A day when we took a punt. And the city showed up.
There are days that start like every other — the sun rises, the air buzzes, and the city stretches itself into motion. But then, there are matchdays in Bengaluru. Especially this matchday. RCB vs CSK. The kind of day where the sun isn’t the only thing that blazes — passion does too.
We reached the stadium at 2:30 PM, a full five hours before the first ball. The heat? Let’s just say the sun was in peak-season form too — 41º and not a shred of mercy. The air shimmered like it was on fire, and every gust of wind felt like it had been grilled.
But tucked between the sweat and the sunscreen, we carried a quiet experiment — a handful of scarves and a hope that maybe, just maybe, the crowd would feel what we felt when we designed them.
We weren’t sure how people would react.
Would they care? Would they notice? Would they even know what they are?
Or would they just walk past — chasing the next jersey seller, the next flag, next poster?
At first, it was exactly that — passing glances, curious stares, and the occasional raised eyebrow. The kind of silence that feels louder than words. We stood there, scarves slung over our shoulders like quiet provocations, hoping to turn a whisper into a chant.
We weren’t the only ones outside the stadium. The buzz of the city was alive in every corner, and along the streets near the metro, the familiar sights of jersey sellers, Jailer costumes, and posters lined the paths. The competition was fierce, each vendor shouting louder than the last, selling dreams wrapped in fabric and paper. Among them, we stood, our scarves quietly waiting for attention — a subtle rebellion in a sea of noise.
But as the clock inched toward 5:00 PM, the air changed. Not the temperature — that remained merciless — but the atmosphere began to crackle with energy. Fans flooded the cubbon park metro station, their voices rising with each step, their red-and-black jerseys like a wave rolling towards the stadium. The mood was building, the electricity in the air growing stronger.
And then, at 5:30 PM, we unfurled our Chinnaswamy’s 12th Man banner.
And then the buses.
First, RCB’s bus arrived, a wave of noise rolled through the air, phones lifted high, capturing the moment as people cheered. RCB RCB RCB chants were relentless and the whole area was absolutely buzzing. Minutes later, Yellow bus passed through the same area, met with some cheers but lot of boos and whistles. In that moment, something changed in our corner too.
People started noticing what we were selling. Conversations sparked around us — some familiar with the concept from football, some curious about this new cricket accessory, and some simply bored of the same old jerseys and looking for something different. Eyes that had passed over us now lingered. Questions came, not dismissive but interested.
With every passing minute, more and more fans stopped by. Some picked up scarves, some asked for more information, and others just nodded in appreciation. Some just wanted to click a picture with the scarf and with our banner. It wasn’t the frantic rush of jersey vendors or the bold promises of flashy merchandise. It was something quieter, more understated—but it was connecting in ways we hadn’t expected.
By 7:00 PM, we’d sold a handful of scarves – not a fortune, but a victory of validation. The question we’d carried for months – would cricket fans care at all about these new accessories?. Each scarf had found a home, a wall to be hung on, and tell a story we’d never fully know.
We had no tickets and with kick off time fast approaching, we packed our remaining scarves and took our little adventure into a local pub in Indiranagar. But the energy didn’t dissipate; it followed us, morphing from the raw power of the stadium into the buzzing anticipation of a neighborhood bar. We found the last available table for four, a small victory on its own, and settled in.
The stout was cold, the screen was massive, and the pub had begun to throb with the same matchday pulse we’d just left behind at the stadium gates. RCB jerseys were everywhere — on tables, shoulders, and hearts. And there I was, neutrally perched but silently rooting against them, simply because chaos is fun and someone had to be the villain.
I wasn’t a CSK fan. I was just here for the drama. And as the beer flowed, so did the banter.
Somewhere around the 12th over, Ayush Mathre brought up his fifty. Clean strokes, cool head — the kind of knock that turns the volume down for a second. That’s when I turned to a table full of RCB fans next to me, calm but animated, and threw the first stone:
“Where’s your trophy? Where’s your IPL trophy?”
The reaction? A couple of side-eyes. A few chuckles. One sarcastic thumbs-up. I knew the fuse had been lit.
Not long after, RCB picked up a couple of key wickets, and the responses came hard and fast:
“Banned for a reason!”
“Ek do teen chaar, CSK ki gaand maar!”
I wasn’t even wearing yellow, but in their eyes, I’d earned the badge.
Then Jadeja sent one sailing into the crowd, and the RCB section of the pub went oddly quiet. That’s when I looked around, and asked:
“Is this a library? Is this a library?”, mocking the quiet RCB fans.
That one hit. Banter turned into battle, voices grew louder, fists pumped in the air — but it never turned nasty. It was just… sport and beer, the classic.
And when the final-over drama tipped RCB’s way, the pub went off like a firecracker. People roared, tables rattled, and every RCB fan within a ten-foot radius made it their personal mission to find me — to gloat, to grin, and to rub it in, proper. Not with malice, but with the gleeful mischief that only comes when your team pulls off a thriller and the guy who heckled you all night is still holding an empty glass.
For a few minutes, I was their punchline — and I took it. Because that’s the deal you make when you step into the arena of banter.
And then, as the noise softened and the night caught its breath, a few of them came back — not to taunt, but to talk. A quiet clap on the back. A shared laugh. A brief, beer-scented hug. Cricket talk. Real talk. It was no longer RCB vs not-RCB — it was just sport, in all its messy, chaotic best.
That’s how it always unfolds — booze, banter, and the slow-burning buildup that somehow always leads to moments like these. The kind you can’t script, only stumble into. The kind we made scarves for — to hold onto the heat long after the scoreboard fades.
We didn’t sell out. We didn’t go viral. But somewhere between the stadium gates and the last stout at the bar, something clicked. A few scarves found the right shoulders. A few strangers became voices we’ll remember. And in the middle of all that noise, we found silence — the good kind. The kind that tells you, this matters. That maybe what we’re building means something. That in a city full of jerseys and chants and chaos, there’s still room for a little fabric, a little feeling, and a story that wraps itself around your neck and stays.
We came for the match, but stayed for the city.
Beautifully articulated