Big League Dreams

With their hair tied in long, neat braids, the girls arrive at the makeshift cricket ground on their bicycles, a line of white athletic uniforms breezing down a dirt track that cuts through lush wheat fields in India’s Punjab region.

It’s time for practice: a 2-mile run and a couple hours of batting, bowling,* and catching drills. Overseeing it all is Gulab Singh Shergill, a police officer by day, the team’s manager, mentor, and champion by evening.

With their hair tied in long, neat braids, the girls arrive at the makeshift cricket ground. They ride on their bicycles. A line of white athletic uniforms breezes down a dirt track that cuts through lush wheat fields in India’s Punjab region.

It’s time for practice. They complete a 2-mile run and a couple hours of batting, bowling,* and catching drills. Overseeing it all is Gulab Singh Shergill. He’s a police officer by day. By evening, Shergill is the team’s manager, mentor, and champion.

For the girls, ages 9 to 14, the daily routine is an escape from the boredom of village life, and it’s about a lot more than cricket. After each practice, they lie in a circle and close their eyes for two minutes of silent reflection.

“What is the village life? You wake up at 5 a.m., bake bread, and prepare food and tea—all the housework is for the girls,” Shergill tells them. “If you don’t become a player, you will be waking up early all your life until you are old. It will be marriage and working for your husband, and then it will be for your children.”

And if they make it as professional cricket players?

“You will have helpers,” he says with a smile. “You will pick up the phone, ring them, and they will bring you tea.”

This vision may have seemed like a pipe dream, but now, with the start
of an Indian professional cricket league for women, it feels a bit less so. The new women’s league is modeled on India’s hugely successful men’s professional cricket league, known as the Indian Premier League, which has become one of the world’s most valuable sports organizations.

For the girls, ages 9 to 14, the daily routine is an escape from the boredom of village life. It’s about a lot more than cricket. After each practice, they lie in a circle. They close their eyes for two minutes of silent reflection.

“What is the village life? You wake up at 5 a.m., bake bread, and prepare food and tea—all the housework is for the girls,” Shergill tells them. “If you don’t become a player, you will be waking up early all your life until you are old. It will be marriage and working for your husband, and then
it will be for your children.”

And if they make it as professional cricket players?

“You will have helpers,” he says with a smile. “You will pick up the phone, ring them, and they will bring you tea.”

This vision may have seemed like a pipe dream. But with the recent start of an Indian professional cricket league for women, it feels a bit less so. The new women’s league is modeled on India’s hugely successful men’s professional cricket league. The men’s league is known as the Indian Premier League. It has become one of the world’s most valuable sports organizations.

The money flooding into the men’s league has been used to improve infrastructure at the sport’s lower levels and to train younger players. Now wealthy investors see an opportunity in the Women’s Premier League too and are pouring in hundreds of millions of dollars.

Opening up what has long been known as “the gentleman’s game” sends a powerful psychological message to hundreds of millions of women and girls in the world’s most populous country. Gender roles remain rigid in India, where only about 20 percent of women are employed in the formal work force, one of the lowest rates globally. For the nation to meet its full economic potential, it must chip away at that gender divide.

The women’s league had a splashy debut. Some of the matches drew as many as 35,000 people, and 50 million viewers in India tuned in during the league’s first week.

The money flooding into the men’s league has been used to improve infrastructure at the sport’s lower levels. It has been used to train younger players. Now wealthy investors see an opportunity in the Women’s Premier League too. They are pouring in hundreds of millions of dollars.

Opening up what has long been known as “the gentleman’s game” sends a powerful psychological message to hundreds of millions of women and girls in the world’s most populous country. Gender roles remain rigid in India. Only about 20 percent of women are employed in the formal work force. It is one of the lowest rates globally. For the nation to meet its full economic potential, it must chip away at that gender divide.

The women’s league had a splashy debut. Some of the matches drew as many as 35,000 people. Fifty million viewers in India tuned in during the league’s first week.

When the girls and their families in the village of Dharoki in Punjab turn on the TV, open Instagram, or spread out a newspaper, they now see professional female cricket players displaying the kind of joy and swagger long limited to men.

Most of the players who’ve made it professionally come from villages and small towns. The girls in Punjab know this well because one of the most famous of them, Harmanpreet Kaur, is a local legend from their home state.

In March, when the women’s league kicked off in Mumbai, Kaur, 34, walked out to fireworks in the buzzing stadium. For years, she’s been the captain of India’s national team. She embodies this moment’s transformative potential for women’s sports.

Kaur has risen to the heights of cricket only because a coach identified her talent in high school and let her practice with the boys—there were no girls’ teams in her area. Eventually, he built a girls’ team around her.

When the girls and their families in the village of Dharoki, in Punjab, turn on the TV, open Instagram, or spread out a newspaper, they now see professional female cricket players. They are displaying the kind of joy and swagger long limited to men.

Most of the players who’ve made it professionally come from villages and small towns. The girls in Punjab know this well because one of the most famous of them, Harmanpreet Kaur, is a local legend from their home state.

In March, when the women’s league kicked off in Mumbai, Kaur, 34, walked out to fireworks in the buzzing stadium. For years, she’s been the captain of India’s national team. She embodies this moment’s transformative potential for women’s sports.

Kaur has risen to the heights of cricket only because a coach identified her talent in high school. The coach let her practice with the boys because there were no girls’ teams in her area. Eventually, he built a girls’ team around her.

Even after she had become a fixture on the women’s national team, she had to keep taking side jobs. She found part-time work at Indian Railways in Mumbai. Her routine was grueling, with hours of practice before and after work, and hours on the train rushing from place to place delivering documents for work.

“Many of my friends, they left cricket,” Kaur says. “At some point, they had to choose one—cricket or office life.”

Only recently has India’s governing board for cricket begun to significantly invest in district and state competition for female players. Now with the advent of the women’s professional league, India will need to develop a female talent pool up and down the country.

“The young girls who haven’t gotten enough chances—for them, this is a great platform,” Kaur says.

Even after Kaur had become a fixture on the women’s national team, she had to keep taking side jobs. She found part-time work at Indian Railways in Mumbai. Her routine was grueling, with hours of practice before and after work. She spent hours on the train rushing from place to place delivering documents for work.

“Many of my friends, they left cricket,” Kaur says. “At some point, they had to choose one—cricket or office life.”

Only recently has India’s governing board for cricket begun to significantly invest in district and state competition for female players. Now with the advent of the women’s professional league, India will need to develop a female talent pool up and down the country.

“The young girls who haven’t gotten enough chances—for them, this is a great platform,” Kaur says.

As Kaur led her team to victory after victory in Mumbai, as she received accolade after accolade and check after check, the girls in Dharoki watched in awe.

Sisters Naina and Sunaina, ages 13 and 12, belong to the local cricket team. Both of their parents are sweepers—their father works as a sweeper at the private school in the village, and their mother sweeps the houses of five different families. The family shares a one-bedroom on a second floor, which they reach by climbing a rickety ladder. When it rains, a corner of their room drips.

When Women’s Premier League games are on, the sisters return from their own cricket practice and bundle up on the bed to watch the action on their small TV with their father, as their mother prepares dinner on the stove on the balcony. Naina and Sunaina can list the best players, their teams, and the handsome salary each is paid.

The girls’ cricket team in Dharoki started with Coach Shergill tossing balls with his daughter on their rooftop when she was 6. When the Covid lockdown shut schools, the number of girls on the rooftop increased. Three years ago, he carved out a corner of the family’s wheat fields and dedicated himself to managing a girls’ team.

As Kaur led her team to victory after victory in Mumbai, she received accolade after accolade and check after check. The girls in Dharoki watched in awe.

Sisters Naina and Sunaina, ages 13 and 12, belong to the local cricket team. Both of their parents are sweepers. Their father works as a sweeper at the private school in the village, and their mother sweeps the houses of five different families. The family shares a one-bedroom on a second floor, which they reach by climbing a rickety ladder. When it rains, a corner of their room drips.

When Women’s Premier League games are on, the sisters return from their own cricket practice. They bundle up on the bed to watch the action on their small TV with their father. Their mother prepares dinner on the stove on the balcony. Naina and Sunaina can list the best players, their teams, and the handsome salary each is paid.

The girls’ cricket team in Dharoki started with Coach Shergill tossing balls with his daughter on their rooftop when she was 6. When the Covid lockdown shut schools, the number of girls on the rooftop increased. Three years ago, he carved out a corner of the family’s wheat fields and dedicated himself to managing a girls’ team.

Much of Shergill’s monthly salary of about $600 goes to jerseys, equipment, and food. He pays a part-time coach to do the technical training. The household expenses are largely covered by his wife’s earnings as a government clerk, supplemented by the farm’s income.

He’s sensitive to the fact that his players come from diverse financial backgrounds. He provides the same shoes for all. The batting equipment is shared. Everyone’s lunch box has the same food on travel days. The last thing a child needs is a taunt: that she wears donated shoes while others came with ones their parents bought.

Beyond the daily practice, Shergill looks for exposure opportunities for his players—and every time, he makes clear that cricket is just a vehicle.

Much of Shergill’s monthly salary of about $600 goes to jerseys, equipment, and food. He pays a part-time coach to do the technical training. The household expenses are largely covered by his wife’s earnings as a government clerk and are supplemented by the farm’s income.

He’s sensitive to the fact that his players come from diverse financial backgrounds. He provides the same shoes for all. The batting equipment is shared. Everyone’s lunch box has the same food on travel days. The last thing a child needs is a taunt because she wears donated shoes while others came with ones their parents bought.

Beyond the daily practice, Shergill looks for exposure opportunities for his players. He makes it clear that cricket is just a vehicle.

In September 2022, the team traveled to Mohali, about 50 miles from the village, to watch the Indian men’s national team play Australia. Shergill’s wife and sister baked 60 rotis (flatbreads)—two for each girl and a few for the adults—and cooked some vegetables, packing all the food and water into one bag. They and Shergill’s mother chaperoned the girls.

The team arrived early at the stadium. “Everyone sees the match,” Shergill says. “We were there to see them practice.”

After the match, when the V.I.P.s had gone home, Shergill took the girls on a tour of the stands. As the girls enjoyed the comfort of chairs marked with the names of dignitaries, Shergill made a video of them.

In September 2022, the team traveled to Mohali, about 50 miles from the village. They went to watch the Indian men’s national team play Australia. Shergill’s wife and sister baked 60 rotis (flatbreads)—two for each girl and a few for the adults. They also cooked some vegetables and packed all the food and water into one bag. They and Shergill’s mother chaperoned the girls.

The team arrived early at the stadium. “Everyone sees the match,” Shergill says. “We were there to see them practice.”

After the match, when the V.I.P.s had gone home, Shergill took the girls on a tour of the stands. As the girls enjoyed the comfort of chairs marked with the names of dignitaries, Shergill made a video of them.

“This child—she is sitting in the chief minister of Punjab’s seat!” he says in the video as he moves the camera down the line, the pride clear in his voice. “Karandeep Kaur—in the chair of Honorable Justice Ravi Shanker Jha! Naina, in the chair of Harbhajan Singh, member of Parliament!”

This is what it looks like to chip away at India’s rigid gender divide. The girls walk and talk with the kind of confidence that comes with travel and exposure. They’ve seen cities, eaten in restaurants, and sat in the front rows of stadiums with cameras pointed their way.

Back home, their daily routine has become just another part of village life. But it’s also building toward something bigger.

One morning in late March, Shergill and his team arrived at the cricket ground in the city of Patiala, where recruiters were shortlisting players for the district’s under-15 squad. Selection to this team is the only way the girls get an opportunity to play in competitive matches and put themselves on the sport’s official radar.

“This child—she is sitting in the chief minister of Punjab’s seat!” he says in the video as he moves the camera down the line. The pride is clear in his voice. “Karandeep Kaur—in the chair of Honorable Justice Ravi Shanker Jha! Naina, in the chair of Harbhajan Singh, member of Parliament!”

This is what it looks like to chip away at India’s rigid gender divide. The girls walk and talk with the kind of confidence that comes with travel and exposure. They’ve seen cities, eaten in restaurants, and sat in the front rows of stadiums with cameras pointed their way.

Back home, their daily routine has become just another part of village life. But it’s also building toward something bigger.

One morning in late March, Shergill and his team arrived at the cricket ground in the city of Patiala. Recruiters were shortlisting players for the district’s under-15 squad. Selection to this team is the only way the girls get an opportunity to play in competitive matches. It will put them on the sport’s official radar.

Three women, all former state-level players, watched and made notes. As the girls went through their drills, Shergill filled out their paperwork on the sidelines. At the end of the session, the recruiters told Shergill that five of his players would most likely make the team. (Days later, over the phone, they told him that seven had been selected.)

After the tryout, the team walked to a nearby restaurant. Sitting around a table, the girls pulled out their lunch boxes and water bottles and had their meal. A small cake arrived: It was 12-year-old Jasmin’s birthday. The girls sang together and fed each other cake. Then, in their white uniforms, they filed out of the restaurant to catch the bus back to the village.

Three women, all former state-level players, watched and made notes. The girls went through their drills. Shergill filled out their paperwork on the sidelines. At the end of the session, the recruiters told Shergill that five of his players would most likely make the team. (Days later, over the phone, they told him that seven had been selected.)

After the tryout, the team walked to a nearby restaurant. Sitting around a table, the girls pulled out their lunch boxes and water bottles and had their meal. A small cake arrived. It was 12-year-old Jasmin’s birthday. The girls sang together. They fed each other cake. Then, in their white uniforms, they filed out of the restaurant to catch the bus back to the village.