By *Maitri Verma
i want you to lose i want you to win but some day i want you to be free – Meena Kandasamy, “A breathless counsel” (Touch, 2006). When India’s women’s cricket team tasted unprecedented victory yesterday, the entire country went gaga over celebrating it. My social media feed was full of congratulatory posts, slogans of Nari Shakti, Bharat ki Betiyan, and India’s Daughters Making Us Proud. But somewhere between the cheers, I felt an unconscious ache, a quiet sadness that comes from being a woman who has always loved sports but has been constantly reminded that even playfields come with curfew restrictions. I am a research scholar at Banaras Hindu University (BHU), one of India’s revered “premier” institutions. Between my research and teaching commitments, I often found solace in sports like badminton, table tennis, volleyball, occasional batting sessions, or just running and walking on the ground late in the evenings. But my evenings of play were highly
controversial to the people who guard the campus.
My own experiences as a sports enthusiast in BHU, tells me that the playground is not primarily
her place. It wasn’t just about timing either. Even the kind of sportswear we chose to wear
became a subject of unsolicited commentary. Coaches and instructors would casually remark on
what was appropriate. We were told not to wear anything above the knee, not to make others
(male members) uncomfortable. Once, a badminton coach looked at my skorts and said, “Why
can’t you wear full trousers? Come to the ground in full clothes from tomorrow”; it was in the
middle of June with the scorching summer consuming us. All of this, of course, came in the
name of safety. In fact, it is a woman’s duty to manage the male gaze, to ensure men are not
distracted by our sense of comfort and freedom of clothing.
The guards would stop me at the gate around 8 p.m. They told me, “Madam, after six, it’s for
men only, some of the students have raised questions about why you’re allowed here at this
hour.” I was told 7PM wasn’t a suitable hour for women to be inside a badminton indoor court.
No such curfew applied to male students. Sports functionally is gendered here. The sports
facilities are technically open to all, but in practice, everything like the keys to the gates, remains
with a handful of men. Women have to depend on them to unlock the space, to decide when and
whether we can play. The men, on the other hand, use jugad of several kinds including informal
networks, influence, and familiarity with guards, to claim every facility without question. Not
only BHU male students but outsider males also frequent those spaces meant only for the
insiders of the university, but any female student. Jugad rarely works for women, especially in
spaces already policed by gendered assumptions about safety and decorum.
I remember another shattering incident when I was playing badminton in an outdoor court just
outside a boys’ hostel, and not inside the hostel. The proctorial board was called. I was rebuked
for “violating norms.” I was told, “This is BHU, not JNU or DU.” Academic prestige comes with
moral policing and ideological shifts even within elite institutions. The issue wasn’t trespassing
or misconduct. It was simply that a woman was seen playing near a male space. And all male
students, guards, the men on the proctorial board collectively said I was breaking rules. I was
only playing with some of my male friends from the hostel, and that was enough to invite
disciplinary scrutiny. The act of a woman being visible in a male space was in itself an act of
moral-ethical transgression.
What’s most disheartening is how deeply normalized this segregation is even in 2025. BHU is a
university that loves to showcase inclusivity in brochures and reports; women’s tournaments,
inter-faculty competitions, cultural fests with token female participation. But on the ground,
women’s sports often exist only for the sake of representation. Funding is sparse. Facilities are
minimal. Schedules are decided without consultation. And the atmosphere is rarely one of
encouragement. Even accomplished women athletes would tell you how exhausting it is to
simply exist within these layered restrictions. The irony is striking. In a place of higher learning,
where ideas of equality and enlightenment are supposed to thrive, the sports field remains one of
the most unequal spaces.
So when I saw the country rejoicing over the women’s cricket team’s victory, something went
puzzling inside me. I did celebrate, felt proud of how this victory is going to shift the dynamics
of Indian cricket henceforth, but beneath that joy ran a deep, personal melancholy. Because for
women who have always wanted to just belong in those spaces without having to constantly
prove how skilled one was, these national triumphs also highlight our everyday exclusions. For
every woman who stands on a podium, there are countless others who are stopped at a gate and
suggested, “Beta, you shouldn’t be coming here after 6PM, this ground isn’t safe for you.” I
wonder what the guards are even paid for!
Sports, in its essence, is one of the most democratic of spaces, at least in theory. It is supposedly
a field where all hierarchy dissolves and only skill, devotion, and camaraderie matter. But our
campuses tell a different story. We are reminded time and again that gender identity precedes
skill, even before we step onto the ground. If a central university cannot ensure its women equal
access to its playgrounds, what does that say about the freedom it offers in classrooms and other
spaces? It is not merely about sports; it is about who is allowed to be visible, to occupy space, to
represent. It is about claiming equal joy without any justifications. Genuine representation is
power, and until power shifts from the grassroots, every female sportsplayer’s victory is merely
an occasional celebration, not a celebration of equality.
*Maitri Verma is a Research Scholar at Banaras Hindu University.
