56 Minutes

Sometimes, life happens in 56 minutes.
You may have played Test cricket for decades.
You may have watched it unfold as a fan, through seasons and eras.
But sometimes, it all collapses, gloriously, into those 56 minutes.

That’s what happened on August 4th of 2025.
India and England slugged it out for 56 minutes that felt like eternity.
I can’t remember anything like it.
So many emotions, all tangled up, still too raw to name.

It wasn’t just sport. It was something else. Something ethereal.

If you’ve ever wondered what Test cricket means...
If you've never watched a ball...
If you've watched a thousand days of it...
It doesn’t matter. Just find those 56 minutes.
Save them somewhere.
Replay them when doubt creeps in.
Replay them when someone questions why Test cricket should even exist. Because those 56 minutes will tell you why.

And it didn’t matter who you were. You will never ever forget these 56 minutes

You could have been one of those squad members,
never quite stepping onto the field,
waiting quietly, series after series,
for a moment that never came.

You could be Jamie Smith,
the one who’s taken games away countless times,
until he met pressure, true pressure,
at its cruelest peak in Test cricket,
and found himself…
just not enough on the day.

You could be Ben Stokes,the great all-rounder,
the man who has lifted a World Cup,
who has won Test matches single-handedly. Bowling a 19-over spell
in two unbroken stretches at Lord’s,
something we have rarely,
if ever, seen from a fast bowler in modern Test cricket.
He put his body on the line,
every muscle stretched, every ounce of resolve poured out.
And yet, even he witnessed his side falling short in those 56 minutes.

You could be Shubman Gill,
at the helm of a young brigade,
rising at the dawn of a new era,
who believed this series could have been 3-1 in his favour,
if not more, only to find his team lagging at Lords,
and now finds in his hands
a hard-earned chance
to level it from behind.

You could be Karun Nair,
who felt the sport’s cruelty
for eight long years,
finally called upon again,
only to falter.
And yet, if he never plays again,
I hope he watches these 56 minutes
again and again,
and knows in his heart:
he did enough in the first innings to give his team something to bowl at,
and even those mediocre-looking 17 in the second innings
were worth more than the victory margin.

You could be Rishabh Pant,
who escaped death in a life-threatening accident,
pulling him away from the game for a year.
Also famously called stupid on air
by the great Sunny G,
for a shot too reckless, too Pant.
And yet, he returned to lead as vice-captain of a new Indian side.
Lighting up the early stages of this series
with twin hundreds. And still, none stood taller
than those 17-odd runs scored on a broken foot.
The injury would keep him out
of the final Test. But surely,
he would trade it all, the hundreds, the accolades, the pain,
for these 56 minutes.

You could be KL Rahul,
blessed with all the talent in the world,
and yet, never quite counted among the greats.
Vilified by his own, for that World Cup Final act.
And yet, in this series,
he found himself.
He found his steel.
He found his greatness.
He stood tall against the new ball,
facing the English quicks head-on,
absorbing the blows, wearing them down,
and when the moment came,
brushing them away with that silken cover drive.
He may have played great knocks,
but there may never have been
a better 56 minutes witnessed from the slip cordon.

You could be Jasprit Bumrah,
arguably the greatest fast bowler,
if not the greatest,
this sport has ever seen.
You played only three of the five Tests,
and yet, could not get your team to a win.
Not for lack of fire.
Not for lack of brilliance.
But for the support that never measured up.
Only to watch,
in those fated 56 minutes,
the same supporting cast rise.
Rise to offer you, perhaps, the greatest 56 minutes
you've ever witnessed.

You could be Ravindra Jadeja,
forever running, forever underrated.
Always flying under the radar,
surrounded by stalwarts
who soaked up the spotlight,
while he quietly stitched together a legacy.
He has the numbers,
numbers that place him
among the greatest all-rounders
to have graced the Test arena.
And yet, he arrives in England,
where questions still linger.
What role does he play?
Conditions here do not suit his style of bowling.
So he shifts,
from all-rounder to batting mainstay,
from supporting act to the spine of the innings.
There have been moments
when the game seemed unkind.
Nearly taking his team
to the 2019 World Cup final,
almost single-handedly,
as others fell around him.
Coming close to a miracle at Lord’s,
when all seemed lost,
falling just a few runs short.
Batting a full day with Washi at Manchester,
to give his side one last shot
at leveling the series.
And yet, he will be glad that all that pain
culminated in the glory
of these 56 minutes.

You could be Prasidh Krishna,
written off by many,
by me,
as someone unworthy of the Test arena,
only to become the silent architect
behind the hero’s triumph,
penning the winning script,
being the all-important footnote.

You could be Chris Woakes.
Ah, Chris Woakes. What more can be said?
Even as an Indian fan,
drunk on the high of the pendulum swinging our way,
I stood up from my work chair in reverence
as he walked out with a sling on his arm,
a dislocated shoulder,
bat in his left hand,
facing the inevitable,
so his team wouldn’t fall
without a fight over his body.
There are rare moments in life,
when you feel, deep in your chest,
that watching Test cricket isn’t a waste of time.
That it isn’t just entertainment.
That it isn’t just hours vanished.
One of those moments
was seeing Chris Woakes emerge,
body broken, spirit unbent.
He may have played 15 years,
62 Tests, 190-odd wickets,
Ashes battles written in sweat and blood,
but when he looks back,
he’ll remember this.
He’ll remember these 56 minutes.
The ones that made everything else fade away.
The ones that made the air itself feel heavier.
The ones that made me wonder if the ECG I did a few months ago was enough,
or if I might need another one,
just to make sure my heart made it through.
The ones that made Test cricket breathtaking, unforgettable, and real.

You could be Mohammed Siraj,
who ran his heart out,
day after day, year after year.
Outlasting most fast bowlers of his time,
through sheer endurance,
through unrelenting stamina.
And yet, never the main act.
Always the second fiddle
to the greatest show at play from the other end.
The one who dropped the Test the day before,
haunted all night by what could have been,
only to be handed a second chance
by the cricketing gods.
A chance to be the main act.
To etch his name
in cricketing folklore forever.

You could be one of those 25,000 in the gallery,
evenly split between two nations, grateful to have skipped work
on a cloudy Monday morning, praying the sun holds its place
just a little longer, and the umbrellas remain folded.
Or you could be someone like me,
squeezing in the play between two work meetings,
hoping it doesn’t stretch beyond the hour,
because then you’d have to turn on the camera,
and sit in a meeting, eyes flickering between Google Meet
and the sacred theatre unfolding at The Oval.

Those 56 minutes
will never be recreated again.