Echoes of a lost roar

As the sunlight dimmed and a thin mist drifted beneath the floodlights, the Mirpur evening yesterday felt strangely hollow. It was Bangladesh's first of three ODIs against the West Indies, yet the Sher-e-Bangla National Stadium on a weekend stood like a forgotten relic.

Rows of empty seats glowed under the lights, as if waiting for voices that never came. The ground, where once thousands roared at every wicket and every run, now echoed only with the wind.

Outside, the old vibrancy had faded too. Flag sellers sat hunched on dusty pavements. Delwar, who has sold flags here for twelve years, smiled faintly. "Brother, before ten in the morning everything used to be sold out. Now it's evening, and I've thirty left. People don't come anymore, and neither does that excitement. What's the point of waving a flag when no one believes the team can win?"

A few feet away, a young ticket scalper tried selling 300-taka tickets for 500. No one even looked. He dropped his price to 350, pleading for a little profit. Still, no takers. Even the tea stalls around the ground, once alive with heated debates over dropped catches or missed yorkers, now stand in dull silence.

Not too long ago, this gallery was once the heartbeat of the nation's cricketing dream. When the ICC granted Test status in 2000, it was said to be the passion of the fans that swayed them. Those fans have seemingly drifted away, along with their drums and whistles.

Jubair Rashid, a corporate employee from Dhaka, sat quietly in the stands. "A friend gave me free tickets," he said. "I called a few old cricket-loving friends, but no one wanted to come. They said, 'What's the point? To watch us lose again?' That's when I realised -- cricket's no longer a festival. Even the habit's gone." His eyes carried a faint sadness, like the last flicker of a once bright flame.

Inside the ground, the Bangladesh team looked drained of spark, and the crowd, thin as it was, watched without hope. The sting of the recent whitewash against Afghanistan still lingered. It was hard to believe this was the same team that once united a nation under Mashrafe Bin Mortaza, Shakib Al Hasan, Tamim Iqbal, Mushfiqur Rahim and Mahmudullah Riyad. The love remains; the faith has faded.

"The team feels like the night sky," a spectator murmured. "The stars have gone out, and only darkness remains."

Yet, amid the gloom, a few voices still carried light-heartedness. Saiful from Dhanmondi sat beside his wife, smiling. "We thought about going to Diya Bari," he said, "but decided to come here instead. Earlier, when someone got out, everyone went silent. Now people laugh instead!"

In another corner, a fifth-grader named Nasif from Mirpur Cantonment School watched intently. "Bangladesh are playing, that's why I came," he said, holding a flag nearly his size. His father, Shafiq, added, "We came out of love for the country. If we don't show up, how will they feel encouraged? This money could go elsewhere -- but you can't buy this feeling."

As Bangladesh struggled with the bat, the mood sank again. Boundaries were rare; silence hung heavy. "Never thought I'd see Bangladesh cricket like this," sighed one fan. With the team lacking the flair that once entertained regardless of results, and the Mirpur wicket producing low-scoring games, fans are drifting away, leaving the stadium eerily quiet.

When the floodlights took over from the fading sun, a few latecomers trickled in, perhaps chasing a memory more than a match. Beneath the stands, a tea seller sighed, "When the team plays badly, even tea doesn't sell," while his little brother sat nearby, waving a small flag absentmindedly.

Perhaps this silence is only a breath before renewal. Under the lights, a lone flag swayed gently in the breeze, as if whispering to the night, "It's the darkest before dawn."