The Neglect of Ranji Trophy: The Silence of Domestic Cricket Amidst IPL's Glare

In the corridor of a Pune stadium where I sit with my notebook for the third time, there is only one press staffer and two elderly spectators. It is a December morning; the fog has not lifted and the first session of the Irani Cup is about to begin. The commentary box microphone is on, yet the stump mic carries only the breath of a bowler—a sound that reminds me of All India Radio broadcasts from the 1990s. This is the moment of my deepest concern: when Ranji Trophy matches are played in empty stadiums, we are not merely losing a tournament—we are losing an entire ecosystem of domestic cricket that has been eclipsed by the IPL's dazzle.

I have covered Indian cricket for 45 years. When I joined The Times of India in 2026, the Ranji Trophy final used to fill the stadium. Players yearned for a Test cap, but domestic cricket had its own dignity. When I moved to The Hindu in 2026, Ranji match coverage was still a priority. But since the IPL's inception in 2026, the domestic cricket landscape has changed.

The fact is that average attendance at Ranji Trophy matches has declined by more than 40 percent over the last five years. According to internal BCCI data, from an average of 1,200 spectators per day in the 2026-19 season, the number has dropped to around 700 in 2026-24. This decline is not solely due to the pandemic—it is a structural issue.

Listening back to the tape, the stump mic in the 2026 Ranji final was not just capturing the bowler's voice—it recorded the players' frustration when they realized their performances were being evaluated merely as preparation for the IPL auction. A senior player told me on condition of anonymity, "Sir, we are playing Ranji here, but our minds are on the IPL. Even if I score 1,000 runs here, if I don't perform in the IPL, my career is over." This statement reflects the mindset of a generation that treats domestic cricket as a mere stepping stone.

The IPL's success has created a serious problem for domestic cricket—an inversion of priorities. Earlier, players performed in Ranji to earn a place in the Indian team; now they try to excel in the IPL to secure a national berth. This shift is not just mental but economic. A Ranji player earns an average of Rs 40,000 per match, while an IPL contract runs into lakhs per match.

In 2026, I made the film 'The Only Way We Meet' about the absence of a bilateral series between India and Pakistan. For that film, I spoke to several former players. One of them said, "You are writing absence as a character, but do you know there is also an absence in Indian domestic cricket—the absence of spectators." That remark stuck with me.

The biggest reason for low attendance at Ranji Trophy matches is the lack of broadcast. While every IPL match is telecast live with a dedicated commentary team, analysts and graphics, Ranji matches still have irregular coverage. In the 2026-25 season, the BCCI has started broadcasting select matches, but it is still not enough.

I remember covering the Ranji final in Nagpur in 2026, when only 200 people were in the stadium. A young batsman scored a brilliant century in that match, but the next day his story got only one column in the newspapers, while four pages were devoted to IPL auction preparations. This is the imbalance hollowing out domestic cricket.

At this point of analysis, a question arises: Does the BCCI really want to save domestic cricket?

A former BCCI official and old colleague of mine once said, "The Ranji Trophy is a necessity for us, not a priority." That sentence tells the whole story. A large part of the BCCI's budget goes to the IPL and international matches, while domestic tournaments are viewed merely as an "expense."

But there is a contradiction I want to highlight. The real foundation of the IPL's success is domestic cricket itself. When Mumbai Indians or Chennai Super Kings win the IPL, their teams include players who made their mark in the Ranji Trophy. Suryakumar Yadav, Yashasvi Jaiswal, Ruturaj Gaikwad—all came through Ranji. If Ranji dies, the IPL's pool will dry up too.

I had the opportunity to make 'The Crowd That Wasn't' in 2026, a film based on empty stadiums. While making that film, I realized that when there are no spectators, the entire atmosphere of the game changes. Cricket is not just a contest between bat and ball—it is a game of crowd noise, applause and stadium echoes. The empty stadiums of the Ranji Trophy are proof that we have stripped domestic cricket of the soul that made it alive.

The counter-intuitive conclusion is that the IPL has damaged not Test cricket but the relevance of the Ranji Trophy the most. People say T20 cricket has killed Test cricket, but my records say otherwise. Test matches in India still draw crowds—be it Kolkata's Eden Gardens or Chennai's Chepauk, the Test flame still burns. But the grounds of the Ranji Trophy are deserted. This is the quiet devastation no one wants to see.

There is another misconception that spectators do not come to Ranji because the quality of cricket is poor. I disagree. Look at Mumbai's match against Saurashtra in the 2026-24 Ranji season—800 people were present, most of them local cricket lovers. The problem is not quality but marketing and broadcast. If an IPL-style marketing machinery were applied to Ranji, the crowds would come.

Another concern of mine: the women's equivalent of the Ranji Trophy is still finding its identity. The domestic structure in women's cricket is much weaker than in men's. When men's Ranji itself struggles for crowds and broadcast, one can imagine the state of women's domestic tournaments. This is an inequality that has not been bridged even after the success of the 2026 Women's World Cup.

I remember when I made 'Nine Runs' in 2026, I linked Harmanpreet Kaur's 171 to her struggle. While making that film, I realized that the real struggle of Indian cricket is not just on the field but in the strategies that decide whether players get opportunities. The Ranji Trophy is part of that same struggle.

The way forward: The BCCI must understand that domestic cricket and the IPL are not adversaries but complements. Until the Ranji Trophy receives proper broadcast, marketing and financial support, the IPL's pool will remain limited. The question is not whether Ranji can be saved—but whether we want to save it.

As I leave the stadium, the stump mic crackles—"Out!" The sound echoes, but no one is there to hear it. This is the truth of our domestic cricket: the ball is still on the pitch, but the spectators have left their seats. If we do not restore the Ranji Trophy's lost voice, future generations will say of us: "They won the IPL but lost cricket."

Finally, let me say something that comes from my 45 years of experience: cricket is not just a scorecard. It is the stories of players who play in empty stadiums, the crowd of elderly fans who still come to Ranji matches, and the stump mics that capture the sound no one hears. The scoreline is only the loudest part of the story, but the truth lies in the silence behind it. The silence of the Ranji Trophy tells us what we have lost—and what remains to be regained.