The cheering had barely faded when the confetti settled on a sea of blue jerseys at this year’s ICC Women’s event. For India’s women professional cricketers, the victory felt like vindication, proof that the roar of their game is finally shaking the old corridors of Indian sport. And yet, beneath the applause, a quieter conversation continues — one about value, parity, visibility, and who really gets to shine in the spotlight of cricket’s billion-dollar universe.
Stars like Smriti Mandhana, Harmanpreet Kaur, Deepti Sharma and Jemimah Rodrigues have seen their public profiles and brand power rise sharply. According to recent industry reports, endorsement fees for top women players have climbed to around ₹60–75 lakh per deal (roughly $72,000–$90,000). It’s a remarkable leap from just a few years ago, when many women cricketers struggled to attract even regional-level sponsors. This newfound corporate interest reflects both consumer excitement and a growing cultural shift: these athletes are no longer treated merely as inspirational stories, but as legitimate sporting icons.
Equally important was the BCCI’s landmark decision in late 2022 to finally equalize match fees. Women now earn the same per match as men: ₹15 lakh (about $18,000) for a Test, ₹6 lakh (~$7,200) for an ODI, and ₹3 lakh (~$3,600) for a T20 International. On paper, this looked like the long-awaited arrival of pay equity — a moment of nyay (justice).
But as every cricketer knows, the scoreboard rarely tells the whole story.
Match fees are just one slice of cricket’s income pie. The annual central contracts issued by the BCCI still show a dramatic gender gap. A top-tier Grade A woman cricketer earns about ₹50 lakh (around $60,000) per year. The top-tier men in Category A+ earn ₹7 crore (around $843,000) annually. Even before counting IPL salaries, domestic leagues, bonuses, appearance fees, and endorsements, the difference is staggering. That is not parity—it’s polite inequality.
Then come the endorsements. While Mandhana or Kaur might secure deals worth around $72k–$90k, male stars like Virat Kohli or Rohit Sharma routinely sign brand contracts valued in the millions of dollars per year, sometimes even $3M–$20M+, depending on the industry. The gender gap is not merely numerical — it is structural, cultural, and deeply tied to visibility. Women’s matches still fight for television slots, prime-time coverage, and headline real estate. Their games are sometimes broadcast at awkward hours, overshadowed by men’s fixtures, or under-promoted by networks reluctant to disrupt long-established audience habits.
This is where cultural context hits hardest. Cricket in India has long been framed as a stage for mardangi (masculinity) — the swagger, the aggression, the heroic national narrative. Women entering that arena are not just competing athletically; they are renegotiating what cricket means in the Indian imagination. The rise of players who play with confidence, flair, and intent reshapes long-held social expectations: that the “ideal Indian woman” must be modest, domestic, and quiet. The women’s cricket team, especially its younger generation, rejects that script — not softly, but with bat and fire.
And yet, while the roar is growing, the runway is long. Australia’s top women cricketers now routinely cross $1 million+ in annual earnings through leagues and endorsements. Until Indian women receive the same volume of matches, tournaments, and media ecosystems — not just equal match fees — the playing field remains uneven.
But something has changed, undeniably and irreversibly. Indian girls now grow up with visible, powerful, successful women cricketers on their screens. Bharat ki betiyan (India’s daughters) have already rewritten the aspiration map.
The next innings is about rewriting the economics. And when that happens, the roar will no longer have an echo. It will simply be the sound of belonging.
Ah, my dear Queens of the blue jersey — look at you! Running, sliding, swinging that bat like it’s an ancestral sword. Hitting centuries not just in scoreboards but in the thick skulls of a society that once believed sports glory was a “boys-only” field trip. Auntie is proud. Full-chest, teary-eye, something-stirring-in-the-heart proud.
But Auntie is also observant — and Auntie sees the fine print.
Yes, the match fees are now equal. Shabash! Good. A necessary correction in the great moral accounting. But when my girls are earning ₹50 lakh (~$60k) a year in their top contract while the men at the top are collecting ₹7 crore (~$843k) — hmm. Tell me, are the wickets softer for women? Are the boundaries shorter? Are the centuries cheaper? Or does the pressure of representing a billion hearts weigh differently on a woman’s shoulder?
No, na? So let us not clap too loudly for the “equal pay” headline when the real money is still being counted in another room. And don’t get Auntie started on endorsements. When Mandhana and Kaur finally get deals worth ₹60–75 lakh (~$72k–$90k), we cheer — and we should. But the men are out here signing $3M–$20M deals to advertise shaving foam, biscuits, insurance, toothpaste, and one miraculous hair oil that has never successfully grown hair on a single male head in Asia.
Auntie is not accusing, I am simply pointing my finger dramatically. Also, whenever brands come calling, notice how they frame the women:
“Empowerment. Inspiration. Family values. Girl child upliftment.”
Beta, these women are not NGO brochures. They are elite athletes. Let them sell sports gear, energy drinks, cricket shoes, fitness apps — not only “strong woman messaging” like we are marketed as moral symbols instead of competitors.
But the winds are shifting. Schools are placing girls’ cricket bats next to boys’ ones. Daughters are demanding to watch matches on prime time. Boys are learning to name not just Virat and Rohit, but Deepti, Jemimah, Shafali.
That, my darlings, is revolution. Chup-chaap, quiet, but unstoppable.
So Auntie’s message is simple: Keep playing like you are not asking for space, but claiming what was always yours. Keep swinging like your bat is rewriting scripture. And when the money matches the performance — not the gender — Auntie will finally sit down, sip her chai, and smile without raising one eyebrow.
Until then, I am standing, applauding, and shouting: “Chalo beti, maaro!” (Go, daughters — hit!)