I don’t usually write political articles. My world is the boundary rope and the batting crease. But Dr. Ghanshyam Bhatt’s recent piece, "Second Innings of Balen and Gagan," forced me to pull my pads on. You see, I am an avid fan who grew up playing gully cricket in the 70s. I remember the thrill of the 1975 and 1979 World Cups—the days of huddling over a crackling transistor radio, trying to catch the score through the static of All India Radio or the BBC. Back then, we didn't have high-definition replays; we had our imagination and the "wisdom" of the elders sitting at tea stalls discussing cricket strategies, and of course, analyzing game wins and losses and the team’s strategies. What failed and what worked.
When I look at Nepal’s current political map, I don’t see "ideologies" or "mandates." I see cricketing scenarios. And right now, the stadium is roaring, the lights are blinding, and some people are celebrating a win before the second innings have even begun. Allow me to offer my two words of wisdom from fifty years of watching the "glorious uncertainties" of this game.
The Duck-Egg Disaster of the Giants
In the 70s and 80s, we were taught that reputation was your armor. You respected the veterans because they had survived the "bodyline" bowling of history. But we also learned—often painfully—that even the mightiest team can be bundled out for a double-digit total if they walk onto the pitch with too much ego and too little practice.
This is exactly what we just witnessed with Nepal’s traditional giants, the Nepali Congress and the UML. They walked out like "flat-track bullies," convinced that because they owned the stadium, they owned the runs. They assumed the electorate was a dead pitch that would offer no swing or seam. Instead, they found a "green top" fueled by youthful rage and digital connectivity.
To be bowled out for under 100 on your own home ground is more than a loss; it is a total breakdown of the system. It happens when the "star players" stop hitting the nets and start assuming the crowd will cheer for them just because of the name on the back of their jersey. In the gully, we call this a "duck-egg disaster." When a heavyweight collapses like that, the silence in the dressing room is deafening, but the lesson is clear: the game doesn't care about your past trophies once the first ball is bowled.
Two loaded guns seized
The Johannesburg Syndrome: The "434-Run" Trap
Dr. Bhatt is rightfully impressed by the landslide victory of the Rastriya Swatantra Party (RSP), led by Balen Shah and Rabi Lamichhane. It is a massive score—a "clean sweep" that has left the old guard reeling. But my mind immediately goes back to the New Wanderers Stadium in Johannesburg, March 12, 2006.
Australia batted first and did the impossible: they scored a world record 434 runs. At the innings break, the Australian players were laughing. Some were already popping champagne in the dugout. They had the performance, the stats, and the loudest cheers in cricket history. They thought the match was over.
But they lost. South Africa chased it down (438/9) because Australia stopped respecting the game at halftime. They overestimated their "first-innings" total and underestimated how much the ground conditions could change.
Right now, the RSP and Balen are sitting on their own "434-run" mandate. But they must realize that winning an election is just batting first. Governing a nation is the second innings. This is when the "lights are on" and the "dew factor" kicks in. The economic crisis, the administrative grind, and the complexities of geopolitics are like a wet ball that soaps up in your hand—it becomes impossible to grip. If the RSP thinks they can just "Bazball" their way through the next five years because they have a big score on the board, they are ignoring the history of the 438-game. No total is safe if you stop respecting the pitch.
The Dhoni Factor: Tactical Patience Behind the Stumps
While the new teams are playing to the gallery, hitting every ball for a six to keep the social media highlights reel going, I see Gagan Thapa playing a much deeper game. To me, he represents the "Dhoni Factor." He got his team to win despite keeping wickets.
Think of MS Dhoni. He didn't always need to be the highest run-scorer, and he wasn't always the loudest person in the room. His genius was his position: behind the stumps. The wicket-keeper has the best seat in the house. He doesn't just catch the ball; he reads the batsman’s eyes. He sees the "blind spots" that the batsman is too blinded by glory to notice.
Like Dhoni, Gagan is currently "out of the pavilion" in terms of direct power, but he is deeply in the game. He is watching the "Young Guns" swing wildly. The Dhoni Factor is about tactical patience—the ability to stay calm when the stadium is screaming and knowing exactly when to tell the bowler to change the length. Gagan is waiting for the RSP to get overconfident and step too far out of their crease. And trust me, the moment they miss a straight one, the "Dhoni" of the system will have those bails off before they even hear the click.
A Word of Caution: Caught at the Boundary
Here is a final tip for Balen, Rabi, and the new stars: The crowd cheer is an intoxicating drug.When you hear thousands of people chanting your name, the temptation is to try and hit a sixer on every single delivery. You want to show off. You want to prove that the "old way" of playing singles and doubles is dead.
But that is exactly when you get caught at the boundary. You swing hard, you think you’ve cleared the rope, and you’re already raising your bat to the fans, only to realize that the "old guard" fielders are standing right there in the deep. They’ve been pushed to the edges of the field, yes, but they haven't left the stadium. They still control the "ground staff" (the bureaucracy) and they have a direct line to the "umpires" (the deep state).
If you spend all your energy playing to the gallery and ignore the fielders in the deep, you’ll find yourself walking back to the pavilion while the crowd goes suddenly silent. Wounded teams are the most dangerous; they know the cracks in the pitch better than you do, and they have nothing left to lose but their pride.
The Final Over
There is a reason why it is called the death overs. It makes or breaks a game for a team. I’ve watched this game evolve for over fifty years—from the white flannels of the 70s to the neon jerseys of today. I’ve seen "invincible" dynasties crumble because they forgot the basics. A team bowled out for 100 is a tragedy, but a "best team" losing at home because they thought the "cheer" was the same thing as "runs" is a haunting legacy.
In the 70s, we didn't have DRS to save us from a bad decision. In politics, there is no "Third Umpire." You play the ball, you respect the pitch, and you never, ever celebrate until the last run is scored. The scoreboard doesn't care about your highlights reel, your TikTok followers, or your historical "rights." It only cares about who survives the final over.
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