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In the 1960s and ’70s, watching a cricket test match was a wholesome experience,part sport, part picnic, wholly human. The excitement began days earlier as friends decided who would bring what; idlis wrapped in banana leaves, flasks of coffee, oranges, groundnuts. We carried our lunches, took our seats early, and waited for the umpires to call “Play.”
There were no giant screens or replays. Blink, and you missed the moment forever. A dropped catch or a sharp run-out happened in real time, without the luxury of “Let’s see that again.” Every ball demanded attention; every appeal froze the crowd in silence until the umpire’s finger rose. Yet the absence of technology did not diminish the game. If anything, the memories remained more vivid, Eknath Solkar diving at forward short-leg, Chandrasekhar’s mesmerizing leg-spin, Farokh Engineer’s flamboyance behind the stumps. These images, unfiltered and unedited, are etched permanently in my mind.
Fast forward to today, and the same sport has turned into a multimedia spectacle. Each delivery is recorded, dissected, replayed from multiple angles. Ultra-motion cameras slow down the ball’s flight until one can almost count the grains of dust it kicks up. Commentators read into the bowler’s grip, his body language, even his mood. The game is still the game, but the boundary between truth and interpretation has blurred. Sport has become theatre, and the viewer is drowned in a sea of manufactured context.
One day it struck me that this transformation is not limited to cricket. It has seeped into life itself. We now inhabit a world of perpetual replay. Every action, every purchase, every careless comment is captured, analyzed, and reflected back by unseen digital forces.
The other morning, as I sat with my cup of filter coffee, my phone began buzzing non-stop. It was pension day. Within minutes of the credit, I was flooded with messages,banks selling schemes to “secure my future,” retailers dangling exclusive discounts, mutual funds promising that my golden years could become platinum with one tap. Life had become a hall of mirrors; one action triggering a hundred interpretations, each reflection tailored to steer me somewhere.
This constant replay extends from personal life to global affairs. Politics, diplomacy, even warfare have been absorbed into the era of performance. What we see,leaders shaking hands, smiling for cameras, striding confidently on red carpets,is carefully choreographed theatre. Commentators and experts, claiming privileged insight, interpret every gesture. Yet the true action unfolds away from the lenses, behind guarded doors, in rooms where cameras are not permitted and where history is actually written.
Today’s geopolitical stage is a meticulously managed show. When two leaders meet, photographs are often released before their real conversation even begins. The smiles are timed, the body language rehearsed, the statements drafted in advance. The commentary that follows gives the illusion of access, as though we are witnessing diplomacy in real time. But the visible part,the handshake, the joint statement,is only the surface.
Beneath it lie the actual negotiations; exchanges of drafts, coded messages through envoys, discreet meetings in neutral cities or quiet guest houses, calibrated leaks designed to test reactions. The real deals are struck far from the glare of the press. The tragedy,or perhaps the irony,is that global audiences, glued to screens, consume the performance as reality. A warm handshake may conceal months of hostility; a cold nod may hide the quiet progress of a secret accord. Cameras record appearances, not intentions. Yet the televised version becomes the accepted truth.
Just as technology changed how we watch cricket, the technology of communication has transformed how we perceive the world. Commentary now overshadows fact. Every pause, every glance, is replayed and “decoded” by panels eager to create drama, even where none exists. Repetition turns speculation into accepted truth, and perception overtakes substance.
I often think back to those Test matches of my youth,the harsh sun, the crowded stands, the smell of roasted peanuts, the unfiltered spectacle of the game. Players slipped, sweated, failed, triumphed. No camera directed our gaze; no commentator shaped our reaction. We saw what was, not what we were told it meant.
Today, the world is played out like a giant match under floodlights, every act replayed and reframed, the crowd cheering not the event but the narrative crafted around it. The distance between what happens and what appears has never been wider.
Indeed, what we see is rarely what it is. It is only what we are meant to see. The truth,like the game itself,unfolds elsewhere, away from the glare, in the quiet corners where reality, still untelevised, continues to play on.
Col KL Viswanathan
(The author is an Indian Army veteran and a contemporary affairs commentator. The views are personal. He can be reached at kl.viswanathan@gmail.com )
These pieces are being published as they have been received – they have not been edited/fact-checked by ThePrint.