A funny thing happened in London yesterday. The sun came out and there was no need for layers of clothing to enjoy it. I thought of the county cricketers peeling off jumpers and swapping hand-warmers for sun-cream in their pockets. Well, maybe not. This is Britain, not Bangalore.

Spring is the most glorious time in England: the rebirth of cricket and blossom. In attics, men look for old boots, leather dried and cracking, soles with September's grass still sticking. Once, it was the time to pour oil of linseed over a bat's face but now they barely knock 'em in before smiting sixes and missing straight'uns. Groundsmen tend emerald-green turf, still theirs for now but soon the possession of white-clad warriors who prod and poke, land, pitch, run, fall and scuff.

Cricket pavilions have had their doors opened to that irresistible smell of stale kit and clothing, and of damp wood. Shafts of sunlight evoke memories of previous deeds that led to a walled garden of photographs and a club dinner of jokes about first-ballers and no-balls and free hits and the young lad who made neither head nor tail of his pitcher of ale. Upon old hooks are old shirts and in lockers lie the odd sock and a pair of batting gloves that No. 2 lent to No. 10, who forgot to return them. Spiders emerge with stealth, aware that summer brings warmth but no peace.

What of practice? Nets abound, so many on Astro now. Boys play away in single shirts and their fathers in jumpers that betray their history. Joints scream and muscles twitch but eagerness outs. The wonder is that winter has been survived. (Written with apology to Neville Cardus.)

In Bangalore right now, and all over India, there is a very different cricket from the nostalgia invading British senses. British rule has long gone - hooray! - and the ninth IPL has the nation in thrall. Back in February 2008, the first IPL player auction offered untold riches to cricketers from far and wide. Each franchise was permitted to spend millions of dollars on attracting players with high levels of skill, power and appeal. Almost overnight the game moved away from a long established set of institutionalised parameters to a free market. The Sony television network bought the rights for close to a mind-boggling billion dollars, and it wasn't long before the rest of the world was dipping its toes into these sparkling waters. Nearly a decade on and the IPL has survived all manner of distraction and accusation to remain at the forefront of commercial cricket.

While county cricketers wheel away in front of next to no one, crowds flock to matches between teams about whom most of us know nothing. In some cases we haven't even heard of them. Who does Brendon McCullum play for? Gujarat Lions, of course, silly. And Kevin Pietersen? (Or did, because he has torn a calf and is back in London now.) Rising Pune Supergiants, of course. MS Dhoni is a Supergiant too, by the way, lest you had lost of track of Chennai Super Kings' suspension from the tournament while investigation into their practices take place. The players swap teams faster than me and my mates once swapped Dinky Toys. What does this tell us? It tells us about market forces, that's what.

The IPL cricket is louder, larger, more insistent and more addictive than anything before. Players have attitude, it is the "new" thrusting India. They are promoted to stardom long before they have achieved anything of real significance. Some of them may ask, what is "significance"? American gridiron football has a player who does nothing more than come on to try to kick a goal, after which he leaves. Is this act significant? You bet your life it is. So when a kid from the backroom of Dhoni's newly acquired empire comes on to take the catch that wins the day - a kid called Deepak Chahar, say, or Ankush Bains - don't be surprised or begrudge him. The kids serve their apprenticeship at the coalface these days, not in a void beneath the bowels of the capped players' dressing room. And when they do so, millions of people depend upon them.

One form of the game is played in the past, the other in the future. They both have relevance for the follower and commitment from the participants. One looks after traditional technique and values, the other revolutionises both

You have to love it. Switching between channels is a surreal experience, two utterly contrasting designs, methods, styles, wardrobes and support of exactly the same game. Sort of. Sky show Nottinghamshire and Yorkshire at Trent Bridge, where the otherwise flamboyant Alex Hales is admired for the disciplined way in which he occupies 52 balls to reach double figures and goes on to accumulate a total of 34 runs in 115 balls spread over 145 minutes. There are only 120 scheduled balls in one whole innings of the game on the other channel. Goodness knows what Cardus would make of that.

Press a button on the remote and Sky also show Gujarat Lions against Delhi Daredevils in Rajkot, where Rishabh Pant plays "normal cricket" (his words) to score 69 runs in 12 balls fewer than Hales' double-figures milestone. It's either crackers or it's cracking entertainment. I'll barrack for the latter, though it is probably both.

Face it, cricket is coping remarkably well with its time lapse. One form of the game is played in the past, the other in the future. They both have relevance for the follower and commitment from the participants. One looks after traditional technique and values, the other revolutionises both.

One can define a man, the other can make him rich: the lucky few have definition and money.

How did Lalit Modi do it? Pietersen, for one, has called Modi a genius. He was talking, of course, about the introduction, deliberately or otherwise, of the freelance cricketer within the franchise model. Chris Gayle, when first approached, was so aghast at the money that he could barely compute: "I'm like, how much?!" And who is to say he is not worth it any more than any elite player hugely highly paid in any other sport?

Most likely Modi set out to create an electric, modern tournament: something so bright and sassy that the new age could identify and interact as they do with popular culture in general - music, fashion, celebrity. From it came unimagined spin-offs as the law of unintended consequences provided opportunities so extreme that county cricketers are now excused their contracts in England to honour their contracts in India. Modi's timing was as good as Kerry Packer's nearly 40 years ago.

Back then, the secretary of the Australian cricket board responded to Packer's heist with memorable arrogance: "They are not professionals, they were invited to play, and if they don't like the conditions, there are 500,000 other cricketers in Australia who would love to take their place." Wisely, this time around Cricket Australia threw around no-objection certificates as if they were confetti. Cricket has moved fast, every bit as fast as it did when Packer first made the lights, camera, action call at the Sydney Cricket Ground. Once Packer got what he wanted and what cricket so badly needed, he moved aside and the game settled down to find its rhythm for modern times.

Which is exactly what must happen now. Cricket needs a global common ground; it needs sympathy and a rhythm. Modi's call of lights, cameras, auction has shown the way forward. Cricket's leaders must respond while the game is still trending. There is place for all people and for all formats but not for self-interested governance.