The Sikh lads, the dholaks, and the weight of two centuries in Manchester

They were there again — the “Sikh lads of Manchester”, those beloved, radiant figures in their iconic red and blue turbans, standing proud outside Old Trafford with the assuredness of a community deeply rooted and unshakably proud. There’s no official welcome party at an England–India Test, but if there were, they would be its heartbeat: vibrant guardians of joy, proud ambassadors of Sikh heritage and diaspora strength, and spirited custodians of cross-cultural celebration.

Yesterday, as fans began filtering in through the gates for Day 3 of the Test, the Sikh lads had already laid down a powerful soundtrack — banging passionately on their dholaks, sending joyous rhythms bouncing off the soot-dark bricks of the old stadium. This was no mere performance, no empty spectacle. It was a living, breathing declaration: a testament to how far the Sikh community and Indian diaspora have come from the days when Indian supporters were marginalised, seldom seen, and only politely tolerated. These men didn’t wait for an invitation. They arrived in full colour, with vibrant sound and an unstoppable spirit — and the entire crowd was richer for it.

Though I was in Manchester only briefly, the sounds, colours, and energy outside Old Trafford left an indelible impression. It was impossible not to feel the pride and power of a community making space for itself — unapologetically Sikh, unapologetically British, and unapologetically joyful.

To witness this — red turbans bobbing proudly among Root shirts and Indian flags, dhol beats merging with the typical English drizzle — was to glimpse something extraordinary: a cricketing culture no longer confined by the legacy of empire, but blossoming in the voices of many peoples, many tongues, and many traditions.

And inside the ground? A different rhythm prevailed.

As the Sikh lads stirred up bhangra rhythms outside, Joe Root was compiling yet another masterclass inside: careful, fluid, and bathed in quiet brilliance. He passed another monumental milestone — over 13,000 Test runs, surpassing Rahul Dravid and Jacques Kallis, and drawing ever nearer to the towering shadow of the man who remains cricket’s greatest icon: Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar.

There will be debates, as there always are. Root is undoubtedly the most consistent English batsman of his generation. He has outlasted Cook, eclipsed Stokes, and outscored both Kallis and Dravid. Yet, mention his name in India and the comparison isn’t made with Dravid, Smith, or Ponting, but with Sachin.

Of course, it is a near-impossible comparison. Tendulkar was not just a cricketer; he was a defining era in India’s life. He played across three decades, notched up 100 international centuries, and carried the hopes of a billion people on his shoulders. Every Indian fan of a certain generation remembers waking early or skipping school just to watch him bat — not necessarily because victory was assured, but because he made us feel hopeful, proud, and complete.

Root, by contrast, has never carried that colossal burden. He is not a national obsession in England — not like Beckham or Harry Kane in football. He is modest, soft-spoken, technically flawless, and a little under-sung. No chants greet him on British streets, no temple bells ring his name. Yet, perhaps that is his true strength: Root scores without drama, leads without ego, and endures without noise.

Technically, the two are comparable. Tendulkar was a master of precision and power — square of the wicket, diminutive in stature but never short of time. Root is taller, more relaxed at the crease, more supple against spin, and equally adept at playing late. Both made their names in foreign conditions — Tendulkar in Sydney, Cape Town, and Sharjah; Root in Galle, Ahmedabad, and now Manchester.

Where they truly differ is in emotional gravity. Tendulkar batted like a man lifting a nation burdened by postcolonial wounds. Root bats like a poet writing a long, calm letter — beautiful, patient, unhurried. One was fire; the other is water.

Yet both — in their unique ways — represent something far beyond runs. Tendulkar helped transform India into the financial and spiritual heart of world cricket. Root, with his steady brilliance, has quietly come to symbolise a gentler, post-imperial Englishness. He does not roar or chest-thump but lets his bat do the talking, and the scoreboard listen.

Which brings us back to the Sikh lads. In truth, they complete the narrative. They embody what makes this new cricketing world so remarkable — a world where Indian supporters no longer whisper in English stadiums, but boldly sing, dance, drum, and belong. Where an English batsman is revered in Mumbai, and the echo of a Punjabi dhol rings clear through Manchester — a testament to identity unbound by borders.

The match will continue. Root may steer England to victory, or India may claw their way back. But the dholaks outside Old Trafford speak of something the scoreboard never can: cricket is no longer a colonial inheritance. It is a living, vibrant culture remade — in colour, in rhythm, and in shared memory. Listen closely, and you’ll hear not just the sound of bat on ball, but of a world becoming whole. (The writer is the London correspondent for The Tribune)