By Robert Clements
Winners Through Non-Violence..!
As Gandhi Jayanti approaches, and garlands are dusted off statues and speeches rehearsed with fervent sincerity, I cannot help but feel a sharp tug at my conscience. For while we prepare to celebrate the life of the Mahatma—we, his countrymen, are often seen marching in the opposite direction of his ideals.
And nowhere was this deviation more embarrassingly on display than with our men in blue behaving not like victors, but sulking children. The scoreboard might have declared us winners in the Asian Cup, but the antics on the ground told another tale—one of immaturity, of insecurity, of everything Gandhi would have quietly sighed over.
Where Did the Gentleman Go?
Cricket, we were once told, was a gentleman’s game. Gentlemen shook hands after battle, exchanged smiles, and carried themselves with quiet grace whether they won or lost. But somewhere between the bat flips, glares, and aggressive posturing, we seem to have misplaced the gentleman.
What a strange sight it was: men supposed to represent a civilization that gave the world the message of ahimsa, behaving like schoolboys squabbling over marbles. The crowd may have cheered, the television anchors may have roared, but the world, watching closely, would have whispered, “So these are the inheritors of Gandhi?”
And then came the pièce de résistance—the refusal to walk up and receive the trophy because the chairman presenting it was from Pakistan. A trophy, mind you, for which the entire match had been fought.
I sat aghast. If we felt so sullied by the idea of shaking hands with a Pakistani, then why, I ask, did we play at all? For whether it is cricket, a hand of cards, or even a round of gilly-danda in the bylanes of your neighbourhood, only friends play together. The very act of agreeing to a match is an agreement of goodwill. It says, “We are willing to engage.” To then recoil at the final act—the moment of dignity, of honour—was to spit on our own promise.
The world chuckled. Not because of Pakistan, not because of cricket, but because of us. “These?” they asked, “are supposed to be winners?”
Let us talk maturity. We claimed, quite loudly, that we had “won the war” against Pakistan. If so, should not that be all the more reason to behave with quiet dignity? To display the aristocratic disdain of victors?
Think back. After World War II, when the English walked their streets and Germans came visiting, did they hiss and heckle every German tourist? No. They simply raised their noses with aristocratic poise, poured another cup of Earl Grey, and let silence itself announce their triumph.
That is the mark of winners. Not noise, not tantrums, not flexing muscles at every passerby.
But we? We prance about like cartoons, mistaking bluster for strength. And in the process, we do not look strong. We look insecure.
There lies the great tragedy. The world is not blind. The same antics that we excuse as “passion” are watched elsewhere as pettiness—it all chips away at our dignity.
And slowly, without our noticing, the world begins to treat us with the same disdain we think we dish out.
I wonder what would Gandhiji have thought?
Violence is not merely about sticks and stones. It is also about attitude, about the spirit we carry. And non-violence is not weakness—it is strength. It is the ability to say, “I am secure enough in my victory to extend my hand even to my rival.” That is dignity. That is power. That is Gandhiji.
Let me bring this down from cricket stadiums and international rivalries to something simpler—the neighbourhood playground. Watch children play. The ones who truly win are not those who snatch marbles and run, but those who, even in victory, can share, smile, and say, “Good game.”
The world is fractured enough. Division, hatred, suspicion—it is everywhere. If there is one gift India can offer, it is the gift of Gandhiji’s legacy: non-violence as strength, dignity as power.
Our cricket field is not just a field. It is a stage on which the world watches us perform. And when we behave like spoilt children, the message sent is loud and clear: India has forgotten its soul.
But imagine instead if we behaved as Gandhiji would have us. If we received trophies with grace, shook hands even with rivals, smiled even in the face of tension. The applause would not just be for sixes and wickets. It would be for the spirit of India itself.
Winners, real winners, don’t need to shout. They don’t need to sulk. They walk tall, their silence more powerful than a scream, their smile sharper than a sword. They let the scoreboard, the trophy, and history itself do the talking.Losers, on the other hand, even with medals dangling from their necks, leave behind a bitter aftertaste. People shake their heads, muttering, “Grow up.” So here is my plea, as Gandhi Jayanthi comes knocking. Grow up, India. Play cricket like winners. Walk off the field like winners. Receive your trophy like winners.
Because if we do not behave like champions, then slowly, very slowly, the world will begin to doubt whether we are champions at all. And that, my dear reader, would be the greatest loss—not on the scoreboard, but in the soul of our nation.
So let us remember Gandhiji. Not with garlands alone, but with our behaviour. Let us wear dignity the way he wore his khadi: simple, unadorned, but stronger than steel. For only then will we be true winners—winners not just through runs and wickets, but through non-violence.
And when that happens, the world will not just clap for our cricket. It will stand in awe of our Gandhian character…!
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