When the force of the market is bent irredeemably towards the relentless churn of franchise cricket, the onset of the Test season comes as a palate cleanser, a much-needed fine dining intervention after months of being overfed on ultra-processed foods. What is it about Test cricket that makes us wait for it with such anticipation? 

Firstly, it's great to see the restoration of balance between bowlers and batters. Boundaries—sixes and fours—are the ultimate currency of the game, but they stop being fun when everything is designed to favour the batters, as is often the case in T20s. Test pitches are spicier than ever, and bowlers are having fun here, as they look for a kill and not merely survive the onslaught. Is there a more thrilling sight in the game than watching a fast bowler terrorising the living daylight out of the batters? A spine-tingling display of bowling adds intrigue to the game, making every ball an event in itself where survival takes precedence over dominance.  

Secondly, the format is the ultimate test of skill and feistiness. The complexities of a human character, in different shades and textures, laid bare by the format made it a great fodder for literary romanticism that Neville Cardus captured so eloquently. The shortest format of the game, where everything happens in the blink of an eye, would not have fuelled Cardus' flight of imagination. If not for Cardus' prose, I would have not considered sportswriting perhaps. 

The game has also captured the imaginations of writers from P.G. Woodehouse and Lord Byron to Samuel Beckett and Arthur Conan Doyle. My first brush with Test cricket came in 2012/13, when England's spin duo, led by Graeme Swann and Monty Panesar, floored India in their own backyard. I was too young to understand the enormity of what they had done, but I could appreciate the genius of their craft. I could also understand that the level of mastery I witnessed over days was something not possible in the fast-paced lanes of T20s. 

Before I could realise I had graduated into an avid Test watcher, often fighting with siblings for remote, so I could satiate my thirst for red-ball cricket. My entire existence would be anchored around these matches. 

As someone with an eternally messed up circadian rhythm, the Indian cricket team’s tour to Australia has always been a blessing for my sleep cycle. It’s a melatonin for which I don't need any prescriptions. To not miss the first session of the test match means waking up before the crack of dawn at a time of the year when the air becomes damp and frigid, and getting out of the blanket is like winning a war.  Having a proper sleep schedule, compartmentalising my day, and focusing on one thing at a time—these are the things that I would struggle with all my life. But almost like a magic, these would come so naturally to me every time India embarks on a tour to Australia. I, sometimes, wonder, only if this was a year-round phenomenon my body would have been healed forever. 

The vagaries of test cricket are unearthed in different textures in different countries, and each of them is special in its own way. But there’s something about watching the contest in Australia that arouses intrigue and anticipation of the highest order. Not many sights can match the naked thrill of seeing a fast bowler terrorising a batter with pure pace and bounce. And the Australian pitches, brimming with pacy and bouncy demons, just offer a pure spectacle of fast bowling. We have grown up hearing the tales of the great Australian teams of the past, and their merciless thrashing of the opponents. The current team might be a shadow of their former self, but for a generation of watchers that have only known the abject shame of being battered, this only means a chance of vengeance. 

As the Australian summer is in full swing, I have been contemplating a lot about the place test cricket holds in my life. What is it about this format that convinces me to fix my sleep schedule, or destroy it just so I don't miss the action? It's not that I was born with this affinity and appetite.  It's hard to pinpoint the exact moment when I became devout.  

I do enjoy the shorter formats of the game, too. But I don't wait for them with the eagerness of a Test series. It’s perhaps the pace of this format, the time that it allows for contemplation, a period of dullness that builds up before the ultimate bang, the grittiness on display when even quotidian events like a willow blocking the ball have some larger significance, that makes it such a compulsive viewer. Everything test stands for is contrary to the existence I have been leading; adulthood feels like an exercise of never-ceasing runs—running away from home, running towards my goals, running for a life that I aspire to build for myself, and all this with a nagging feeling that I am running short of time. 

To revel in idleness has become a rarity. Tests, in contrast, demands time, patience, and attention span—three rare virtues in the modern world. Where everything around me is crashing at breakneck speed, immersing myself in a match that unfolds over days, one act at a time, has become an act of self-care. It's a way for me to take control of the unstructured time that falls beyond the purview of capital. For a generation of instant gratification, Test cricket is a reminder that sometimes the truest pleasure of life comes unhurried. There's no need to speed up everything.