By Sami Ahmad
NEW DELHI: The victory of the Indian cricket team in the 2026 T20 World Cup on Sunday, held at the Narendra Modi Stadium in Ahmedabad, should have been a moment of singular, unadulterated national pride. Instead, the triumph has become the centerpiece of a polarising debate regarding the systematic weaponisation of the sport to further a specific ideological agenda.
This shift was most visible when captain Suryakumar Yadav, head coach Gautam Gambhir (Former BJP MP), and ICC Chairman Jay Shah (son of Home Minister Amit Shah) were filmed parading the trophy at the Hanuman Temple in Ahmedabad shortly after the final. For veterans like Kirti Azad, a member of the legendary 1983 World Cup-winning squad, this was a moment of profound heartbreak. Azad’s public critique, “Shame on Team India,” serves as a stark reminder of a time when the cricket team was a microcosm of India’s secular promise, representing a mosaic of Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, and Christian identities that brought the trophy home to a collective “Hindustan” rather than a singular religious site. For Kirti Azad, this was not merely a personal act of faith but a strategic “victory lap” for a singular religion.
Kirti Azad, a TMC Lok Sabha member from Asansol, wrote on X, “We brought the trophy to our religious birthplace, our motherland: India, Bharat, Hindustan. Why The Hell Is The Indian Cricket Trophy being Dragged? Why NOT a Mosque? Why NOT a Church? Why NOT a Gurudwara? This Team Represents INDIA — not Surya Kumar Yadav’s or Jay Shah’s Family! Siraj never paraded it at a Mosque. Sanju never took it to a Church. The latter had a major part to play and was the man of the tournament. The Trophy Belongs to 1.4 BILLION Indians of EVERY Faith — NOT ONE RELIGION’S VICTORY LAP! “
By taking the national trophy to a temple while ignoring Mosques, Churches, and Gurudwaras, the administration is accused of framing a collective national achievement as a triumph of Hindu nationalism. In an era where the Indian Cricket Board (BCCI) administration is closely tied to the ruling political machinery, any deviation from the dominant cultural narrative can be seen as a lack of “patriotism.” As a result, players from minority backgrounds find themselves walking a tightrope, contributing to a national victory on the field, only to see that victory’s public meaning co-opted by an ideology that often treats their own faiths as secondary or “other.”
This transition has stripped the “gentleman’s game” of its traditional neutrality, turning the stadium into a site of ideological theatre where success is often framed through the lens of a civilizational resurgence. The concern is that as the sport becomes more entangled with Hindutva, the very diversity that has been the strength of Indian cricket is being sacrificed for political signaling, leaving the players to carry the burden of a nation’s divided soul.
This ideological shift has placed non-Hindu players in a delicate and often precarious position, forcing them to navigate a “two-team” reality. In the dressing room, the camaraderie remains palpable, a “secular bubble” where players like Mohammad Siraj, Arshdeep Singh, and Sanju Samson celebrate each other’s successes with the same fervor as their peers. Yet, once they step out of that bubble, they are forced to navigate a landscape where their religious identity is frequently scrutinized or even weaponized against them. The pressure on these players is further magnified by a hyper-polarized digital landscape.
Players like Mohammad Shami have faced targeted online abuse for their faith, particularly following the 2021 T20 World Cup loss to Pakistan, where he was branded a “traitor.” Similarly, Arshdeep Singh was subjected to “Khalistani” slurs in 2022 after a dropped catch. To survive in this climate, many minority players have adopted a strategy of “quiet professionalism.”
Even women’s cricket has not been immune; in late 2024, Jemimah Rodrigues faced a distressing ordeal when her club membership at Khar Gymkhana was terminated over allegations surrounding her father’s religious activities. Rodrigues described the incident as one that “broke her,” illustrating how the personal faith and family life of non-Hindu players are now under a microscope, often weaponized to question their “Indianness.”
In this narrative, the victory is punctuated by temple visits and “saffronized” optics that often leave minority players out of the frame, effectively rendering them invisible in the state-endorsed imagery of the win. The mention of Jay Shah (BCCI Secretary) and specific players suggests a belief that the management and the “optics” of the team are being steered to align with the ruling party’s cultural and political goals.
This weaponization has transformed the stadium into a site of ideological theatre. During the 2026 tournament, the atmosphere in venues like the Narendra Modi Stadium, renamed in 2021 amid significant controversy, was often characterized by religious slogans used to intimidate opponents.
For veterans like Kirti Azad, this transition is a betrayal of the 1.4 billion Indians of all faiths who once saw themselves reflected in the team. To illustrate this shift, one can look at the starkly different victory celebrations: in 1983, the team attended a gala concert by Lata Mangeshkar to raise player funds and met with President Zail Singh, civic, secular honours. In 2026, the primary public itinerary focused on a temple visit in the home city of the Board’s leadership. The concern is that as the sport becomes more entangled with Hindutva, the very diversity that has been the strength of Indian cricket is being sacrificed for political signaling.
As the 2026 season continues, the question remains whether Indian cricket can ever return to being the secular “glue” of the nation. The 1983 model of a shared trophy and a shared identity seems like a distant memory in an era where the trophy travels to a temple before it ever reaches the people. If the game continues to be used as a proxy for religious and political dominance, the risk is not just the loss of the “gentleman’s game” tag, but the permanent alienation of millions of fans who no longer see their India reflected in the “Men in Blue.” For the 1.4 billion Indians of all faiths, this transition represents a loss of a shared space where, for a few hours on a Sunday evening, the only identity that mattered was the blue jersey. The “Men in Blue”, has been also diluted literally by turning it to “Men in Saffaron.”
Azad’s frustration stems from a comparison between the 1983 victory and the current climate. His argument suggests that while cricket was once a unifying force that transcended religious lines, it is now being utilized as a vehicle for the Hindutva agenda. By taking the trophy to specific religious “birthplaces,” critics argue that the victory is being framed as a triumph of one faith rather than a collective national achievement.
The 1983 team, as Azad notes, was a microcosm of India’s diversity. When that diversity is sidelined in favour of a monolithic cultural narrative, the team ceases to be a bridge between communities and instead becomes a point of friction. The concern raised is that if the national team becomes synonymous with a specific religious agenda, the “Team India” brand loses its universal appeal and its role as a unifying national institution.
The institutionalization of this agenda is perhaps most evident in the behaviour of the crowds and the administration. The 2026 tournament saw a continuation of religious slogans in the stands, turning the stadium into a space for majoritarian assertion rather than universal sporting passion. International observers have noted that when the head of the BCCI and the captain of the team treat a religious site as the “birthplace” of their victory, it signals to the world that Indian cricket is no longer a neutral bridge but a cultural ambassador for a specific vision of India.
The core of the debate, as articulated by Kirti Azad, is whether Indian cricket can ever regain its status as the secular “glue” of the nation. The 1983 victory was celebrated at civic ceremonies and gala concerts that aimed to bridge communal divides in a post-emergency India. In contrast, the 2026 celebrations were largely confined to a majoritarian cultural circuit, leaving millions of fans from minority communities feeling like spectators to their own national achievement. When the trophy travels to a temple before it reaches the wider public, it sends a clear message about who “owns” the victory.
As the 2026 season concludes, the ghost of 1983 serves as a reminder of what has been lost: a team that was not just a collection of champions, but a symbol of a nation that found its strength in its diversity. If the game continues to be used as a proxy for the Hindutva agenda, the “gentleman’s game” may well become a memory, replaced by a sport that is as divided and polarized as the political landscape it seeks to mirror.
