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By:

Waleed Hussain

4 March 2025 at 2:34:30 pm

How Long Will the Selectors Wait Before They Give Vaibhav Sooryavanshi the India Cap?

In the grand theatre of Indian cricket selection, where committees move with the urgency of a sloth on sleeping pills, we have a genuine phenomenon on our hands: Vaibhav Sooryavanshi. Fifteen years old. Yes, fifteen. The boy is still closer in age to a school science project than to a driving license, yet he bats like he’s got a personal grudge against bowlers and gravity itself. But fear not, dear cricket fans. Our wise selectors are on the case. They’re thinking. They’re deliberating....

How Long Will the Selectors Wait Before They Give Vaibhav Sooryavanshi the India Cap?

In the grand theatre of Indian cricket selection, where committees move with the urgency of a sloth on sleeping pills, we have a genuine phenomenon on our hands: Vaibhav Sooryavanshi. Fifteen years old. Yes, fifteen. The boy is still closer in age to a school science project than to a driving license, yet he bats like he’s got a personal grudge against bowlers and gravity itself. But fear not, dear cricket fans. Our wise selectors are on the case. They’re thinking. They’re deliberating. They’re probably waiting for him to complete his tenth standard exams first. Let’s recap the rap sheet of this pint-sized destroyer, because it reads like a satirical fever dream. At 13, he became the youngest player to bag an IPL contract. At 14, the youngest debutant in IPL history. Still 14, the youngest centurion in men’s T20 cricket—101 off 38 balls, a knock so violent it made seasoned pros check if their insurance covered emotional trauma. In IPL 2026, he’s been dropping bombs: 776 runs in 16 matches, a strike rate flirting with 237, one century, five fifties, and a record 72 sixes that made Chris Gayle file a police complaint for identity theft. He guided India to U19 World Cup glory earlier this year with a Player of the Tournament award and a 175 off 80 in the final. The kid treats Jasprit Bumrah like a net bowler and Pat Cummins like a friendly neighborhood spinner. And yet, here we are, in May 2026, still asking the profound philosophical question: When will this child get an India cap? Oh, the selectors must be busy. Perhaps they’re conducting a thorough background check to ensure he’s not actually a time-traveling 28-year-old in disguise. Or maybe they’re waiting for him to fill out a bit more, gain those crucial “senior player muscles” that apparently develop only after repeated domestic grind and several disappointing tours of England in April rain. Because nothing says “ready for international cricket” like surviving three rainy days in Manchester while scoring 12 not out. The humor here is darker than a Delhi power cut. We live in an era where T20 cricket has the shelf life of a tweet, yet we treat prodigies like fine wine that needs decades in the cellar. “Let him play more India A matches,” they’ll say, as if the boy hasn’t already embarrassed international bowlers in the IPL. Imagine the conversation in the selection meeting: “Gentlemen, Sooryavanshi just hit 97 off 29 balls with 12 sixes.” “Impressive. Has he played enough Ranji Trophy though?” “He debuted in Ranji at 12!” “Still… let’s give him time to mature.” Mature? The kid is 15. At this rate, by the time they pick him, he’ll be 18, married, with two kids, and wondering why his prime was spent smashing domestic bowlers while the national team kept losing middle overs. Sarcasm aside (well, not really), this cautious approach is comedy gold in a sport that celebrates audacity. Indian cricket has a proud history of fast-tracking talent when it suits—remember Yuvraj, Kohli, or even the occasional punt on raw pace. But with Sooryavanshi, it feels like the selectors are auditioning for a role in a particularly slow episode of The Office. “Yes, he’s destroying attacks, but what about his ability to play the forward defensive in a Test match that no one will watch?” Never mind that the boy’s technique looks cleaner than most seniors, and his fearlessness is pure. Legends are already banging the drum. Kumar Sangakkara has backed him for a call-up. Virat Kohli gifted him a signed cap (the closest thing to official recognition so far). Sehwag, Gavaskar, even Rabada from the opposition camp—everyone sees it. The boy isn’t just talented; he’s a generational storm. Yet the BCCI selection machinery operates on “process.” Process, in this context, apparently means watching him dominate for another two seasons while muttering about “long-term planning.” Picture the alternate universe where they actually pick him now for the upcoming T20Is. Opposition captains would call for a timeout just to process the horror. Bowlers would develop sudden finger injuries. Commentators would run out of superlatives and start speaking in tongues. “And Sooryavanshi has dispatched that to the orbit… again.” Sponsors would print jerseys in children’s sizes. The meme economy would boom. Instead, we’ll likely get the measured, responsible approach. He’ll tour Sri Lanka with India A, score 800 runs at 250 strike rate, and then someone will say, “Let’s see how he handles pressure in Ireland.” Ireland! Because nothing tests a prodigy like a friendly against associate nations. Look, I get it. Hype can destroy young players. Injuries, form dips, the suffocating weight of expectation in India—it’s a minefield. But when the minefield is being cleared by the player himself with sixes that travel faster than most cars on Mumbai roads, perhaps it’s time to trust the evidence. Vaibhav Sooryavanshi isn’t asking for special treatment. He’s just out there doing what prodigies do: making the impossible routine. At 15, he’s already rewritten records books that veterans spent careers chasing. The selectors waiting game isn’t caution anymore—it’s comedy. Expensive, frustrating comedy. So here’s my humble plea, wrapped in sarcasm: Dear selectors, the boy has done everything except perhaps file his income tax return (which, at his age, is probably handled by his parents anyway). Give him the cap before he needs to shave regularly. Before he starts giving fatherly advice to Rohit Sharma. Before the rest of the world starts wondering if India is run by a selection panel or a group of particularly anxious accountants. Because if you wait much longer, we won’t be celebrating a new Indian star. We’ll be explaining to future generations why we kept the most exciting talent on the bench while he was busy conquering the planet. And that, my friends, would be the real joke. (The write is a senior journalist based in Mumbai.)

The violent underside of democracy

Artists perform during a BJP roadshow for filing of nomination papers in Kolkata on Thursday. | Pic: PTI
Artists perform during a BJP roadshow for filing of nomination papers in Kolkata on Thursday. | Pic: PTI

New Delhi: On the political landscape of West Bengal, the celebration of democracy often descends into blood-stained imagery. Elections, which ought to embody the spirit of civic rights, frequently emerge instead as violent expressions of fear, retribution, and the assertion of dominance. The most distressing aspect of this reality is that ordinary citizens, especially women are forced to bear its cost with their bodies and dignity.

 

The brutality inflicted upon a 32-year-old Muslim woman in Cooch Behar in June 2024 stands as a stark and recent example of this tragedy. Allegedly targeted for supporting the Bharatiya Janata Party, she was stripped, assaulted, and nearly drowned by women associated with the Trinamool Congress. This incident appears not merely as an act of political revenge, but as a calculated attempt to inflict social humiliation and instill fear. Earlier, on July 8, 2023, in Panchla in Howrah, a female candidate was paraded through her village in a semi-nude state, with allegations of molestation further compounding the outrage.

 

These are not isolated incidents. In the aftermath of the 2021 assembly elections, numerous reports surfaced of abuse and sexual violence against women and young girls. It is evident that within Bengal's political arena, the female body is being weaponized as a medium to send a message; a message intended to crush dissent and silence opposition.

 

This face of political violence is not confined to individual acts; it reflects a deeper structural malaise. On March 21, 2020, in Bogtui village of Birbhum, the murder of local Trinamool Congress leader Bhadu Sheikh triggered a horrific chain of violence. Eight people were burned alive, and another later succumbed to injuries. The gravity of the incident compelled judicial intervention, with the Calcutta High Court ordering a CBI investigation.

 

Data from the National Crime Records Bureau (NCRB) underscores the persistence of this trend. Between 2010 and 2019, West Bengal recorded 161 political killings, which is the highest in the country. The figures reveal a troubling pattern: 38 killings each in 2010 and 2011, 22 in 2012, 26 in 2013, 10 in 2014, 12 in 2018, and 47 in 2019. Furthermore, the average of around 20 political murders annually between 1999 and 2016 suggests that violence here is not an aberration but an entrenched political culture. Even after the 2019 Lok Sabha elections, 47 political killings involving workers of the Trinamool and the BJP were reported, with 38 of them occurring in South Bengal alone.

 

Nothing New

This cycle of violence is hardly new. Its roots can be traced back to the 1970s, when left-wing politics was on the rise and violent confrontations began to take hold. On July 21, 1993, police firing on protesters at Esplanade in Kolkata claimed 13 lives. The Nandigram unrest of 2007-08, sparked by opposition to land acquisition, turned deadly, leaving more than 50 people dead. Even the political transition of 2011 failed to alter the trajectory, within just nine months, 56 CPI(M) workers were reportedly killed.

 

In essence, the Bengali adage "jor jar, muluk tar" (‘He who holds power, owns the land,’ it's means that 'might is right') has hardened into a grim political reality. Once in power, nearly every ruling force appears to adopt this doctrine. What began during the Congress era continued through the 34 years of Left Front rule and remains evident under the Trinamool Congress, reflecting an unbroken continuity of coercive political practice.

 

At the heart of this violence lies the panchayat system itself. During the 1980s and 1990s, panchayats were significantly empowered and better resourced, transforming them into key centers of grassroots authority. As a result, panchayat elections have come to resemble not so much a "democratic process" as a fierce contest for dominance. In 2013, 11% of seats were won uncontested, by 2018, this figure had surged to 34% and in the 2023 approximately 105% of seats were elected unopposed. This means that in nearly every 10th seat in the state's three-tier Panchayat seats, candidates were elected without a rival. A clear indication that opposition candidates were either intimidated or violently driven out of the electoral arena. The human cost has been equally stark: 23 people lost their lives during the 2018 panchayat elections, a number that rose to over 45 in 2023.

 

Deep Alarm

The forms of violence witnessed during elections are deeply alarming. Murders of political leaders and workers, abductions, assaults on polling agents, bombings, booth capturing, and voter intimidation have all become disturbingly routine. In districts like Malda and Murshidabad, even the mention of elections evokes a sense of dread among residents. Despite heavy security deployments, containing such violence continues to pose a formidable challenge for the administration.

 

To fully grasp this situation, one cannot ignore the interplay of political competition, demographic shifts, and increasing polarization. The intensifying rivalry between the Trinamool and the BJP has further inflamed tensions. Prolonged incumbency, too, tends to breed conditions conducive to violence. The fear of losing power and the relentless pursuit of gaining it both contribute to normalizing coercive tactics.

 

Perhaps most troubling is the fact that this violence is not confined to the electoral period; it persists throughout the year, peaking as elections approach. Rather than strengthening the foundations of democracy, it is steadily hollowing them out from within. The pressing question, then, is whether democracy in Bengal will be reduced merely to its "outcomes," or whether equal importance will be accorded to the integrity of its "process." Until political parties renounce violence and prioritize dialogue, consensus, and constitutional values, any electoral victory, no matter by whom, will ultimately signify a defeat for democracy itself.

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