The Quiet Death of Ranji: How the IPL Broke Domestic Cricket's Heart, Not Test Cricket

I am sitting in a room in Bangalore, and on the screen in front of me is a Ranji Trophy knockout match. The stadium is half full. When the camera pans to the outfield, I see three large advertising boards carrying the colours of a franchise — but that franchise is not playing in this match. This image has troubled me for years. This is not a match; it is the slow death of an institution. It is said that the IPL killed Test cricket. I have watched this game for forty years, and I believe that is wrong. Test cricket still sells — even after the 2026 Ahmedabad final, ticket queues formed; grounds fill up on Ashes days in England. What has died is the relevance of the Ranji Trophy. And the evidence of that death is found first in the scorecards nobody reads. The domestic cricket building has four floors — Ranji is the foundation, Duleep the first floor, Irani Cup the second, and Vijay Hazare and Syed Mushtaq Ali the upper floors. But over the last decade, someone has removed the stairs. I have collected some numbers in my diary. In the 2026-11 Ranji season, average attendance at a match against a mid-tier team was about four thousand. In 2026-23, the same match, the same ground, fewer than four hundred. This decline did not come from one cause. It is a disease of the selection process that we ignored. When selectors no longer read Ranji scorecards but read franchise scouting reports, what inspiration does a 22-year-old Ranji player have? He knows that if he plays two good innings in the IPL, the national team door may open — not by scoring four thousand runs over five Ranji seasons. This is a system where domestic cricket is no longer the gateway to the Indian team but a mandatory formality. My argument is not only about data. In 2026 I was associated with the BCA-Mafatlal Bowling Scheme, where Abey Kuruvilla, Paras Mhambrey, Sairaj Bahutule and Salil Ankola were trained under Frank Tyson. Back then, domestic cricket meant standing on the ground, honing your technique, earning the coach's attention, catching the selector's eye. Today that process happens at franchise trial camps where 3 are chosen from 200 boys. Those not chosen play Ranji — knowing their career will now be decided in someone else's eyes. Last year I watched a batsman score 42 and 68 in a Ranji match. When I asked how he would prepare for the next match, he said, "Sir, my IPL auction is next month, I need to work on my strike rate." There was no hunger for Ranji in his eyes. And I cannot blame him. But there is a counter-argument that troubles me most. We all say the IPL damaged domestic cricket, but the truth is the IPL replaced Ranji with something it needed — visibility. Before 2026, Ranji matches were barely televised. Now some Ranji matches appear on Star Sports and Hotstar. But this visibility is also a trap. When a young player plays Ranji on TV, his mind races toward IPL scouts rather than the match situation. When the ball turns on the third day of a Ranji pitch and a batsman must play two days, he starts thinking in the IPL's 120-ball framework. This is my real concern — the IPL did not kill Ranji; it reshaped the Ranji player's mind to fit the franchise. And this is a loss no statistic captures. What I learned during the eleven weeks I stayed away from the microphone during the 2026 match-fixing scandal was this — never stop asking questions, however uncomfortable. Today I want to ask the BCCI this. When the board earns thousands of crores annually from the IPL, why is there not a single permanent broadcast deal for Ranji Trophy matches? When nobody watches the Vijay Hazare final, what will the players think? In 2026, during the IPL final in Hyderabad, I started my newsletter, and I remember that year I wrote 600 words on the Ranji final — read by just 12 people. The next day, my 600 words on the IPL final were read by 8,400. That is the difference. And it is not just a difference in readership but in the priorities of an entire system. Now I ask my career's hardest question — should we even save Ranji? I ask because I watched the 2026 Women's World Cup final, when India won at DY Patil Stadium. The rush of girls onto the field reminded me of 2026. But even after that win the question remains — will our domestic system build the same path for those girls that Ranji built for boys? If the WPL becomes franchise-centric like the IPL, women's domestic cricket will follow the same road. I believe Ranji's real battle is no longer about cricket alone but about which direction India's sporting ecosystem will go — will we save only those who appear on camera, or also those who build the whole structure behind it? The crowd left, but the match kept speaking. The Ranji match is still speaking today — only nobody is listening. Next time you see an IPL scorecard, remember the Ranji scorecard beneath it, where some unknown boy fought for three days. The question is not whether the IPL is good or bad. The question is whether, if your son wants to be a cricketer and chooses to play for Ranji, you will watch him with pride. If the answer is no, the problem is not only the board's — it is ours too.