Sarah Waris was at Indore to watch India take on England at the Women's World Cup - here's how the experience went.
The only briefing I received before heading to Indore for the Women’s World Cup, the first I was covering, was simply, “Keep an eye out.”
For what exactly, though? The spotless roads that greeted you in the city voted India’s cleanest? The perfectly handcrafted diyas, painted and laid neatly on the pavements ahead of Diwali? Or the absence of hoardings announcing a world event, so unlike the men’s World Cup two years ago, when familiar stars greeted you every half a mile.
So I looked around anyway, asking Uber drivers and hotel receptionists if they knew about the tournament. Some smiled in recognition, others blinked in surprise. One proudly claimed that his son would be one of the few carrying India’s flag onto the field, while another blatantly said he did not care much for women’s cricket. “But, they deserve to get your cheer”, you quipped. “But it’s not exciting enough”, before you decide to cut the conversation short. Ignorance, at times, is bliss; you’ve started to implement.
You’re probably reading this because the headline asks what it’s like to cover a Women’s World Cup. The answer is… quietly consuming. You don’t know what to expect regarding the atmosphere or the vibes, but you know you will embrace it. Firsts are always like that.
I hadn’t received my accreditation card before flying, and it had to be picked up in Indore a day before the game. That meant landing earlier than planned, on the dreaded morning flight after a late-night shift, and surviving on a one-hour nap before heading to training. Rain, which has followed this tournament like a faithful extra, washed the session out. Thankfully, the afternoon was salvaged by a samosa filled with a spicy mixture of dhania and potato, along with raisins, and a cup of masala chai, sipped while watching the covered green outfield.
Match day arrived after a restless night of brainstorming story angles and scrolling through player match-ups. I reached the Holkar Stadium two hours early; the atmosphere was all light, Diwali eve casting a festive calm over the city. The media entry gate, I learnt, actually belongs to the basketball stadium next door. Before every international match, a section of the wall between the two is broken down and rebuilt later. In return, the basketball association gets twenty match tickets and fifty food boxes. Only in India will that trade be readily accepted.
Inside the press box, the buzz built slowly. No foreign reporters in sight, though I did spot Ms Pauline Bunce, once the manager of Australia’s 1975 World Cup side. A Jemimah Rodrigues fan, she had been travelling as a supporter. “Players don’t mingle like they used to,” she said, her eyes full of stories about the bygone era. I believed her. Access feels different, more measured, less spontaneous. My own interview requests to the team managers had been deferred as sides dived into final preparations. Fair enough.
By the time I settled with coffee and my favourite butter biscuits, word spread that the versatile Jemimah had been dropped for an extra bowler. The question of “Why her?” never found an answer. After discussing the possible reasons for her exclusion, you stood up for the national anthem. The hush before “Jaya He” and the swell after it still give me goosebumps.
Through the game, I watched two worlds of journalism unfold. The print reporters typed furiously, chasing a strict 11 pm deadline, when the newspaper’s first edition needed to be finalised. “The worst part,” one said, “is when the result flips in the end overs. You have to rewrite 800 words all over again!” Spoiler alert, but that’s exactly how it panned out, much to her dismay. In digital, the rules are different. We chase algorithms instead. If an article misses its initial wave of clicks, it quietly disappears, and so the time of publishing is crucial. Very rarely will an article be published late at night. It gives you that extra breathing space to send a match analysis before the first shift begins in the morning. There are no word limits, too, and just like that, my 700-word article is now extending over the 1,100-word mark..
During a short lull in the first innings, I roamed the stadium, a rare luxury with a press card. From waste-segregation corners to spotting a century-old roller, it was a world rarely seen. One guard told me about a teenager who’d tried to force entry into another stand, threatening to post his photo online after he was denied. “People don’t respect boundaries anymore,” he said, half resigned.
And then, the food, always the food. Indore dished out butter chicken, dal makhani and different soups. “Lacks a bit of salt”, I thought, pretending to be on MasterChef Australia. Having covered a few games in a few stadiums, I’d say Eden Gardens still ranks first in dishing out - pun intended - the most varied food selection for the reporters, with lip-smacking prawn curries and fish cutlets. Indore was not in my top two (Lucknow is second), but it was relished nonetheless. But now it was time to get back to the game.
When it was clear that victory would elude India, chaos began to rise. “How much did Mandhana make?” someone shouted in a rush to complete his report. “Eighty-eight,” came the reply. It’s a peculiar ecosystem, where you are competitors on paper, but collaborators in spirit.
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When the last ball was bowled and India lost three in a row, a quiet gloom settled. It is not the usual frustration of a journalist forced to rewrite a report, but the ache of a fan within. You remind yourself to stay neutral, but it’s hard to detach after witnessing how much heart the players pour into every moment. Because here, only the ones who truly care about the game show up. Unlike at the men’s matches, where the need for visibility often drowns out the cricket, the women’s game attracts a different kind of reporting: softer in tone, free of noise and ego. To criticise, yes, but without cruelty. And perhaps, that's the difference - if the ones so eager to rant after every loss truly cared, they'd have been here too.
As I left the stadium, staring at the unhurried light of the diyas, I realised maybe that’s what I was meant to notice. Not the noise or the banners, but the quiet persistence that keeps flickering even when few are watching. Covering women’s cricket feels a lot like that: steady and understated.
Back at the hotel, now it was my turn to file the story. It was 12:48 am when I began, and past four by the time I saved the draft. Exhausting, yes, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
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