#Binge Reviewing my previous Reads #Sports #Cricket
Eleven Gods and a Billion Indians: The On and Off the Field Story of Cricket in India and Beyond by Boria Majumdar is one of those books that hits you with the realisation that cricket in India is not just a sport, not just entertainment, but a living, breathing civilisational phenomenon.
When I read it in 2021, at the height of the pandemic, cricket had already become my escape from the uncertainty outside—IPL in bio-bubbles, reruns of old matches on television, endless debates on social media about Dhoni, Kohli, Rohit, or the ghosts of past legends. Into that atmosphere came Majumdar’s book, and it read like both a love letter and an autopsy of Indian cricket.
The “eleven gods” in the title refers, of course, to the players who step out to represent India on the field, carrying with them the burden and the blessing of a billion expectations. But the book’s brilliance lies in how it navigates beyond the obvious, peeling away the glamorous veneer of celebrity cricket and showing us the underbelly—politics, money, broadcasting, power struggles, and the evolution of fandom itself. It is part history, part reportage, part cultural critique, and wholly absorbing.
Majumdar writes with an insider’s access and an academic’s depth, which makes the book straddle two worlds. He traces how cricket moved from a colonial pastime to the national obsession that now dwarfs even cinema in terms of attention and passion.
The early chapters bring alive the cricketing culture of the 1970s and 80s, leading into the transformative moment of 1983, when Kapil’s Devils won the World Cup at Lord’s. That victory is rightly treated as a tectonic shift, not just in cricketing terms but in India’s sense of itself. But the author doesn’t just linger on nostalgia—he shows how that win, coupled with the rise of television, advertising, and eventually satellite broadcasting, altered the economics and psychology of cricket in India forever.
The book then pushes into the 1990s and 2000s, when Tendulkar emerged as a near-divine figure, embodying both the aspirations of a liberalising nation and the pressures of modern celebrity. Majumdar captures the paradox beautifully: Tendulkar as the “god” who was also achingly human, with failures, injuries, and moments of doubt, but who still managed to shoulder an impossible responsibility with grace.
Around him, the Indian team was undergoing its own transformation—moving from being charming underdogs to hardened competitors, especially under Ganguly’s aggressive captaincy and then Dhoni’s cool pragmatism. The shift in India’s cricketing culture—from meek acceptance to a refusal to be bullied—forms one of the book’s strongest threads.
Where the book really stands out is in its discussion of power, money, and control. The Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) is shown not just as a sporting body but as a juggernaut of financial and political clout. Majumdar pulls no punches in detailing how administrators, broadcasters, and corporate sponsors reshaped the game, often prioritising profits over purity. The 2008 birth of the IPL is presented as both revolution and rupture. On the one hand, it democratised stardom, gave unknowns a shot at riches and recognition, and transformed cricket into a global spectacle of glitz and entertainment. On the other hand, it brought with it ethical quandaries, spot-fixing scandals, and a creeping sense of commercialisation that threatened to reduce the game to content. Majumdar balances admiration and critique here, refusing to give easy answers.
As I was reading it in 2021, during the eerie silence of lockdowns when stadiums were empty and players performed before giant cut-outs of cheering crowds, these chapters on the IPL and commercialisation felt eerily prescient. Cricket had become, more than ever, a spectacle mediated through screens, algorithms, and sponsors.
And yet, the book reminded me that beneath all of this—beneath the broadcast rights and the boardroom politics—lay a game that still had the power to unite a billion Indians in a single heartbeat. Majumdar never loses sight of the romance, even while charting the cynicism.
Another strength of the book lies in its global perspective. Majumdar shows how India’s rise as cricket’s economic epicentre changed the balance of power in the sport. Once dominated by England and Australia, the International Cricket Council (ICC) found itself increasingly at the mercy of Indian money and audiences.
This wasn’t just about cricket—it was about geopolitics, about how postcolonial India was asserting itself on the world stage through the unlikely vehicle of bat and ball. The book also touches upon the role of the Indian diaspora in sustaining this cricketing empire, from packed stadiums in the UK to roaring crowds in the Middle East. Cricket’s globalisation, in Majumdar’s telling, is inseparable from India’s story of globalisation.
But perhaps the most memorable sections are those that deal with the fans. The “billion Indians” of the title are not just passive spectators—they are active participants, shaping narratives, careers, and even the future of the game. From the frenzy outside Tendulkar’s home to the memes and hashtags that now dominate Twitter timelines, Majumdar tracks how fandom itself has evolved. The emotional investment is staggering—joy, grief, rage, all spilling into the public domain, making cricket a kind of mass emotional theatre. Reading these parts during the pandemic, when fans were physically absent from the stadiums, gave me a bittersweet pang. It reminded me of the sheer madness of a packed Eden Gardens or Wankhede, and how vital the fans are to making cricket what it is.
The book is not without its sobering notes. The darker side of cricket—match-fixing, corruption, exploitation, and the pressure that breaks young players—is given due space. Majumdar is clear-eyed about the costs of the game’s mass adoration, especially the way it consumes and discards talent at times. Yet, he never lapses into cynicism; instead, he insists that acknowledging these flaws is part of loving the game honestly.
By the time I finished the book, it felt like I had taken a journey across decades of cricket and across the many Indias that existed in those decades. It is a history, a commentary, and at times, a confession of obsession. Reading it in the strange, suspended world of 2021 made it even more powerful—when cricket was both a reminder of normalcy and an escape from reality, when watching a cover drive or a yorker felt like reclaiming joy in a bleak season.
Eleven Gods and a Billion Indians does not try to offer one definitive narrative of Indian cricket because that would be impossible. Instead, it offers a mosaic, showing us how cricket has become India’s most potent metaphor, a mirror in which we see both our pride and our flaws.
In the end, what stayed with me was not just the anecdotes or the analysis but the emotional truth: cricket in India is more than sport, more than business, and more than politics. It is a language, a faith, a theatre of dreams. And Majumdar, with his skill and sensitivity, manages to capture that sprawling, contradictory reality in a book that feels essential for anyone who has ever sat before a television screen, heart pounding, waiting for the next ball.