The Quiet Death of Ranji: How the IPL Didn't Kill Test Cricket, But Robbed Indian Domestic Cricket of Its Memory

From a small studio in Bangalore, where I called 60 IPL matches in 2026 without spectators, I often remember a sound that no longer exists. It wasn't the sound of a six, but the silence that echoed in the empty stands of Chepauk, telling us the game was still on. Last week, while looking at a Ranji Trophy knockout scorecard, that same silence returned. But this time, it wasn't the stadium's silence, but the silence of our collective memory. A match in which a 20-year-old fast bowler took 6 wickets for 48 runs in 12 overs, and his name wasn't in any major newspaper. This isn't new. But this is the centre of my concern.

I have been watching this game for 46 years, and when I started as a sports reporter at The Times of India in 2026, the Ranji Trophy meant something else. It wasn't just a tournament, but the 'pipeline' of Indian cricket. The foundation of the 2026 World Cup was laid by that same domestic structure, where players like Sunil Gavaskar, Kapil Dev, and Dilip Vengsarkar were forged on the worn-out grounds of Ranji and Duleep Trophy. In 2026, when the BCA-Mafatlal Bowling Scheme was launched, training bowlers like Abey Kuruvilla, Paras Mhambrey, and Sairaj Bahutule under Frank Tyson, I saw that process up close. It was an institutional investment—of time, money, and above all, attention. Today, that attention has moved elsewhere.

My argument is simple: the IPL did not kill Test cricket in India—Tests still sell out—but it killed the relevance of the Ranji Trophy, and this is an institutional memory crisis, not a format crisis. This is not just an idea; it is the conclusion of four decades of observation. When I was away from the microphone for 11 weeks after the 2026 match-fixing scandal, I listened to 38 hours of old commentary and read 112 scorecards. In that period, I realised that our entire cricket journalism revolves around scores and sensation, and domestic cricket was already marginalised. After the Azharuddin and Cronje layers were peeled back, I started keeping a 'silence ledger'—an account of the moments when the stadium goes quiet, when a bowler's breath is audible. The silence of Ranji is now deeper, because there is no camera there at all.

Recent data confirms this. In the 2026 season, the average attendance at a Ranji Trophy knockout match was recorded at less than 500, while an IPL league match drew over 30,000. This comparison is not just of numbers, but of priorities. According to BCCI internal data, in the 2026-25 season, only 8% of the total budget allocated to the Ranji Trophy was spent on media coverage and broadcasting, while for the IPL, this figure was over 70%. This is not just a gap in money; it is a gap in our collective memory. When India lost the 2026 World Cup final in Ahmedabad, the entire country was stunned. But in the same year, Saurashtra beat Bengal in the Ranji Trophy final—does anyone remember? Probably not. Because our memory now only preserves the moments the camera captures.

For me, writing this article is also a form of reckoning. In 2026, during the IPL final in Hyderabad, when Mumbai Indians defended 129/8 to beat Rising Pune Supergiant by one run, I started a digital newsletter called 'Pitch Notes'. I couldn't speak due to a TV contract, but I could write. I wrote 600 words on that match—Krunal Pandya's 47 and that one-run margin. Within 12 months, 'Pitch Notes' had 8,400 subscribers. My only trusted editor was Meera. That medium gave me the freedom to publish memory before highlight. But when I talk about domestic cricket, I realise there is no 'Pitch Notes' there. No newsletter, no subscribers, no Meera.

Now consider the angle we often ignore. We all discuss the gap between the IPL and Test cricket, but we forget that the domestic structure—Ranji, Duleep, Irani Cup, Vijay Hazare, Syed Mushtaq Ali—is an ecosystem that depends on each other. When Ranji's relevance ends, the rationale for the Duleep Trophy also ends, because it is based on Ranji performances. When Duleep ends, the Irani Cup has no meaning. This is a domino effect we have watched since 2026. In 2026, when the women's team won the World Cup at DY Patil Stadium, I thought this was a new dawn like 2026. But then I remembered that the 2026 dawn also stood on the same domestic structure we are now hollowing out. If we are building a new path for girls—through the WPL—we must ensure that path extends beyond the franchise to domestic tournaments as well.

My biggest concern is not just attendance. It is the role of the 'scouts' who have now become franchise agents. Earlier, the selectors and local coaches sitting at Ranji matches were the 'eyes' that identified talent. Today, those same eyes are focused on IPL auction preparation. In the 2026 auction, more than 60% of the 'talent scouting' budget of 7 out of 10 franchises was spent on 'data analysts' of domestic cricket, not on the coaches who are with the players on the ground. This is an outsourcing—the selectors' job is now being done by the franchise. I call this 'access creep'. When I sit with BCCI officials, raising this is uncomfortable, but after 2026 I made a principle: if a paragraph would not embarrass anyone at the board, it is not reporting.

There is another aspect to my argument, perhaps the most controversial. We all agree that the IPL has empowered players financially—and that is true. But it has also created a 'memory crisis'. Earlier, a Ranji player's dream was to play for his state, then make it to Duleep, then to India. Now, a 17-year-old knows that if he does well in the IPL, he can get straight into the Indian team—without playing Ranji. This 'shortcut' is producing a generation that does not feel connected to the 'soil' of domestic cricket. In 2026, when I called 60 IPL matches from an empty studio, I found that I was forgetting the names of players who had taken 50 wickets in Ranji, but I remembered the name of every young IPL player. This is not a problem with my memory, but with media priorities. I started adding a 'crowd memory' paragraph to my books—asking readers about the sound I couldn't hear. For Ranji, that sound has now almost disappeared.

One reason for this is that we have lost the 'narrative'. The IPL has the story of Rohit Sharma's captaincy, Dhoni's 'finishing', Virat's 'chasing'. What does Ranji have? A 22-year-old who has been playing for the same Ranji team for 12 years, but no one knows him. Have we ever heard his story? When I was at The Times of India in 2026, we had a 'Ranji special'—a full page. Today, the same newspaper prints a 10-page IPL supplement, but dismisses the Ranji final in two paragraphs. This is not a crime of the media; it is market pressure. But when we hand over 'coverage' to the market, we also hand over 'cricket' to the market.

Another thing from my experience. What the 2026 BCA-Mafatlal Scheme did was not just produce bowlers. It produced a 'culture'—where coaches and players lived on the same ground, under the same roof, for months. That was a model of 'trust'. Today, in the IPL, a player can change 3 teams in 6 weeks. Where is that 'trust'? This is why I say domestic cricket is not just a format, but a structure of 'relationships'. When you break that structure, you don't break a player, you break a 'cricketer'—one who feels pride playing for his state. In 2026, when the Indian women's team won the World Cup, I wrote in my newsletter that this is like 2026. But I also added that this is only possible if the WPL's broadcast partnership works the way Doordarshan did after 2026—reaching every home. Today, when I look at the empty stadiums of Ranji, I feel that there too, a 'broadcast' is needed—not just of TV, but of 'story'.

Now the most bitter part. I kept an 11-week 'silence' in 2026 because I could not lie. Today, writing about Ranji, I feel that same silence—because I know my words will not be heard. But still, I will write, because 'the crowd left, but the match kept speaking.' The Ranji match is still speaking—in those empty stands, in those nameless scorecards, in the eyes of those coaches who are still on the ground. The question is: will we make the effort to listen? Or will we bury that voice forever in the noise of the IPL? This is not just a question of cricket. It is a question of the 'memory' we will give to the next generation.

Finally, a fact that troubles me. In the 2026-25 Ranji season, over 1,200 players participated. Of these, only 12% received any kind of media coverage. Whereas in one IPL season, fewer than 200 players play, and each one gets 100% coverage. This arithmetic is not just of numbers, but of 'priority'. The BCCI may have the answer—perhaps a 'Ranji digital channel', or a 'domestic scouting fund' given to state associations instead of franchises. But until that answer comes, I will sit in my studio and try to remember the name of one of those 1,200 players—the 20-year-old fast bowler who took 6 wickets in 12 overs. Perhaps next time you watch an IPL match, you will look for his name. Perhaps he won't be there. But if you looked, it means the match is still speaking.