Popular critical thinker Benedict Anderson uses the term “imagined communities” to explain how narratives of nationalism construct a geographically diverse population into a seemingly homogeneous and monolithic nation. Anderson argues that such identities are not natural or inherent; rather, they are socially and politically produced through narratives disseminated by structures of power that also control the means of communication. In this context, the phrase “manufacturing consent”, popularised by Noam Chomsky, becomes particularly relevant.

Though Anderson’s theory emerged primarily in relation to Western nationalism, and may not entirely correspond to the complexities of the Indian context, the ecosystem of the Indian Premier League (IPL) demonstrates how region-based identities and emotional loyalties can be carefully orchestrated, sustained, and commercialised. The branding strategies of IPL franchises illustrate how both Anderson’s notion of imagined communities and Chomsky’s critique of manufactured consent find contemporary resonance.

From the middle of March to the end of May, the IPL captures the national imagination with remarkable intensity, often dominating public conversations and media discourse. Yet this phenomenon raises important questions. Why invoke Anderson and Chomsky in relation to cricket? Because the connection between IPL teams and the regions they supposedly represent is, to a significant extent, symbolic and constructed. In many cases, neither the owners nor the players genuinely represent the city or state with which the franchise is associated.

Commercial rather than cultural

Of the 10 IPL franchises, only a few ownership groups possess a substantial organic connection with the States they represent. Teams such as Chennai Super Kings, Mumbai Indians, and Punjab Kings retain some identifiable regional linkage, while franchises such as Sunrisers Hyderabad, Rajasthan Royals, Gujarat Titans, and Lucknow Super Giants are largely controlled by corporate entities whose relationship with the respective regions is primarily commercial rather than cultural.

The question of representation becomes even more striking when one examines the composition of the teams. For instance, Sunrisers Hyderabad, despite explicitly carrying the identity of Hyderabad, often fields a playing Eleven with little or no representation from Hyderabad or Telangana. Nitish Kumar Reddy, one of the few Telugu players associated with the franchise, is from neighbouring Andhra Pradesh. Similar patterns can be observed across several other franchises, with limited exceptions such as Mumbai Indians and Punjab Kings in which local representation is comparatively higher.

These details are important because they reveal how collective emotional identities are constructed and mobilised. The issue is not whether people should support a particular team; sport, like art, has the power to transcend boundaries of region, language, and culture. The concern arises when commercial sporting structures cultivate an aggressive and exclusionary regional sentiment. At stadiums such as the Rajiv Gandhi International Cricket Stadium in Uppal, spectators are repeatedly encouraged by DJs and commentators to chant slogans such as “Jeetega Bhai Jeetega — Hyderabad Jeetega”, “Orange Army, make some noise”, “This is our fortress”, “Whistle for Hyderabad”, or “Tonight, the city stands united behind SRH”. Such slogans symbolically transform a privately owned franchise into a supposedly collective regional identity. Those supporting rival teams, such as Royal Challengers Bengaluru, are often viewed with hostility, as though sporting preference itself constitutes a form of regional allegiance.

The atmosphere within IPL stadiums frequently amplifies this manufactured emotional intensity. Between overs and deliveries, commentators, DJs, and entertainers continuously urge the crowd to participate in orchestrated displays of support for the “home” team. Phrases such as “Hyderabad, show your passion”, “Raise the orange flags”, “This crowd bleeds orange”, and “One city, one emotion” are repeatedly invoked to create an illusion of unified collective belonging. The spectacle, noise, lighting, music, and crowd psychology can become so overwhelming that they diminish critical reflection and proportion. At times, even slogans and chants subtly invoke caste or community sentiment. For instance, DJs may chant “Nitish” and prompt the crowd to respond with “Reddy”, transforming a player’s surname into a performative collective slogan.

‘We want a sixer’

Let us not forget that the DJ has a monopoly over the soundscape of the stadium. Unlike those who watch the game on television, the spectators in the stadium do not have immediate and collective access to any other form of commentary on the game besides that of the DJ. This monopoly is sanctioned by the owners of the home team or the officials of the hosting stadium. So, if the DJ screams “we want a sixer” when a bowler of the rival team walks back to his run-up mark after a good delivery, the commentary has little to do with cricket. All it does is to teach the audience not to accept the good performance of a rival bowler and create unwanted pressure on the batsman from the home team. Neither is part of a good sporting culture. We are told of the calypso that the Trinidadian Lord Relator composed for Sunil Gavaskar in India’s 1970-71 tour of West Indies: “It was Gavaskar ... the real master … Just like a wall … we couldn’t out Gavaskar at all.” Will it be too bad if our DJ exhorts the audience to appreciate the hard work or genius of a rival player when it is due?

There is no denying that the IPL is an innovative and commercially successful sporting model. However, like many contemporary institutions, it is deeply shaped by market forces. The increasing corporatisation of the sport risks undermining its broader spirit. Players are often treated less as sportsmen participating in a dynamic and uncertain game, and more as commercial assets whose worth is measured solely through performance metrics. The reactions of franchise owners when a player drops a catch or makes an error often reflect this transactional culture.

This commercialisation also extends to the behaviour of franchises toward spectators. Certain premium tickets reportedly specify that only orange jerseys are permitted in designated lounges during Sunrisers Hyderabad matches. Such restrictions symbolically reinforce the expectation of uniform loyalty and suppress visible plurality within the sporting space.

Ultimately, a beautiful sport risks becoming captive to corporate spectacle and manufactured identity. The fundamental purpose of sport should be to foster camaraderie, mutual respect, and collective enjoyment rather than narrow emotional polarisation designed to serve commercial interests.

Given cricket’s enormous cultural influence in India, it is important to critically reflect on these developments and encourage a healthier sporting ecosystem — one in which the game itself is celebrated, rather than reduced to a vehicle for corporate branding and orchestrated regional sentiment.

Professor Y.L. Sreenivas is the Vice-Chancellor of Sammakka Sarakka Central Tribal University. Views expressed are personal