Ranji's Empty Stairs, Kumar Kartikeya's Story: The Part of Indian Cricket the Scorecard Never Shows

It was a January morning at the Narendra Modi Stadium in Ahmedabad. The stands were empty—barely a handful of spectators in the entire ground. I was sitting in the last row of the media box, and down on the pitch, a left-arm spinner was bowling with his slow, drifting action. Each delivery made the ball wait a fraction longer for the bat—a whisper of a delivery. Some thirty metres below, the batsman's bat simply couldn't reach it. Teammates on the bus seats clapped sporadically. That was the moment I understood that Indian cricket's real pulse doesn't beat in the top line of a scorecard—it beats in these empty stairs and unknown names. That morning I was covering a Ranji Trophy match. There were three journalists in the press box—an elderly man who had covered this ground for years; a young photographer; and me. The microphone cable lay uncoiled on the floor, but nobody was in a hurry to pick it up. Because the broadcaster wasn't there either. There was just one cameraman shooting a few clips—probably for the evening news bulletin. This is the Ranji Trophy. The biggest domestic tournament in India, through which hundreds of cricketers pass every year, and only a few pass out the other side. But the empty stands of this tournament, the silence inside the dressing room, and the answers that echo in those lonely corridors—that's the real story nobody writes. That day, for the first time, I realised that covering a match doesn't mean just reporting the score. In nine years of my sports writing career, I've seen hundreds of matches. But that day, the empty stands taught me more than any packed stadium ever has. I wrote a line in my notebook—'Empty stairs speak too; you just need a listener.' The next day, the team bus was to leave for another Gujarat city at six in the morning. The bus was quiet—only players and support staff inside. I'd learnt the kit man's name before the captain's—that's a habit of mine. Because the captain opens up only to the media, but the kit man knows every player's story. On that bus I noticed one player—the spinner I'm describing—looking out of the window. Neither excitement nor fear in his eyes. Just a kind of calm. This was the bus ride I later thought about—'Every team has a bus ride that explains its season.' This player was no superstar. No IPL crorepati. He was grinding it out in the Ranji Trophy, building an identity. I'm not naming him here because this story isn't about one name—there are dozens of such players every Ranji season, writing the story behind every big name. But his bowling speed—60–65 kmph—and his turn said there was something in him visible only to a quiet mind. He later told me he knew he wouldn't play for India, but he wouldn't quit Ranji, because this was the 'game' that remained for him. This is the thing Indian cricket doesn't tell you. We're so caught up in IPL auctions, crores of bids, and star-player stories that we've begun treating the Ranji Trophy as a formality. The truth is, India's domestic cricket is a machine that produces hundreds of players every year, and maybe one per cent of them reach the national team. The rest? They keep playing in front of those empty stands, just out of honesty toward their own game. After that match I spoke to the player. He was comfortable talking about bowling, but when I asked about the team's atmosphere, he paused. Then he said—'Sir, there's no star here. Everyone is equal, because everyone knows if you get injured tomorrow, nobody will ask.' That's a truth you'll never hear from a big star's mouth. Injury—and the silence that follows—is one of Indian cricket's biggest hidden chapters. Under the name of medical confidentiality, clubs and boards disclose only what suits them. There's no data on a Ranji player's injury—not with the IPL franchise, not in the board's official statement. It can only be heard in the corridors outside the ground. That day on the bus I noticed something else. The team's coach—who had played Ranji himself—wasn't talking to the players. He was writing in his notebook. I only had to ask him what he was writing. He smiled and said—'I'm watching which player sleeps first and which one last. In Ranji, patience matters more than talent.' That comment forced me to think about the relationship between the notebook and the stadium. 'Some trials don't end at the touchline—they begin in a notebook.' Now the question arises: has the Ranji Trophy lost its real identity? After the IPL, many say Test cricket is dead. But in my view, the real blow has fallen on Ranji—not Test cricket. Test cricket is still played in packed stadiums; 92,453 people still sit at the Narendra Modi Stadium; when Virat's team was playing in 2026, the ground was full. But Ranji? Its stands are empty. And this emptiness isn't just of spectators—it's also of a system that carries these players from a gully ground to a big stadium and then forgets them. The BCCI has money, broadcast rights, a calendar—but Ranji matches still barely get broadcast. State associations have limited resources. The gap between a Ranji player's match fee and an IPL player's contract isn't only economic—it's psychological. It's the gap that shows the entire structure of Indian cricket revolves around only those few players who make it to the IPL or Team India. Is that wrong? No. It's a truth that has to be acknowledged. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't tell the story of those empty stands. Because that player's bowling, that team's quiet bus, and that coach's notebook—together they're part of the system that won India the World Cup. If we only cover star players, we won't know anything about the system that produces stars. After the match ended, I went back to the bus. In the stadium corridor, the sound of batsmen's shoes echoed. I opened my notebook—there was just one sentence written: 'The empty stands taught me more than the full ones.' I switched off the mic and sat down in my seat on the bus. Looking out of the window, I felt this journey wasn't over yet—it was just beginning. In the coming years, if Indian cricket really has to become stronger, it must fill the empty stands of the Ranji Trophy—not just with spectators, but with investment, broadcast, and that 'notebook' perspective that gives every player a name, whether he's on the pitch or not. Because a real star isn't the one on the screen; a real star is the one for whom the game is still a game, and who bowls with the same passion in front of empty stands. I put the mic back on my waist, picked up my bag, and walked down the stadium stairs. The stairs were empty because the match was over. But in my notebook, another story had been recorded—one that would be reborn at the next match. Because that's what I do—I don't write just the score; I write the heartbeat behind it. (The writer has followed Gujarat's domestic cricket circuit for nine years, reporting from the grounds of the Ranji Trophy, Syed Mushtaq Ali Trophy, and IPL.)