The Empty Footpaths of Mirpur 10: The Life We Do Not See on Cricket's Home Turf

Last evening I was walking from the Mirpur 10 roundabout towards the Sher-e-Bangla National Cricket Stadium. Out of habit—I have walked this road many times, on match days, on practice days, on the quiet afternoons of the off-season. This time one thing caught my eye immediately: the footpath was empty. Where there are usually rows of vans, jersey stalls, fruit-and-puffed-rice-and-tea shops, and the crowd hunting for tickets, there now stood only bare concrete, a film of dust, and a few abandoned poles. A shopkeeper stood nearby, holding a splintered piece of wood. He said nothing. There was nothing to say.

The footpaths of Mirpur 10 have been cleared. That is the plain news. Dhaka North City Corporation (DNCC) carried out an eviction drive to free the footpaths of the area, and illegal structures were demolished. During the drive, hawkers attacked police and city corporation staff—so the available information indicates. This clash, this broken wood, this empty concrete—all of it is the everyday reality of a city.

But I am standing here for another reason. This roundabout, this footpath, this dust—to me they are not merely civic notes. They are the courtyard in front of cricket's home. The Sher-e-Bangla National Cricket Stadium, which all of us call the Mirpur Stadium, stands right against this area. Bangladesh's biggest international cricket venue. The national team's home ground. The main stage of the Bangladesh Premier League. Where players such as Shakib Al Hasan and Mushfiqur Rahim have played countless internationals.

I have noticed for a long time that cricket coverage almost always stops inside the stadium—the courtyard outside, the courtyard through which hundreds of thousands of spectators enter, we almost never write about it. The empty footpaths of Mirpur 10 are the story of that very courtyard. And that story now raises a question that, as a cricket journalist, is forcing me to think about my own coverage.

First, the situation needs to be understood. This DNCC drive was centred on the Mirpur 10 roundabout and the surrounding footpaths. Illegal structures were demolished, occupation was cleared. A section of the hawkers put up resistance—they attacked police and city corporation staff. So this drive was not merely an administrative act; it left behind the memory of a clash. On the same day, in the same city, similar occupation remained as before in the Mirpur 1 area and in Tolarbagh. The footpaths there are still full. Vans, stalls, crowds of people—all in the same old places.

That asymmetry is the most important fact of all: it was cleared in one place, but the problem moved next door; it was not erased. Where an eviction shifts occupation but does not solve it, there it becomes a civic drama—the curtain falls, and then the scene behind it begins again.

Now my real work starts. When I walk down this road, I do not see only a footpath; I see an invisible infrastructure of cricket. On match days these footpaths are the first service for spectators—tickets, flags, jerseys, water, puffed rice, beguni, cups of tea. Before one enters the stadium, an entire city breathes on this footpath. When foreign journalists come to Mirpur, they write only about the pitch and the stands. No one writes that outside the gate thousands of people make a living in the shade of the stands.

I want to remind the reader of a simple truth here: a stadium never stands alone. It is carried by the roads, the shops, the transport, the people around it. The strength of the Mirpur Stadium lies not only in its pitch but also in that subtle, informal economy around it. The day this economy breaks, the match-day experience changes too—spectators suddenly cannot find water, cannot find tickets, cannot find a walking path.

I learned this lesson from the days I spent at Cobham. In 2026, when Conte introduced the 3-5-2 at Chelsea, I was at Cobham for fourteen straight sessions, tracking Alvaro Morata's No. 9 movement. I understood then: at Cobham the 3-5-2 was not a tactic but a daily rhythm. In exactly the same way, the footpath of Mirpur 10 is not merely a road—it is part of the daily rhythm of match-day.

So when I see an empty footpath, I know it is a temporary silence. Because much of the system that supplies spectators with water, food, tickets, and transport around the stadium rests on this informal footpath economy. Move it away, and it is not erased—it relocates.

Here an analysis is needed, one that exposes a weakness not only of Dhaka but of cricket journalism as a whole. The moment we hear the word Mirpur, cricket comes to mind. The reason is clear: the Sher-e-Bangla National Cricket Stadium is in Mirpur. This geographic proximity builds an automatic link in our brains—Mirpur means cricket. As a result, any Mirpur story, civic or political, often picks up a cricket tag in our information systems.

The analysis that reached my hands for this piece caught an uncomfortable truth: the news of the footpath eviction at Mirpur 10 picked up the 'cricket_asia' tag without any cricket substance at all—simply because of the word 'Mirpur'. This is a data-labelling problem, but at its core there is also a journalistic problem: we mistake cricket's geographic shadow for cricket content.

I am not calling it a mistake; I am calling it a danger. Because when civic news picks up a cricket tag in our pipeline, cricket analysis itself begins to be contaminated. The news of an eviction and the news of a match fall into the same basket. Readers are misled, analysis loses its accuracy. Cricket news does not mean only ground, pitch, and score—no. But a cricket tag must certainly contain a cricket entity.

Still, I do not want to walk away from here entirely, because geographic proximity is not wholly meaningless. Any lasting change around the Mirpur Stadium—cleared roads, less congestion, pedestrian relief—can influence spectator ingress and egress on match days. Security cordons, crowd control, emergency services—all depend on the reality of this area. That is true, but it is inference, not proven fact. What is proven in this piece is the eviction and its uneven implementation. The rest is a matter for our caution.

Now let me come to the side everyone avoids. We easily assume that clearing a footpath means progress. But my experience tells me that eviction is never a neutral act. To the person who makes a living on the footpath, this 'progress' means the path of daily bread is shut overnight. And if that eviction is uneven—strict in one place, silent in another—then it is not progress; it is selective application.

Here I want to recall a hard truth of cricket. As spectators, we sit in the stands and count runs, count balls. But those people outside the stands—who sell flags, give water, pull rickshaws—no one counts them. Inside the stadium there are 'silent load-bearers': coaches, physios, analysts, on whose labour the team runs. Outside the stadium too there are such people, on whose labour match-day runs—but no one knows their names.

The empty footpath of Mirpur 10 is in fact a portrait of those invisible workers—whose work we consume but never acknowledge. A transfer fee is only the first beat; the rest is how a squad learns to breathe. In exactly the same way, a stadium is not merely brick and stone; the rest is how those people around it survive on match day.

Now one question is urgent: will this cleared footpath be permanent? History says eviction often shifts occupation rather than erasing it. The scene at Mirpur 1 and Tolarbagh is giving exactly that signal. Occupation continues there. Meaning this drive is still an isolated event, not a policy.

And here lies a deeper question, one that is not only about Dhaka's civic governance but about cricket culture itself. We love cricket, and so we say, 'Mirpur is our home.' But a home means not only four walls and a pitch. A home means its surroundings—the road friends come by, the shop where tea is drunk, the person from whom a ticket is bought. If we erase that surroundings in the name of cleaning, then we leave the home itself incomplete.

From my years of watching matches, I can say one thing with certainty: a cricket culture that is inattentive to its own geographic life is also ignorant of its own roots. In England I have seen how the small towns outside county grounds rest on the match-day economy. In Bangladesh, Mirpur 10 is exactly such a place—where cricket and civic life are woven together.

In 2026, I was at England's camp during the Russia World Cup. There, writing about Ruben Loftus-Cheek, I learned how much the environment outside a camp influences match-day. Loftus-Cheek came on against Panama for only 22 minutes. Twenty-two minutes. Yet that small stretch of time could have changed the direction of his career. I thought then how we neglect small times, small places.

Mirpur 10 is exactly such a small time, a small place—within which lie the accounts of thousands of lives. In 2026, watching Chelsea play in empty stadiums during the pandemic, I understood how silent cricket is without spectators. An empty stand means an empty shout, an empty rhythm. The empty footpath of Mirpur 10 reminds me of that same silence—but this time outside the stands, not inside.

So what is the real significance of this event? To me it can be read on three levels. First, it is a story of civic governance—DNCC exercised power, but its application was uneven and temporary. Second, it is a human story—for the people who live on the footpath, livelihood is a daily crisis. Third, it is a mirror for journalism—where our own information system saw the word 'Mirpur' and thought cricket.

The third level is the most uncomfortable for me, because it questions me: how many times have I stopped inside the stadium and never entered the courtyard outside? This is a silent failure of cricket journalism. We write match results with precision, but we do not see the people who make the match possible.

Now it is time to look forward. Will the cleared footpath fill up again? When will Mirpur 1 and Tolarbagh be emptied? Will DNCC spread this drive across the city, or stop at Mirpur 10? And if this drive ever reaches the stadium precinct, what effect will it have on match-day logistics, vendor planning, and security management? These questions have no answers yet.

But one answer I do know. Cricket's home does not live only within its four walls. It lives in the invisible, informal, labour-soaked life around it. The day we acknowledge that, we will truly understand Mirpur. The day we see the footpath not merely as occupation but as the spectator's path—our reporting will be more honest.

The footpath of Mirpur 10 is empty today. But empty does not mean clean; empty means waiting. Waiting for the next crowd, the next match, the next clash. And our task is to write the story of that empty footpath before we step inside the stadium.