Barmer Bradman: From Viral Sixes to Vacant Nets, Unfinished Cricketing Journey of Mumal Meher

In the late afternoon heat of Barmer, with the sand still warm, a 15-year-old girl wearing a kurta-pyjama, plants her front foot, opens the face of her bat at the last possible moment, and sends it sailing. She hits a six. Then another. And another. In 2023, this Instagram video of Mumal Meher from Rajasthan hitting back‑to‑back sixes spread across social media, drawing comparisons to India’s most audacious modern batter—Suryakumar Yadav. Master blaster Sachin Tendulkar also shared the clip while praising Meher. Mithali Raj, former Captain of the Indian women’s cricket team, praised her timing. Former Delhi Commission for Women Chairperson and Rajya Sabha member, Swati Maliwal, and Chairman of the International Cricket Council (ICC) Jay Shah also acknowledged her talent. For a moment, the cricketing universe seemed to tilt towards a dusty village in Barmer district.

Almost three years later, the ground where Meher practises is smaller, uneven, and largely empty. The applause has faded. The promises have not materialised. And the girl who once embodied the internet’s favourite sporting dream now spends her evenings practising with a tennis ball, chasing an ambition that refuses to let go.

Barmer is not known for producing cricketers. It is a land of farmers, scorching summers, long distances, and limited resources. Meher grew up watching her parents work on others’ land, their income uncertain, barely touching Rs 2-2.5 lakh a year. Cricket entered her life not through acade­mies or structured coaching, but through family.

Her elder sister, Anisha, had played cricket for Rajasthan. Watching her was enough to spark something  in Meher. “I used to watch her play and I thought maybe, I could do that as well,” Mumal tells Outlook. She was 13 when she picked up the bat seriously in 2021, playing mostly with boys from the neighbourhood. Her first coach was also family, her cousin Roshan Khan who continues to train her today.

“She stood out immediately,” Khan says. “I organised a 15‑day camp. There were 12-15 boys and only one girl—Meher. Even without training, she was hitting almost every ball. Her reflexes, her fitness, everything was different.”

That was when he started training and making Meher practise along with Anisha in a nearby ground.

In 2023, Khan decided to record a video. There was no strategy, no brand plan, just a phone, a bat, and a teenager swinging freely. He uploaded it on Instagram without any intention or expectation of it going viral. The algorithm did the rest.

Sachin Tendulkar reposted the clip on his Twitter (now X) account. Overnight, Meher became a symbol of raw talent, of rural India and of the idea that genius can emerge anywhere.

“I felt very good. So many people were appreciating me,” Meher says. “I had hopes.”

Hope arrived quickly. So did promises that didn’t translate much into action. 

“Many people promised to help,” Meher says. “Leaders said that they would build a ground in the village. But nothing happened.”

Some support did come. Bharatiya Janata Party leader Satish Poonia sent her a cricket kit when the video went viral and spoke to her. Several others followed with equipment. Chief Minister Ashok Gehlot provided Rs 2.5 lakh in financial help. Actor Sonu Sood also suggested she come to Mumbai, but she was just 15—too young, according to her parents, to live by herself in a city completely unknown to them.

However, the attention helped her secure admission to a cricket academy in Jodhpur. The fee was waived—a direct result of her viral fame. 

“Because my video went viral and I didn’t have money, they allowed me for free,” Meher explains.

For three to four months, she followed a cricketer’s strict routine. Training from 7 am to noon. Back again from 4 to 7 pm. The facilities were good. The coaching was structured. For the first time, the dream felt tangible.

Then reality intervened.

“There was no girls’ hostel,” Meher says. “Only for boys.”

Initially, Anisha stayed with Meher in Jodhpur. But she soon got admission in a B.Ed. course in Jaipur and moved into a hostel. Meher’s brothers were too young to stay with her. The family could not afford the rented accommodation indefinitely which was almost four kilometres away from the academy. Safety, logistics, and money all collided.

“If there was a girls’ hostel, I would have lived alone,” Meher says, without hesitation.

“In a girls’ hostel, she could have stayed with other girls and we would have been okay with that, but she is too young to be left alone like that. I was concerned about her safety,” says her father.

Meher returned to Barmer.

Today, she is 18. She attends school from 9 am to 4 pm, travelling almost four kilometres each day. She leaves home at 7am. In the evenings, she practises from 5 to 7 pm—not at an academy, but at her brother’s place.

“It is just a small ground without a proper pitch for her to practise. There are farms around, so if the ball goes there at times, people get upset,” Khan says.

The difference from the academy, Meher stresses, is huge. “Earlier, in the academy we used a leather ball. Here it’s a tennis‑ball. There are no facilities. No proper pitch or ground.”

She has not trained regularly at a professional academy for nearly a year. Exams interrupted her schedule. Money closed doors. What began as a temporary break stretched into something more permanent.

Khan now adjusts training to circumstances. “Batting needs a proper ground,” he says. “So now we focus on fitness and bowling. She bowls 10-15 overs per session.”

The bigger challenge, he admits, is mental. “Earlier, the whole village supported her. Now people demotivate her. They say she won’t succeed. Because of this, she even stopped practising for a month last year. I keep motivating her, telling her that time will come.”

The gap between viral fame and sustainable support is stark. Once the buzz died down, so did the opportunities. “That support was only till I was viral,” Meher says. “Now they ask for money.”

Accommodation is the biggest hurdle and so are living expenses. Without a hostel or sponsorship, rejoining a top academy in big cities like Delhi remains out of reach.

Even selection opportunities have been elusive. “She travels with the district team but doesn’t get chances in matches,” Khan says. “She needs exposure, competition, and confidence.”

Yet, Meher has not given up. She runs, does yoga and exercises regularly. She trains her body for a future that has not yet opened its doors. “I want to play for India,” she says. Her favourite cricketer is Harmanpreet Kaur whose batting she likes. She also watches the Women’s Premier League, cheering for Mumbai Indians, imagining herself in blue.

Meher’s parents have never stopped her. That, her coach says, is her greatest strength. Her father, Mathar Khan, is a farmer who once did not even comprehend what cricket was. “When I saw her playing for the first time, I didn’t understand much,” he recalls. “I thought, what is she doing?”

Slowly, that confusion turned into recognition. He watched her leave early for school, practise in the evenings, train under Khan’s eye. “After watching her game, I realised she can play.”

“Seeing Mumal play cricket makes us very happy,” he says. “We want to see her on television, playing  for India, to bring pride to the village, the district, and the state.”

He acknowledges that for about a year she hasn’t been able to play properly because of financial constraints. “Whatever income we get goes into household expenses.”

Meher’s story is not unique, but it is revealing. A viral clip can open doors, but it cannot build hostels, fund long‑term coaching, or protect teenage girls navigating a professional sport.

“I want to join a good academy, play for Rajasthan, and then India,” Meher says. It is a simple roadmap; one followed by countless successful cricketers. What she lacks is not discipline or desire, but sustained backing.

On a small ground in Barmer, she still practises every evening after school. There is no crowd, no camera, and no certainty about what comes next. But she keeps showing up because for her, cricket is no longer about going viral. It is about staying in the game long enough for someone to notice her again.

Mrinalini Dhyani is a senior correspondent at Outlook. She covers governance, health, gender and conflict, with a strong emphasis on lived realities behind policy debates