I’ve spent the better part of two decades watching Indian coaches navigate the press, and usually, it’s a masterclass in saying absolutely nothing. They smile. They deflect. They offer platitudes about “trusting the process.”
Then there’s Gautam Gambhir.
When MP Shashi Tharoor tried to pay him a compliment—calling the head coach gig the “hardest job in India after the PM’s”—Gambhir didn’t just accept the praise. He snapped back. His retort about “supposedly unlimited authority” wasn’t just a tweet; it felt like a grenade lobbed into a boardroom. It shattered the illusion of the omnipotent coach and left us staring at the messy, political reality of Indian cricket.
It got me thinking. We’re analyzing him all wrong. Here are four uncomfortable truths about his tenure that explain why this feels less like a coaching stint and more like a hostile takeover.
1. The “All-Powerful” Coach is a Myth (And He Knows It)
The Tharoor exchange was the smoking gun. While the public sees Gambhir as the supreme commander, his own words suggest he feels more like a scapegoat in waiting.
“When the dust settles… I am amused about being pitted against my own.”
I read that and felt a chill. That’s not a coach talking strategy; that’s a man who knows the knives are out. Critics called it “pre-emptive insulation”—a fancy way of saying he’s covering his back before the firing squad arrives. Maybe. But having watched the BCCI machinery operate from the sidelines, I’m inclined to believe him. He’s telling us that he’s holding the steering wheel, but someone else cut the brake lines.
He’s projecting absolute control while screaming that he has none. It’s a paradox. And it’s terrifying for a fan to watch.
2. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde: The Format Split
If you only watched white-ball cricket, you’d think Gambhir was a genius. Undefeated in T20I series? Check. A Champions Trophy? Put it in the cabinet. He’s taken the “aggressive brand” of cricket we always talk about and actually executed it. It’s blistering.
But then you look at the Test team, and it’s a horror show.
I was at the stadium when New Zealand whitewashed us 0-3. It didn’t feel like a loss; it felt like a demolition. The “fortress” of home advantage didn’t just crack; it crumbled into dust. Losing the Border-Gavaskar Trophy followed by that humiliation against South Africa? It’s indefensible.
The problem? He’s trying to copy-paste his T20 aggression into a five-day game. He’s obsessed with “multi-skilled” players and spin-heavy tracks. But Test cricket isn’t about hitting hard; it’s about enduring. You can’t sprint a marathon, and right now, Gambhir is forcing the team to run until they collapse.
3. The “Musical Chairs” Batting Order
This is the part that genuinely drives me up the wall.
Gambhir has this fixation with the Left-Right batting combination. On paper? Sure, it makes sense. It messes with the bowler’s line. In reality? It’s creating chaos.
I’ve seen Axar Patel batted at number five like a specialist. I’ve watched KL Rahul—a man who finally found his groove—shunted down to number six. Why? Because the spreadsheet said so? It feels like over-engineering.
Ravi Shastri called it “perplexing,” which is polite code for “what on earth are you doing?” You don’t take your best players and treat them like interchangeable widgets. When you move a player like Tilak Varma out of his sweet spot just to satisfy a tactical quirk, you aren’t outsmarting the opposition. You’re outsmarting yourself.
4. The Politician in the Dressing Room
We keep forgetting that Gambhir isn’t just a former cricketer. He’s a former MP. He spent five years in the Lok Sabha representing East Delhi. He knows how to kiss babies and shake hands, but he also knows how to fight in the mud.
This context is crucial. When he runs his “Ek Asha Jan Rasoi” kitchens, feeding people for one rupee, you see a man driven by a fierce, almost militant sense of duty. He wants to fix things. He wants to cut the fat.
But cricket teams aren’t constituencies. You can’t legislate form, and you can’t filibuster a fast bowler. His approach—confrontational, rigid, high-principled—is clashing with the fragile egos of a dressing room. He’s trying to govern the team rather than coach it.
The Verdict?
Is he the villain destroying our Test legacy, or the genius dragging our white-ball game into the future? I honestly don’t know yet. But I do know this: Gambhir isn’t going to change. He’s going to double down. He’s going to keep fighting the system, the critics, and maybe even his own players until he either wins it all or burns the house down.
Pass the popcorn.