states embrace the policy as linguistic enrichment, Tamil Nadu remains defiant, convinced that an additional Indian language is a burden. But is a child speaking three languages really at risk?

Or is the real fear that they might forge connections beyond their borders?


A close look at the policy reveals that it does not impose any particular language - unless, one believes, that ‘having a choice’ is a form of coercion. In reality, the policy gives states and students the freedom to pick their languages, stating: ‘The three languages learned by children will be the choices of states, regions, and of course, the students themselves, so long as at least two of the three languages are native to India.’


The Three-Language Formula is in line with a child’s natural ability. It simply ensures that at least two of the three languages they learn are native to India (hardly a sinister plot) while also preparing them for a globalized world. And if that weren’t enough freedom, the policy even allows children to switch one of the three languages in Grades 6 or 7.


In a country as vast and diverse as India, learning at least two Indian languages is more than just an academic exercise; it is an act of reaching out, an attempt to engage with a nation that speaks in many voices, dialects and traditions. It is a way to understand rather than just coexist amidst all the complexities and contradictions India displays.


The NEP 2020’s approach to multilingualism is about broadening horizons and not forcing uniformity. The idea that learning just one more Indian language is some kind of existential threat to Tamil identity could do with a little less drama. After all, if millions of children across India can juggle three languages without spiralling into a cultural crisis, one would think Tamil Nadu’s young minds might survive the ordeal, too.


A few years ago, I watched my ten-year-old niece at a park, switching effortlessly between languages - shouting in Hindi to a playmate, responding in Telugu to a street vendor, then turning to her mother in flawless English to ask for ice cream. She didn’t pause, didn’t fumble for words, didn’t collapse under the burden of multilingualism. She just spoke.


Meanwhile, in Tamil Nadu, politicians insist that learning a third language is a Herculean task. One can only assume my niece hadn’t yet been informed of the supposed trauma she was enduring. Perhaps if someone had told her how oppressive it was to know three languages, she might have dropped her ice cream in shock.


I look back to my childhood in Mumbai, where languages flowed like the tides of the Arabian Sea. They didn’t confuse me; they made me more confident. They didn’t overwhelm me; they gave me freedom.


And in the end, isn’t that what education is supposed to do?


(The author is a learning and development professional. Views personal.)

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