It’s July 1981, in a dusty little village called Chitti, tucked away in some far-flung corner of the Punjab. Superman II is out. India haven’t yet won the World Cup. Charles and Diana have just got married. I haven’t discovered Madonna or Wham! but I am completely obsessed with Bollywood superstar Amitabh Bachchan.
I’m six years old and crying. I’m standing under a freezing cold water tap, being hand-pumped and scolded by my nani, Mina. My crime? Playing cricket with the boys.
I’d been taken to India with my five-year-old brother during the summer holidays to visit our nani. It was the first time I felt different. The first time I realised I was British. I spoke English; the village kids spoke Punjabi. And yet, I made friends quickly, spending most of my time playing cricket. We had a makeshift bat, cardboard for pads, and a pile of stones for a wicket. I was the only girl playing and I loved it. I didn’t understand the rules, but I was whacking the rubber band-wrapped ball around with glee, my pretty white dress filthy, my pigtails askew.
We paused for a tea break and biscuits from a nearby stall because I was from England. A battered transistor radio blasted out my favourite Bollywood song from Laawaris (unclaimed). I was singing along at the top of my voice and pretending to be the 6ft tall hero Amitabh Bachchan dancing in a nightclub scene. The look on my teammates’ faces was priceless and I was high on chai and Parle-G biscuits, without a care in the world…
Until Nani found me. Her face was thunder. She marched over, pulled me away, and with a firm grip and stern voice told me in Punjabi: “Girls don’t play cricket.”
Nearly five decades later, I found myself interviewing Jos Buttler for the BBC, discussing how the IPL has transformed cricket in India. His words were thoughtful and sincere. He spoke beautifully about the people, the passion, the culture. I was moved. Hearing a World Cup winner and former England captain speak with such love for the country of my heritage was a defining moment. For once, I felt entirely at home, British and Indian. No division.
Another breakthrough moment came watching Bend It Like Beckham. I was in the early stages of my career, still finding my voice as a filmmaker. That film made me feel seen. The cultural nuances, the nod to Punjabi families, the tension between tradition and ambition. Gurinder Chadha captured it all with honesty and humour. And then, years later, to see her directing a cricket trailer for the England v India series? Not on my bingo card! A brilliant move by the ECB to bring in one of our most beloved British Punjabi directors to add sparkle to a game that’s finally embracing women and girls in ways I could never have imagined as that scruffy six-year-old in Chitti.
I look at the hunger, talent, and confidence of the England and India women’s teams with pride. Their success shatters stereotypes and quiets the fragile egos of anyone who ever doubted our love or knowledge of the game.
But my most treasured cricket memory isn’t in front of a camera. It’s sitting at Lord’s, a few years before my father passed away, watching England play India. He had travelled down from Birmingham and we spent the day in the sunshine, sipping Pimm’s and talking cricket. It was like having my own personal commentator as he gave me stats and anecdotes for every player. At tea, we watched a Beatles tribute band while eating tandoori chicken wraps from a stall, a surreal but joyful mix of cultures.
I told him I’d filmed with Lord Coe the day before to talk about the unsung heroes of sport for the BBC Sports Personality of the Year awards. As I was packing up with my cameraman, Coe returned and said, “Archie, I don’t mind who wins tomorrow”. I looked at him, confused. “My mother is Indian,” he added. I couldn’t think of anything clever to say, so I simply replied, “Me too”. And just like that, I felt like I belonged.
Now, at 50, I don’t feel different anymore. Last year, I wore my bright red England T20 shirt while visiting the girls of the Magic Bus Foundation in Mumbai. At my local gym in Sussex, I proudly rotate between my England and India cricket shirts, much to the amusement of the gym bros. Of course, the occasional troll pops up on my socials: “You can’t be British and Indian. You have to choose’’. But I don’t. I’m both.
When I watch the women of England and India step onto the field, my heart belts out the same old Bollywood tune from that dusty village in Punjab. I wonder: did any of them get shouted at by their nani for getting their dresses dirty?
Wherever you are, Nani, I hope you’re proud of the girl with dirt in her hair and a Bollywood song on her lips always.
To the girls of this sacred game: thank you. I hope to see you score more runs than I’ll ever eat hot chappatis. When you win, we all win.