In June 2009, I was in business school. A friend at the Board of Control for Cricket in India, once a colleague in the newsroom, called and asked me to profile each member of the Indian women’s cricket team. The Indian cricket board, still in the early years of governing women’s cricket, wanted to feature these articles on its website before the ICC T20 World Cup in England. The pieces were never published. (I never got paid either.)

Today, there are more than a handful journalists who cover women’s cricket with the same rigour and dedication the men’s game has witnessed. If you log on to the BCCI’s app, you’ll see smartly packaged video interviews of the players, and on Instagram you’ll find the “indiancricketteam” handle is shared between men and women.

If you drive around in Mumbai these days, you’ll see many billboards featuring India’s women cricketers, many of whom have become household names. I share this not with the expectation of a settlement from the BCCI, but as evidence of the ground women’s cricket has covered in recent years.

I was at the Wankhede Stadium on April 2, 2011, when MS Dhoni lifted the World Cup. And I was at the DY Patil Stadium this week, when Harmanpreet Kaur’s team made history by completing the highest-ever chase in women’s ODIs, and booked their spot in the World Cup final.

It’s never fair to compare generations and genders. But, on almost every parameter that matters – the target, the opposition, the decibel levels, the fandom, the number of kids in the stands, the goosebumps we felt, the tears that rolled, and even the traffic jam after the match – this felt a lot bigger. More than epochal, it felt personal.

Women’s cricket in India has now truly come of age. We’ve had many stars in the past, and witnessed famous wins along the way. But we’ve now firmly moved to a point where today’s stars are beginning to look like superstars, even household names. Some of their stardom may be fuelled by the media and social media, but the fervour is real.

Almost 30 minutes after the match, as we walked out of the stadium, a group of youngsters – boys and girls – broke into a jig, singing Harman Kaur’s name to the tune of the now-famous Rishabh Pant anthem (look it up, if you haven’t). Nobody was recording them, they weren’t shooting a reel. It’s as if they brought spontaneity back from the dead.

It’s easy to fall in love with this Indian team. You have dancers, singers, strummers and a sisterhood that feels so real. Every player has the most beautiful, poignant, endearing life story – and their stories are not just seeing the light of day, they’re getting views, and winning hearts and hugs.

As I’ve followed the rise of women’s cricket in India, particularly among men, the cynical side in me has often wondered whether there’s a lecherous side to this following. But when you see men watching women’s cricket on their mobile phones in an elevator, arguing over the Indian team’s batting positions, and comfortably wearing T-shirts with women’s names, you know their wild dancing after every boundary is heartfelt.

As I looked into those profiles from 2009, I realised there was only one player from that batch still in the team. Here’s an excerpt of what I wrote:

“This Punjabi girl can walk into the Indian team just on the strength of her fielding. But this is not to undermine her utility – she is a hard-hitter and an effective bowler at the death. She is a street-smart cricketer, and is usually positioned in the area between cover and point, and poses a threat to the quickest of runners. She has an infectious enthusiasm that lifts the team’s spirit when the chips are down. At 20, she’s also one of the youngest members of the side.”

That girl is now the oldest member of the team. And she’s the captain.

Rahul Fernandes is a former cricket journalist, and has broken four bones playing cricket with a tennis ball. His X handle is @newspaperwallah.

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