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| Aima Baig and Atif Aslam featured |
I came home tired.
The kind of tired that doesn’t come from physical work, but from trying to convince strangers in interviews that you still have value in a system that itself looks confused. And just when you expect some normalcy, Karachi reminds you who is in control.
Courtesy of K-Electric — no electricity.
Loadshedding.
No notification. No timing. Just darkness… and that familiar helpless silence.
So the routine kicked in. Helmet on, bike out, petrol pump visit. Two litres of petrol — not for mobility, but for survival. Generator chalana hai. Because in this city, backup is not luxury, it’s necessity.
And then came the second layer of the day.
Gas.
Or rather, no gas.
With regional tensions heating things up, supply was at its worst. I had to break into my “emergency-only” LPG cylinder — the one you don’t touch unless things are really off-track. Lunch got made, but not without that internal calculation: yeh cylinder ab kitne din chalega?
Finally, generator started. That mechanical noise — irritating, yet comforting. Because at least now, you can breathe a little.
And then I opened YouTube.
First recommendation?
PSL 11 anthem.
Suggested by Microsoft Edge — because lately, I’ve been searching a lot about Pakistan cricket, trying to understand where we stand, what we’re becoming.
And that’s where something clicked.
Here I am — managing electricity, petrol, gas, basic survival logistics — and on the screen, there’s this polished, high-energy anthem of the Pakistan Super League, selling me passion, excitement, unity.
But I paused.
And I asked myself:
Are we building cricket… or are we just packaging it better?
Because the disconnect felt real.
On one side, a citizen juggling systemic failures.
On the other, a cricket board projecting stability.
And somewhere in between lies the truth we don’t want to confront.
The problem with us is not lack of talent. It’s not even lack of resources.
It’s mismanagement disguised as normalcy.
Pakistan Cricket Board wants us to believe everything is under control. That PSL is growing, strengthening, competing.
But if things were truly under control, would we be having conversations about player withdrawals, weak contractual enforcement, and external narratives dominating our own story?
Let me put it bluntly:
You don’t lose control overnight. You lose it gradually—through compromises.
The same way I had to compromise today:
Electricity nahi hai — generator chalao.
Gas nahi hai — cylinder kholo.
System nahi hai — jugaad karo.
And this “jugaad mindset” is exactly what is creeping into our cricket ecosystem.
Instead of building strong frameworks, we adjust.
Instead of enforcing contracts, we negotiate.
Instead of setting standards, we react.
And then we wonder why others benefit.
The uncomfortable truth?
No one needs to pull us down.
We are already lowering our own standards.
That PSL anthem kept playing in the background, but my mind wasn’t there anymore. Because reality has a way of cutting through the noise.
Cricket, like life, runs on systems.
And until we fix ours — whether it’s electricity, gas, or governance — we will keep celebrating illusions while managing breakdowns.
So the next time we talk about external pressure or competition, maybe we should pause and ask:
Are we being challenged… or simply exposed?
Post-Match Talking Points
Between Noise and Note — Why Only Two PSL Anthems Ever Stayed With Me
I’ll be honest—my relationship with PSL anthems has never been emotional. It’s been selective… almost transactional.
After “Agay Dekh”, this is only the second anthem that actually stayed with me. And the irony?
Both belong to Atif Aslam.
Now that says something.
Because I’m not someone who gets carried away by hype. I’ve always been moody when it comes to music—if it connects, it stays; if it doesn’t, no amount of marketing can force it.
And this might raise eyebrows, but let me say it anyway:
Even his Jal Pari album—widely celebrated—never fully resonated with me.
Strange? Maybe.
But then again, taste isn’t about consensus. It’s about connection.
What Worked Here?
These two PSL anthems didn’t feel manufactured.
They didn’t sound like they were trying too hard to “sell” the league.
They carried a certain rawness… a control… a maturity.
Almost as if the voice wasn’t performing—
it was anchoring the chaos around it.
Because let’s be real—most PSL anthems try to do too much:
Too many faces
Too many beats
Too much forced energy
And in that overload, the essence gets lost.
The Visual Disconnect
Watching this latest anthem, I realized something else.
Apart from Aima Baig, I genuinely couldn’t recognize most of the female appearances in the video.
And that’s not criticism—it’s observation.
It reflects how the production is leaning more toward visual stacking rather than identity building.
Faces are there. Presence is there.
But familiarity? Connection?
Not quite.
And maybe that’s why the song works—but the video doesn’t fully land.
The Larger Reflection
PSL anthems, in many ways, are a reflection of the league itself.
Sometimes overproduced.
Sometimes trying too hard to impress.
Sometimes forgetting that simplicity carries more weight than spectacle.
And then occasionally—rarely—you get something that just fits.
Not loud. Not desperate. Just… aligned.
Final Thought
Maybe it’s just me.
Maybe it’s my mood, my filter, my way of consuming things.
But when only two anthems out of so many actually stay with you—and both are tied to the same voice—
Then the question isn’t:
“Why did these work?”
The real question is:
“Why didn’t the rest?”
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