Cricket in the Curry Mile, Football in the Veins: Manchester’s Tale of Two Passions

Manchester
Manchester (PC: Trisha_Ghosal)

Trisha Ghosal in Manchester

The skies were leaden over Manchester, the drizzle almost rhythmic as it rolled off the roofs around Old Trafford. It was the 20th of July, three days before the Test match begins. India’s first training session in the city was an optional one and sparsely attended. Practice took place quietly behind closed doors, and for a journalist who thrives on noise, people, and unexpected colour, the day had settled into an uninspired greyness.

So I did what I love most on such days. I went walking, notebook tucked away, accreditation lanyard around my neck, and both my phone and iPad in tow. I wasn’t looking for a story. I was looking for people. Which, in Manchester, is more or less the same thing.

Soon enough, I found myself in Rusholme, on the famed Curry Mile. The aroma of fried onions and fresh naan hit me before the road signs did. It was like stepping into a little piece of the subcontinent, nestled within a northern English town. Pakistani barbershops, Indian sweet houses, Bangladeshi grocers, all sharing space. The TV screens inside were showing reruns of cricket highlights and news clips in languages from home.

That’s where I met Yusuf. He’s 51, from Rawalpindi, and owns a fabric shop that sells everything from velvet dupattas to wedding sherwanis. “We came here in ’97,” he told me with a soft smile, offering me a paper cup of steaming chai. “My son plays cricket for a local club. I still open the batting in our alley league behind the shop. You think I’m joking? We have a fixture list and everything. Floodlights are phone torches and the umpire is always biased.” He laughed hard, his shoulders shaking.

He wasn’t joking. Behind the shop, broken tiles marked the pitch. That’s where they bowl from.

Further along, I spotted two girls, around sixteen or seventeen, sitting on a ledge outside a bookstore, speaking in fast, excited Hindi. I couldn’t help but slow down and eavesdrop.

“Siraj is a madman. But in a good way. Did you see him bat? I thought he would win it for India, if only he didn’t get hit.”

“I love how he gives it everything. Even when no one else does.”

I smiled. Couldn’t resist. I leaned in. “You’re talking about Mohammed Siraj?”

They looked startled, then spotted the BCCI badge on my lanyard.

“Are you a journalist?” one of them asked, wide-eyed.

“I am. And I love Siraj too.”

What followed was a ten-minute fan chat. They had come with their families from Birmingham to soak in Manchester before the match. They weren’t just cricket watchers. They were cricket believers.

For More Exciting Articles: Follow RevSportz

Manchester_Trisha
Manchester_Trisha (PC: Trisha_Ghosal)

Later that evening, the rain came down harder. I ducked into a small coffee shop just off the main road, looking for shelter more than caffeine. It was nearly empty. Just me and a man behind the counter with bleached hair and a Neymar tattoo on his forearm.

“You’re wet and lost,” he said with a grin.

“Just a little wet,” I replied, holding up my badge. “Cricket journalist.”

“Cricket?” He blinked. “You cover cricket in Manchester? That’s like covering ice hockey in Rio.”

That made us both laugh. He was from Sao Paulo, a student of sports science at the University of Manchester. We ended up talking about football. Brazil’s golden years, the heartbreaks, Manchester United’s slow decline.

When he learnt I was a Brazil supporter, he waved me off as I reached for my wallet.

“On the house. For Brazil.”

That’s Manchester for you. A place where cultures and stories brew slowly, richly, like a good curry. The South Asian community here lives and breathes cricket. For them, it is not just a sport. It is family history, migration memory, resistance, ritual. The British locals, meanwhile, speak football. Manchester United or City, Salford or Stockport County. It is their daily language, their city’s rhythm, their home and heartbreak.

Outside_Old_Trafford
Outside_Old_Trafford (PC: Trisha_Ghosal)

I met Charlie, 72, outside a fish and chips shop. When I tried to stop him for a chat, he instinctively reached into his pocket.

“You alright, love? I don’t carry change…”

I laughed. “I’m not lost. I’m a journalist.”

I flashed the lanyard, and we stood under a shared umbrella, dissecting Manchester United’s troubles for the better part of an hour.

“You lot love cricket,” he said. “I saw that Kohli chap once. Looked like he’d fight you for looking at him wrong. Reminds me of Keane.”

That sentence has stayed with me since.

And it sums up what this city does best. It doesn’t merge cultures. It layers them. It lets each one thrive, be distinct, and be proud. South Asians may be holding cricket close, but football remains in the veins of this city. And between the two, there’s no contest — only coexistence.

Tomorrow, the Test match build-up begins. My phone and iPad will be busy again. But a part of me will still be on the Curry Mile, overhearing cricket talk, accepting free coffee, and remembering that the best stories are found when you’re not chasing them.

They’re waiting in the rain, just beyond the nets.

Also Read: From The Trafford to Mary Earps: A Walk Through United’s Living Legacy