Yesterday evening I watched India vs New Zealand (T20) at VCA Stadium, Jamtha, with my son and my granddaughters. Three generations, one match, and my mind full of old memories.
It took me back to another India–New Zealand game I saw in Nagpur long ago, in 1969, at the old VCA ground at Sadar. I was a seventh-grade schoolboy then. I sat wide-eyed, counting every run, every wicket, every over. It felt as if the whole world lived inside those 22 yards. I still remember that first “real” match in a stadium. That excitement.
And then yesterday happened.
Strangely, it became a nameless, faceless match.
From where we sat, there was no big screen. The scoreboard was too far to read. For long stretches I had no idea who was batting, what the score was, how many wickets had fallen, or how many overs were left. I spent the evening doing what doctors are not trained for: guessing.
Only after the match ended did I realise Sanju Samson had opened. The one-drop batsman who came and went was Ishan Kishan. I lost count of Abhishek Sharma’s sixes. And, believe it or not, I did not even know Axar Patel was playing. For all I know, he could have been sitting next to us.
Still, something made up for it.
The crowd. The roar. The whistles. The chants of “India Jeetega!” For four hours, thousands of strangers felt like family. My granddaughters enjoyed every minute. They didn’t care about strike rates, partnerships, or who was on 44 not out. They only cared that India was hitting the ball into the night sky.
It took nearly an hour to walk barely a kilometre back to our car. We reached home past midnight, tired, hoarse, and happy.
Somewhere between Jamtha 2026 and Sadar 1969, I realised the game is the same, but the world (and the eyes watching it) has changed.