Use cricket to build bridges

In India, cricket is not merely a game played between two teams on a green field; it is a mass movement, an all-consuming emotion, and a cultural force that transcends boundaries of language, class, caste, and even logic. It is one of the few things in this vast and diverse country that can unite people in silence and uproar alike. When the national team plays, especially against arch-rival Pakistan, time seems to pause, life rearranges its priorities, and a billion hearts beat in sync. Streets empty, prayers intensify, and televisions glow in every home, dhaba, and office. Cricket, in India, is not watched – it is experienced with fervour, faith, and nationalistic pride.

Yet, as powerful as this game is in uniting people, it is also increasingly becoming a pawn on the chessboard of geopolitics, particularly in the context of Indo-Pak relations. What was once a pure contest of bat and ball is now frequently a diplomatic instrument, a symbolic gesture of approval or protest, a mirror reflecting the state of political affairs. This evolving role of cricket compels us to ask a difficult but necessary question: should cricket be used as a diplomatic weapon? The relationship between India and Pakistan has always been anything but simple.

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It is a tale of shared ancestry divided by trauma, wars shadowed by peace talks, and moments of hope dimmed by acts of terror. In such a historically charged context, cricket has often functioned as a proxy for statecraft. When India refuses to participate in a bilateral series with Pakistan, it is rarely about scheduling or logistics. It is a loud, calculated message. When Pakistan invites India to play, it is often interpreted as a political overture. The cricket field, thus, becomes an extension of the negotiating table – except that here, diplomacy is played out in front of millions, not behind closed doors. This is not to say that cricket diplomacy has always been an exercise in futility.

It has had its golden moments. In 1987, at the height of military tensions, Pakistan’s President General Zia-ul-Haq arrived in India to watch a Test match in Jaipur. That unannounced visit helped defuse a dangerous situation and is still remembered as an act of subtle, effective diplomacy. Years later, during a period of relative calm, the Indian cricket team toured Pakistan in 2004 and 2005. It was more than a tour – it was a festival of warmth and goodwill. Fans from both sides mingled, players embraced, and the world witnessed a glimmer of what was possible when rivalry was stripped of hatred. It was sport at its most dignified and hopeful.

But such moments, though beautiful, have been fleeting. The broader political atmosphere has a way of reclaiming the narrative, drowning the music of the willow in the drums of discord. What makes matters more complicated is the inconsistency with which cricket diplomacy is applied. India has steadfastly declined to play bilateral series with Pakistan, citing terrorism and national security. Yet, the same teams face off in international events like the ICC World Cup and the Asia Cup, where they compete not just fiercely, but enthusiastically, drawing the highest viewership. This dual stance raises troubling questions. If playing Pakistan is considered unethical or unsafe, how does that stance change under the ICC umbrella? If the objection is one of principle, then is it not compromised by participating in multi-nation events where the same rival is encountered? Such contradictions muddy the waters and erode the moral clarity of the position.

Fans are left confused, and players find themselves caught between patriotic expectations and professional commitments. What should be a celebration of skill becomes a tangle of political interpretations. Amidst this confusion, the silent sufferers are often the players themselves. Young athletes who have worked tirelessly to earn their place in the national squad may find their dreams shelved, not because of poor form or injury, but because of political developments over which they have no control. Matches are cancelled, series abandoned, and opportunities lost – not due to any sporting fault, but because diplomacy took an adverse turn. This politicisation of sport undermines its very ethos, which is built on merit, fair play, and mutual respect.

When cricket is treated as a tool to settle political scores, it loses its sanctity. And the public, too, loses a space where they could forget, even if momentarily, the burdens of history and the bitterness of politics. Despite all this, there is still a case to be made for allowing cricket to remain a bridge rather than a barricade. In a world increasingly divided, sport offers one of the last few arenas where adversaries can meet not with hostility, but with honour. When an Indian player applauds a Pakistani rival’s performance, or when players from both nations exchange jerseys or embrace after a match, it sends a powerful, wordless message: that talent commands respect beyond borders, and that humanity can still peep through the cracks of hostility.

These gestures, subtle though they may be, have the potential to shift public perception, to ease the emotional load carried by generations, and to remind both nations that their people are not so different after all. This is not to advocate for blind optimism. One must not ignore real threats or minimize the trauma of violence. When tensions are at their peak, or when there is credible risk to the safety of players and fans, discretion is indeed the better part of valour. But using cricket as a tit-for-tat mechanism for every diplomatic slight is not only unsustainable – it is unwise.

It depletes the emotional capital of the game and turns sport into a silent casualty of politics. Worse, it denies the people of both nations a rare and precious joy – a space where cheering, not jeering, is the dominant sound. India, as a dominant force in world cricket, has the stature and the platform to chart a different course. Instead of weaponizing cricket, it can humanize it. Choosing to play in difficult times does not signal weakness – it signals maturity and confidence. Cricket may not solve the deeprooted issues between India and Pakistan.

It cannot dismantle terror networks, nor can it rewrite history. But it can offer something equally valuable – a pause, a possibility, a glimmer of what peace might feel like. In that moment when the ball sails over the boundary and a crowd erupts, we are reminded that there are ways to coexist, to compete without conflict, and to honour each other without surrendering our convictions. Let the players play. Let the fans cheer. Let the bat and ball speak their own language. And in doing so, may we rediscover the spirit of the game, and perhaps, even the spirit of reconciliation.

(The writer is a Thrissur-based accountant and freelance contributor.)