In Kolkata's Suburbs, Young Girls Carry Heavy Kits, Heavier Dreams

• The suburbs around Kolkata, with their fair share of histories and lores, have nursed a sustained obsession with sports since the colonial years

• It is now a familiar evening sight to catch a glimpse of countless young girls with heavy kit bags on their backs, making their way to century-old coaching clubs after school

• Most of these clubs now have active women’s teams and coaching camps, with women’s cricket not a tokenistic mention but a stable project

In West Bengal’s Chandannagar, there have been hushed conversations among people over the last week. The Cricket Association of Bengal (CAB)-affiliated district association in the area has found itself in quite a pickle, unsure of how to tackle the brickbats being aimed at them. When the association, responsible for organising a CAB under-15 boys’ cricket tournament, could not find an eighth team, they quietly fielded a girls’ team of players from across the town. In their very first match, the girls, brought in as a stopgap arrangement, ended up handing a humiliating defeat to a boys’ team representing one of the major clubs in the area. 

The sight of a girls’ team playing in a boys’ tournament was initially surprising but eventually offensive for the team on the losing end, which ended up lodging a complaint at the state’s apex body. The entire fixture was rehashed immediately, records of the match were removed and the match, scores of which were recorded on an online portal, was termed a warm-up. The fiasco was discarded as an administrative blunder, but whether it was such a hard pill to swallow because of the magnitude of the defeat or because it came at the hands of young girls, most of whom hail from the humblest of backgrounds, is still a pricking question.

Word travels fast in such quaint towns. There were pursed smiles and a tempered sense of pride everywhere. The embarrassment was suddenly odd and limited to the paper. The suburbs around Kolkata, with their fair share of histories and lores, have nursed a sustained obsession with sports since the colonial years. It is now a familiar evening sight to catch a glimpse of countless young girls with heavy kit bags on their backs, perched on cycles or motorbikes clasping tightly onto their parents and making their way to century-old coaching clubs after school. Most of these clubs now have active women’s teams and coaching camps, with women’s cricket not a tokenistic mention but a stable project.

However, for most of these clubs, financial stability is still a far-fetched idea. Operating on shoestring budgets, sporting development in the suburbs stands on dreams, a desire to have names from the towns make it big, and an unshakable love for the sport. A few kilometres away, in the neighbouring town of Chinsurah, cricket is played in the pursuit of fabled dreams coming true.

Adjacent to the office of the Hooghly District Sports Association (HDSA), coach Koustav Rajak was busy at the practice nets overseeing the usual batting drills. At the crease, with the bat, was his 13-year-old daughter Manushri, and observing her was Shraboni Hembrom, perfecting her grip against the stitch on the red ball. Koustav, in his forties, was persistent. He would make his daughter repeat the stroke till she corrected a flaw in her grip. “If she does not correct it now, she will never be able to grow out of it,” he said, asking them to take a break.

Shraboni, 15, smiled coyly, when asked about the practice schedule. “On weekends, it begins at 7 am in the morning. I wake up at 4:30 am and leave by 5,” she said. Hailing from a small town around 35 km from the club, Shraboni has learnt to travel alone now. Her familiarity with the early twilight, the familiar call of the rooster, the horn of the passing train and the vendors who throng railway stations early in the morning is striking, as she almost laughs at the prospect of any other 15-year-old not being able to do it. “My parents used to accompany me earlier, but now it's routine. People think I cannot travel with a kit bag alone,” she said, only to be interjected by Manushri. “Too many people think a lot of things,” she said, with a sense of camaraderie peeping out of the interjection.

Koustav Rajak works at an early-morning wholesale fish market and as a coach at the Town Club for the rest of the day. As the sole breadwinner of the family, he knows it is futile to complain but acknowledges the toll it takes on the family. “Working at the crack of dawn helps to provide for Manushri and his mother. It is difficult­­—but when I look at her with the bat in her hand, the troubles seem inconsequential,” said Koustav, looking at his daughter in her white gear. Manushri divides her time between Town Club and a club in Kolkata. At 13, she is already a recognisable name in the circuit, having been a part of the Bengal U-15 girls' squad, the district squad, and the Calcutta Police Club (women’s team) among others. However, travelling frequently to Kolkata has incurred a financial burden which has not been easy for Koustav to bear. “In addition to travel, there are meals and other necessities which one needs to cater to, and it has not been easy on the family financially,” he said as he took a few steps away from his daughter. “Her mother and I were into sports, and we are aware of the compromises that we must make. It has been very difficult, but none of that will ever affect her,” adds Koustav, speaking of the insurance plan he has in place for their child.

Shraboni, hailing from a Santhal family, has found it rather easy to brush aside stray comments but stigma keeps hounding her at every step. “They keep reminding me that a lotus doesn’t bloom in muck, but I don’t take any of that to heart. I know my father has to bear the brunt of taunts from people in our village, but he never lets that get to me,” she added.

Koustav, who also wanted to pursue cricket professionally, adds that taunts are constant. However, to rise above all of it moulds a player, he adds, citing Dangal as his favourite film. He believes all players under his tutelage are destined to excel. “It’s an ecosystem. For that one name at the top of the pyramid, there are countless people forming the base, with their contributions and compromises. Sport in India has always been about this ecosystem. I wasn’t destined for the top, but I will gladly be a part of the ecosystem for my child and the other girls,” he adds, holding back a tear.

Manushri is a girl of few words. Her eyes convey a sense of confidence that knows exactly what she must do to help her family. It is in her quiet acceptance that she shapes her aspirations. Her financial situation does not embarrass but only empowers her to keep pushing the bar. “We are constantly reminded of the fact that she might not have the usual marriage-to-family journey. I would be glad. Cricket is an almost meditative pursuit. And on that journey, she will need to prioritise herself—even if that means shunning the usual,” her father said, adding, “She has already risen beyond the usual­—was selected in under-18 camp when she was only of 10, and was recently the man of the match in three consecutive matches.”

“Uff, Player of the match, baba, not man,” interjected Manushri as she walked back to the crease. Her father echoed the term, nodding in familiar acknowledgement, as Shraboni chuckled. 

Aisha Manna, also 15, hails from a village called Takipur, a 2.5-hour train ride from Chinsurah. Daughter of a farmer, Aisha takes on the five-hour travel on days of practice, alone. When asked if it scares her, she quickly said, “The people on the train make me feel safe. They help me with my bag, make space for me, and ask me about my matches.” The youngest of three sisters, Aisha’s cricketing dreams have been nurtured by her sisters’ families. A regular at Kolkata league matches, costs keep soaring and questions keep coming at her. Her brother-in-law, who once nursed a dream to join cricket a coaching camp, lives it vicariously through his young sister-in-law. Aisha considers him to be a god-like presence in her life. “I did not know it was possible for a person to do so much for another. Even on days when doubt and shame jolt my parents, he stands like a rock,” she said. For Aisha, who follows Smriti Mandhana religiously, cricket now, is a grasp at survival. “There is a strong possibility I may end up being nothing, but I am too deep in this now to leave it. If I do, my family won’t be spared of the humiliation,” the 15-year-old said, adjusting the grip on the bat. For Aisha, 2026 brings two challenges: her class 10 board examinations and selections for Bengal. “Despite having almost nothing, the way my family has supported me, I have no choice but to make sure I deliver in both," she said, locking eyes on the newly pasted Indian women's cricket team poster on the wall.

Anuradha Koley, who has been listening to the conversations with a sense of laidback curiosity, was seated on the field, away from the rest. Her smile spoke of age and experience. In a crumpled shirt, worn-out jeans, and a sweatshirt, she stood up with a grunt and heaved. “All of this only after the World Cup?” she suddenly uttered as softly and sardonically as possible. She introduced herself as the captain of the Dhaniakhali women’s team, hailing from a village almost 35 km from Chinsurah. “I am 26 and I love it when young girls dream and talk of their dreams loudly,” said Anuradha as she walked alongside the practice nets.

Smiling as she spoke of the financial condition at her place, she said ‘nothing’ was the only word that came to mind. “We have nothing. From where I come, a girl going out leads to collective panic, let alone playing cricket,” she expressed. It’s her seventh year playing in local district games and hasn't been able to crack the Kolkata circuits yet. Anuradha has been shaped by the wear and tear that life brings every day. Her kit bag consisted of gear borrowed from other people. “Everything in this bag has been handed down to me, gifted to me, or sourced by my coach. My father has only been able to buy me a pair of gloves in these seven years,” she said.

Unable to complete her graduation owing to financial woes, Anuradha shifted her focus completely to the game. “When I joined my club in Dhaniakhali, I was the only girl there. I was surrounded by boys who hardly knew how to converse around a woman. My coach was the one who showed me the way. Eventually we had a changing room and separate restrooms. I shared everything with him—my troubles, my needs, the toll that period cramps took on my body and my injuries,” she said, looking proudly at the young girls training hard. 

When asked if she ever feels envious looking at the lives of other twenty-six-year-olds, she scoffs, “Nah, I was meant for this. Cricket is the answer.”

There was a pregnant pause as Anuradha promptly looked away. The sound of the balls striking the willow only grew louder. She stood in the middle of the field, tears running down her cheeks, lips quivering as she tried to utter a word but failed. 

“You hear so much as a woman and you bear so much as a woman. Cricket gave me an answer to my rage. The field has all the answers,” she muttered, her eyes red. 

As a twenty-six-year-old, she knows she cannot afford to dream like the other girls around her. And yet she refuses to give in to societal expectations of dressing a certain way and defining life ahead with marriage and family. “I will do what I want to do. And whoever must stay with me will have to be there for the long run, or I simply do not care,” she says, wiping the tear off her cheeks.

Anuradha has taken up local umpiring gigs recently to fund her frequent travels to Chinsurah and other towns. “It doesn't hurt to dream. I still dream of representing India. The World Cup win has made it even more real,” she said, squinting her eyes and looking up at the noon sun.

“Countless such lines converge here - of aspirations and limitations,” says Indranil Chakravarti, the secretary of HDSA and the Town Club, and a BCCI umpire, whose journey is rooted to this very field. “Gone are the days of treating women's cricket as a different entity. When we started on this journey of developing a women’s team we had nothing—not even changing rooms or restrooms. Now we have an annual nine-team district women’s league,” he notes. He remembers being laughed off when he had first pitched the idea of the league. “Four years down the line, it looks like we might have to add teams or a second division with the kind of reception that we have had,” said Chakravarti, who has seen the rise of the current crop of women's cricket stars from very close quarters, as an umpire in the domestic circuit.

He speaks of how local bodies operate with minimal funds, no sponsors, and rare donations. For Chakravarti, the 2025 Women’s World Cup win is to women's cricket what the 1983 World Cup was to men’s. “The women's game is here to grow. The journey ahead is long and difficult, but it’s one we, the ones who love the sport, will gladly take on,” he says.

In such suburbs, stories are being written by little girls from the margins, with heavy kit bags on their backs, who are not afraid to ask—for a seat on the train. Or a chance at sporting immortality. In different stages of their journeys, Manushri, Shraboni, Aisha and Anuradha stand for a million other dreams blooming in three-hour local train rides, in hollowed- out money-safes, in torn shoes with exposed soles and in borrowed kits. In towns like Chinsurah, the field silently bears witness to the audacity and aspirations where one story ends only to give birth to another—accommodating countless insecurities, different realities, and measured priorities.