Jessica D’cruze is a storyteller, photographer, emerging writer, and artist, as well as a social worker. Diagnosed with ADHD at 36 years old, she embraces nonlinear thinking and creativity in her multidisciplinary work. Jessica explores trans-migrational experiences through food, imagery, and writing, with a strong focus on photo essays as a storytelling medium. She holds a Bachelor of Photography from RMIT and a Diploma in Community Development and recently completed her Master of Counselling at Victoria University. Her multidisciplinary work has been showcased in various projects—her images, words, and short film were featured in TakeBack, a project presented by Multicultural Arts Victoria in 2021. Jessica’s essay, Mustard Koi Fish, was published in Kindling & Sage Magazine.
The Religion of Cricket
It was just past 1 a.m., March 4th, 2022. I’d fallen asleep moments earlier, after bingeing an entire season of Stranger Things on Netflix, when my friend Apu, from Canada, DMed me on Instagram:
‘Jess! Shane Warne is dead. I’m devastated.’
I squinted, rubbing my eyes—the rush of adrenaline had woken me up. I tapped the notification to read it properly.
‘I’m crying and drinking.’
Apu and I were a couple of OCIs (Overseas Citizens of India), connected across oceans by a rectangle full of lights and clockworks. It had been years since we’d seen each other face to face.
I replied with the brown-toned surprise emoji and tried to slip back into my hard-earned REM sleep. With ADHD, the circadian rhythms are delayed—melatonin released ever so slowly, little dribs here and drabs there…
More notifications pinged. I squeezed my eyes shut. Faint memories surfaced: I watched Shane Warne perform an impeccable leg-spin bowl—and faded into sleep.
Shafts of morning light refracted through my window while night settled over Toronto. It was past 7 a.m. I doom-scrolled Warne’s death and texted back.
‘I’m sorry, mate. Drink up.’
I first met Apu when I was living in London in 2010, on the now-defunct social platform Orkut—Third World’s Facebook. We shared a love for photography. At the time, Orkut was the leading social network across Asia, Africa and South America. People from the South Asian diaspora used it to stay connected to their motherlands.
Apu was based in Dublin, studying Biochemistry at Trinity College. I was just beginning my backpacker journey around Europe, having recently completed a degree in Commercial and Editorial Photography at RMIT. Before I left Melbourne for the UK, I DMed him on Orkut:
‘Apu, I’m moving to the UK for two years and will visit Dublin. Please, let’s catch up and take photos together.’
In India, Hindus represent roughly 79% of the population, while only about 2% are Christian. But it doesn’t matter that Apu is Hindu and comes from an upper caste Brahmin family, and that I’m Catholic. It doesn’t matter that he’s a man, and I’m a woman. It doesn’t matter that he’s an Indian living in Canada, and I’m an Indian living in Australia. Cricket is our unifying religion, one we rapaciously devour, like gulps of hot, milky, syrupy tea followed by a collective exclamation of ‘ahhhhh.’ The subcontinent has numerous faiths. We have our disputes—but cricket is the love and commitment that binds us.
A memory flashes—as if a projector is whirring, gearing up. The picture is blurred at first, then sharpens—my mind’s film reel begins to replay a specific day: I’m transported back to my family home in Kolkata, India.
It’s 1996. The Wills World Cup is here, and it’s the quarter-final match between India and Pakistan. In the D’cruze living room, we’re watching our 32-inch black and white Videocon TV. On screen, rows and rows of spectators from all walks of life wait for the match to begin in the stadium in Bangalore, Karnataka. I see the cricket grounds lined with ads for Benson & Hedges cigarettes and Cadbury Dairy Milk. In the scorching heat, from pavilion and grandstand seats to sponsored corporate boxes and budget-friendly nosebleed sections, crowds sway and dance—clapping, screaming, praying, hyperventilating, whistling—creating impromptu poetry and singsongs. My eye zooms in on the flag of India painted on so many faces. Their excitement and anticipation are palpable. That same anxiety churns in my preteen stomach.
When India plays Pakistan, the love for cricket brings both nations to a halt. It happened then. It happens now. And it always will—in the history of cricket.
*
That Saturday, the quarter-match brought the city to a standstill—like a ratty, jumpy local train from Kolkata to rural Bonga, screeching to a stop unceremoniously and hurling passengers from their seats.
The game was scheduled for an early start. Local shopkeepers, often open late, grumbled about lost business—‘We will lose money!’—yet they, too, were swept up in the anticipation. Most stayed open until midday, before surrendering to the fever that gripped the neighbourhood.
Radios crackled from verandas and windowsills. I remember the sound of shutters slamming closed in the warm March arvo. On every street, people rushed home, chappals slapping the pavement in a chorus of urgency.
It was hot, burning-the-hairs-on-my-head hot. Umbrellas-over-everyone’s-heads kind of hot. It was also a Saturday, and thank you, Jesus, Mary and Joseph (and St. Anthony, too): no school.
That morning, Ma had forced me to finish my English homework, and I—begrudgingly as those shop owners forced to close early—attempted to memorise the poem I needed to elocute for school.
Shortly after, she lathered Navratna Tel into my hair. Its coolness bloomed across my scalp as I rushed into the living room—my lanky eleven-year-old self, dressed in cotton crumpled shorts and Papa’s oversized T-shirt. I carried with me the intense herbal fragrance of japa, bringhraj, bharmi, amla— of thyme and rosemary oil—which mingled with the electrifying energy of the living room. The rickety ceiling fan groaned furiously, and the humid air lifted the oil’s cooling vapours up and around the bustle.
Pressing my tiny palms together in prayer, I muttered, ‘Hail Mary full of grace, let Tendulkar hit lots of fours and sixes, please!!!’—the relentless drone and commotion of my own overlapping thoughts finding a singular purpose.
When I opened my eyes, I was clapping along with the crowds on TV, the collective cheer swelling into a chant as the players walked onto the field. India had won the toss and chose to bat first.
All afternoon, scores and commentary blared from TVs and radios, weaving through the narrow lanes of the Christian para (neighbourhood). If you’d peered through any of the green-slatted windows, you’d have seen the same edge-of-your-seat squats, the same expressions of excitement and dread etched into every face.
I can still hear my drumming heartbeat, feel the restlessness of that one jittery leg, that twitchy eye. Feel the beads of sweat dripping from my scalp to my brow, the nail bitten off too close to the quick. The whole country held its breath as if on the brink of an anxiety attack—but it wasn’t. It was just cricket.
*
The commitment to the match begins with errands completed—groceries picked up and dropped off, arms heavy with bags from the bazaar and neighbourhood shops—everyone hurrying home before the batting begins.
Kids are bathed, their hair slicked with oil, dressed in breezy cotton to survive the heat. They’re fed and settled, while mothers, aunties, and grandmothers set huge pots of tea on the stove, letting the brew darken and deepen just enough before adding milk, sugar, ginger, cardamom, and cloves. Stacks of Britannia biscuits, purchased in bulk, sit ready to be torn open.
The swirly smoke of smooth-tailored cigarettes lurks around uncles who can afford them, while the raw, pungent stink of bidis (unprocessed tobacco) clings to those who can’t. Smoke mixes with the steamy chai aroma and curls into the warm air, settling into our clothes and into our conversations.
For cricket season, households gather in one bubbling, buzzing spot—the home transformed into a makeshift stadium—where every over, wicket out, and sixes scored dictates the mood and rhythm of the day.
These gatherings were the social glue of our Christian para; and our home in Kolkata—the compound—was one such meeting ground. This was where I lived with my parents, uncles, aunties, cousins, and grandparents—the extended D’cruze clan. The hub where we all conversed, laughed, argued, and cheered in a thick, overlapping chorus.
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During games, Kaka (my father’s brother) wore his manky, needing-a-wash-real-bad ‘lucky’ towel wrapped around him. People avoided sitting next to him. Kaka’s ritual was bound to help Tendulkar score some solid, soaring sixes. Surely.
Papa closed his tailoring shop early the day of the ‘96 quarter-final match. Since the children didn’t have school, we were allowed to sit with the whole family. It came with a catch: alongside memorising that darn poem, I had to put in two full hours of chemistry homework. But the reward was a prized seat among the hyped-up adults. It really couldn’t get better than that.
My giddy, jet-black-hair-platted-down-by-back self plonked herself on the concrete floor, right in the thick of it. The chai. The smoke. The warm air. The blaring radio. The nervous murmurs. And it was all mine.
2014
Fast-forward eighteen years. It’s the ICC World Cup hosted by Australia and New Zealand. My best friend is performing in the opening ceremony, and thanks to her, I get to attend. It’s been 13 years since I migrated to Australia, and now the match is happening in my new hometown—right here in Melbourne, at the G.
Cricket has long faded into the background of my life. I’ve hardly attended a match in years. But as the ceremony begins, for a few seconds, my mind’s projector whirs to life: I see my family back in Kolkata, huddled around the TV, just as they always do. Through my best friend, I feel connected to them again. They know I’m here, in the audience, as they sit on the edge of their seats, glued to the screen.
My Huawei smart phone buzzes. A trail of WhatsApp messages lights up the screen:
‘Wow Didi! Cannot believe you’re at the MCG!’
‘How far are you from it? Do you live close by?’
I’m living in North Fitzroy with my best friend, I reply:
‘Just a 15-minute tram ride, bhai.’
We text back and forth in real-time as the performance continues. No radios blaring. No frantic commentary on the streets. No chappals slapping the pavement. Just a quick tap into the Cricinfo website—refresh, repeat. Scores updating in neat digital lines, replacing the crackling voices of my childhood para.
The projector whirs again…
Jadeja—royal family member turned cricket star—scores a SIX!!!!!!!
Guttural screams erupt, reverberating through the concrete walls of our L-shaped house. The whole para is there. Papa, Kaka, and their mates grab whatever they can—steel and brass utensils—hatha, khunti—and transform them into instruments of wild, unhinged joy. They bang and clang, hooting, singing.
Kids leap and twirl, stomp and spin to the rhythm of this impromptu music. Oh, Holy Cricket—you are a unifying religion indeed!
Thick, syrupy tea, swirling with steam, is passed around like blessings in an unending ceremony—the high of the game, the high from the sugar, the high of being together.
For days, weeks, we’ll replay the thrill of each crack of bat on ball, every smashed wicket, every moment of comic relief from the commentators.
What’s this, if not community prospering?
*
In 2014, I was dating a man from New Zealand. With India out of the finals, I decided to support his team. Flatscreens blared commentary and scores in sticky pubs across the city. Aussie and Kiwi accents roared from every corner. I was surrounded by white boys in board shorts and chappals—they call them thongs here—reveling in the dry, non-sweaty heat.
I tried to assimilate, to pump myself up with borrowed excitement—tried to summon the joy I once felt in that living room in Kolkata.
Pints of beer with foamy heads overflowed from icy glasses—overtired bartenders slammed them onto tabletops. Bowls of wedges with sour cream and sweet chilli sauce were passed around.
A sixer was hit. It was Australia’s Ricky Ponting. The pub erupted. A blonde dude ordered shots of tequila—or was it Jägerbombs? One was passed to me like a communion cup.
I took the shot. Chased it with a gulp of beer. Exhaled the sticky scent of hops and yeast. I closed my eyes. Imagined inhaling the scent of syrupy tea.
And just like that—I was back in 1996.
Innings Break 1996
Thakuma (my father’s mother), with her little feet, gathered and nudged us into the prayer room. After a few mutterings of the Christian rosaries, she dedicated one, especially, to the players.
Slip a little prayer.
Call up on Mother Mary.
One saint, two saints.
Which God and Goddess are the Hindus praying to?
What prayers are being offered to Allah?
Is Guru Grant Sahib ensuring we score high, beyond Pakistan’s reach?
Run, run, run, Jadeja, run like a trooper Tendulkar.
Slurp that tea.
Oil that hair.
Tie it up in a tight bun.
The house filled with relatives, the anticipation thickening. Bang, bang, bang, went the utensils—a firecracker popping and bursting in the distance.
Big steel bowls of rice crisps, coated in pork vindaloo masala, were passed around. Bits of shredded pork appeared in the crisps like revelations. Past celebrations and festivities had mostly emptied out the big fleshy, fatty pieces, leaving only the essence, the residue of the flavour.
Why was it so good? What was it about the stacked flavour of food that had reveled in its own richness for days—then ruptured open in your mouth?
*
I decided to dial Apu. I wanted to participate in his grief. His grief over Shane Warne.
To share mine over my lapsed Catholicism. My lapsed Cricketism.
I asked him, ‘Who is Dhoni? Who is playing these days, I don’t know.’
I no longer recognised the faces, just as I no longer recognised where my own excitement had gone. Kellogg’s rice bubbles had replaced rice crisps. Papa’s pork vindaloo was too rich, too unlike Thakuma’s, too like the white world. I didn’t know where to begin when it came to connecting with the cricket-watching, chai-loving Indians down under. I didn’t want meat pies slathered in sauce to celebrate the game. I didn’t want the Coles and Woolies snags. Fuck the bland snags.
Apu said he was making chai, the proper kind, in a pot with milk, sugar, and a bit of ginger.
‘Why don’t you make some, too, Jess?’
I dunked my masala tea bag from the Indian grocery shop in Holden Street in a cup of boiling water, and we reflected on why I’d removed myself from cricket entirely.
‘The love I had is the love I ignored, Apu. I ignored it because I was alone.’
I confessed as if confessing my sins to the priest back in Kolkata’s convent school. I didn’t have much community living here; I bargained.
After moving to Australia—an only child living in the far-from-everything eastern suburbs of Frankston in the early 2000s—cricket had not been my priority. My parents worked egregiously long hours trying to provide for me and my family back home. I diverted my attention to other interests. I developed an antipathy for sport. Contracted tall-poppy syndrome, caring only for art and music, and took up photography. My mates were European Australians—predominantly goths, metalheads, and artists. I suffered from the hipster disorder of anti-sport sentiment. I distanced myself from the sport and the community. I couldn’t connect to its culture here. I didn’t give a shit, mate. Maybe because there was no one to give a shit with?
I travelled back to 1996 as Apu narrated Shane Warne’s excellent spin ball techniques. I recalled how the Bengalis gathered to debrief and analyse the game in post-victory bliss.
India had won the game against Pakistan, and despite Sri Lanka winning the World Cup that year, that match remained one of the most memorable for me.
Discussions erupted from every corner of the house about the great and poor performances of the cricketers. Rational and irrational theories were tossed around: Who had taken bribes? Which sportsman’s wife was leaving them? Would their wives distract them by being in the stadium?
I still hear their overlapping voices, echoing through the walls, as if descending from on high.
The rounds of tea were endless.
Sometimes, I grew irritated at the thought of Pishis (aunties) and Ma having to be in the kitchen—boiling the water, brewing the tea, adding the sugar—missing out on the discussions, while the Kakas and Papas waffled on.
At the time, I didn’t fully understand the gender gap, but I felt it. I wanted more female voices screaming with me. But Thakuma was there—her sole presence so steady, it had kept that thrumming energy alive for years.
January 2025
It’s peak summer in Melbourne, which means the weather swings from glaring sun on Tuesday to pouring rain on Wednesday. I’ve just returned from a South Asian meet-up where we all spoke of isolation within our community. How the different states, faiths, cultures, and castes struggle to mix, connect, and see each other as one. We share a collective hope of changing that.
I dial Papa.
‘Papa, I have tickets to a cricket match at the MCG. Shall we go?’
‘Of course.’