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The auction hammer had fallen, the squads were finalized, and the dust had settled in the ballrooms of Bangalore. But in the television studios and YouTube channels of the cricketing world, the noise was just beginning.
In modern cricket, the game isn't just played on the field; it is dissected, analyzed, and often prejudged on screens long before the first ball is bowled.
I sat in my living room, a cup of green tea in hand, watching the post-auction analysis on the big screen. Abhishek Sharma was sprawled on the beanbag next to me, scrolling through Twitter, his expression oscillating between amusement and annoyance.
"They hate us," Abhishek chuckled, reading a tweet. "This guy says we are the 'Gujarat Kindergartners'."
"Let them talk," I said, pointing the remote at the TV. "Let's see what the experts say."
I switched to Aakash Chopra's YouTube Channel. He had just uploaded a video titled: GUJARAT TITANS: MASTERSTROKE OR DISASTER?
The video began with Aakash's signature high energy.
"Hello and welcome! Let's talk about the new team on the block. The Gujarat Titans. They came into the auction with the biggest purse and the biggest hype. But did they leave with the best squad?"
Aakash leaned into the camera, his expression skeptical.
"Look, I am a fan of Aarav Pathak. Who isn't? He is the Sir Garfield Sobers Trophy winner. He is a phenomenon. But... making him Captain? At 21? In a league where MS Dhoni, Rohit Sharma, and Virat Kohli are captaining? It is a massive gamble. Captaincy is not just about hitting sixes; it is about man-management. It is about handling egos."
He pulled up the squad graphic.
"And look at the squad composition. It screams 'Youth'. Maybe too much youth. Top 3: Shubman Gill (22), Abhishek Sharma (21), Aarav Pathak (21). Where is the experience? Where is the Faf du Plessis or the Shikhar Dhawan to guide them? If the ball swings in the first over, who calms the nerves?"
He pointed to the bowling attack.
"This is my biggest worry. The Indian pace attack. They have Arshdeep Singh, Umran Malik, Yash Dayal. All talented, yes. But all rookies. Where is the senior Indian pacer? They let Shami go to Punjab. They didn't bid for Bhuvi or Ishant. They are relying entirely on Josh Hazlewood to lead the pack. If Hazlewood gets injured, or if he has a bad day, who does Aarav turn to? A 20-year-old from Jammu? A youngster from Uttar Pradesh?"
Aakash shook his head.
"It feels like a 'Rich Man's Toy'. You know, a young billionaire buys a team and picks his friends. It's like playing Fantasy Cricket with real money. They have bought potential, but the IPL is won by experience. Dad's Army (CSK) proved that. Gujarat Titans might be exciting, but are they title contenders? I doubt it. I predict a bottom-half finish. 7th or 8th."
Abhishek threw a cushion at the TV. "Bottom half?! Does he know who we are?"
"He knows," I said calmly, sipping my tea. "He just doesn't believe yet."
I switched the channel to Cricbuzz Live. The panel was heavier: Harsha Bhogle, Michael Vaughan, and Joy Bhattacharjya.
Harsha Bhogle: "It is a fascinating experiment, isn't it? The Pathak Group has essentially tried to Moneyball the IPL, but with a twist. They haven't gone for the undervalued veterans; they've gone for the undervalued youth."
Michael Vaughan: "It's risky, Harsha. Very risky. You look at the spine of the team. Rashid Khan is world-class, yes. But can he lead a bowling attack of young guys? And Aarav... he is a brilliant player, but captaincy is a different beast. When you are losing three games in a row, and the media is on your back, do you have the maturity to handle it at 21? Virat struggled with it at RCB in the early years. It takes time."
Joy Bhattacharjya: "I think the 'No Hardik' decision is the most telling. They had a local hero available, a proven winner, and they let him go to Lucknow because they wanted Aarav as the sole leader. That puts immense pressure on Aarav. If Hardik succeeds at Lucknow and Aarav fails at Gujarat, the fans will turn. It's a narrative waiting to happen."
Michael Vaughan: "Also, look at the finishers. Miller and Tewatia. Miller hasn't had a good IPL in three years. Tewatia had one great season. Are they relying on past glory? It feels a bit light in the middle. If the top 3 fail, I don't see them posting 180 consistently."
Harsha Bhogle: "So, the verdict?"
Michael Vaughan: "Exciting to watch, but too naive to win. They will entertain, they will hit some big sixes, but when it comes to the crunch moments against Mumbai or Chennai... the boys will be separated from the men. I don't see them making the playoffs."
It wasn't just the experts. The fans were divided, and the criticism was sharp.
Twitter Trends:#BabyTitans#ExperienceMatters#MoneyCan'tBuyClass
@CricketGuru:Gujarat Titans strategy: Buy everyone under 23 and hope for the best. This isn't the U-19 World Cup, Aarav! You need men to win the IPL.
@RohitFan45:No Shami, No Bhuvi, No Chahal. Who is going to bowl at the death? Umran Malik? He bowls fast but he sprays it. Aarav will be chasing leather.
@CSKBlood:They bought Ashish Nehra as coach. Nehra + Aarav = Chaos. This team will be a meme factory.
@LucknowSuperGiants_Fan:Thank god we got KL Rahul and Hardik. Gujarat looks like a glorified Syed Mushtaq Ali team.
Even the memes were brutal. One showed a picture of me, Gill, and Abhishek sitting in a pram, with Ashish Nehra pushing it. Another showed the Gujarat logo with the tagline: "Homework First, Cricket Later."
I turned off the TV. The room was silent. Abhishek wasn't laughing anymore. He looked stung.
"They really think we are a joke," Abhishek muttered. "Syed Mushtaq Ali team?"
I stood up and walked to the window. The Mumbai skyline was hazy.
"They are looking at the paper, Abhi," I said quietly. "On paper, they are right. We are young. We don't have 30-year-old veterans in every slot. We don't have the experience of winning 5 titles."
I turned to face him. The 'Viv Richards Aura' flickered in my eyes, not for the public, but for my vice-captain.
"But paper doesn't play cricket. They see 'inexperience'. I see 'hunger'. They see 'rookies'. I see players who have something to prove."
I walked over to the whiteboard we had set up in the living room. I picked up a marker.
I wrote names.
David Miller:Rejected by Rajasthan. Wants to prove he is still a Killer.
Rahul Tewatia:Called a one-hit wonder. Wants to prove he is a consistent match-winner.
Shubman Gill:Released by KKR for strike rate issues. Wants to prove he can dominate.
Wriddhiman Saha:Dropped by India. Wants to show he's not done.
Yash Dayal:Unknowns. Want to make a name.
"And us," I pointed to myself and Abhishek. "The 'Kids'. They think we are here to have fun with daddy's money. They think we are soft."
I circled the word SOFT.
"That is our fuel, Abhi. Every time they call us 'Baby Titans', we get stronger. Every time they predict we finish 8th, we pin it on the dressing room wall."
Abhishek sat up, a slow grin spreading across his face. "So... we are the underdogs? "
I looked at Abhishek. "Pack your bags, Vice-Captain. We leave for Ahmedabad in two days. The camp starts."
"And the critics?" Abhishek asked, gesturing at the blank TV screen.
"We invite them to the victory parade," I smiled coldly.
The narrative was set. The world against the Titans. The Seniors against the Juniors. Tradition against Disruption.
It was exactly the kind of fight I loved.
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I stood on the observation deck of the Torrent Tower, the central spire of the city that pierced the cloudless Gujarat sky like a silver needle. From thirty stories up, the world below didn't look like the India I grew up in. It didn't look like the chaotic, vibrant, dusty streets of Mumbai or the historical lanes of Delhi. It looked like a render from a sci-fi movie that had somehow manifested into reality.
Four hundred acres of what was once barren, scrubby land near the Surat airport had been transformed into India's first fully planned, self-sustaining smart city. It was a huge gamble led by Torrent Urja, the subsidy of the Pathak Group, and today, the dice were landing.
"It looks like Tokyo," Shradha whispered, pressing her palms against the cool, reinforced glass. She was wearing a simple, elegant silk saree in a shade of deep emerald, looking every bit the future matriarch of this empire, yet her eyes held the wide wonder of a child. "Or maybe Shanghai. Definitely not Gujarat."
I stood beside her, adjusting the cuffs of my bespoke suit. "Better than Tokyo," I corrected softly. "Tokyo is old infrastructure layered with new tech. This... this is version 2.0. This is built from the ground up to breathe."
Below us, the city sprawled in geometric perfection, a grid of future-proof living. Wide boulevards stretched out like grey ribbons, lined not just with trees, but with solar powered 'Smart Trees' that provided shade by day and street lighting by night while scrubbing carbon from the air. Artistic fountains in the central plazas didn't just spray water; they danced to silent algorithms, misting the air to lower the ambient temperature. Manicured lawns looked like green velvet rolled out over the earth.
The silence was the most striking part. From this height, you usually hear the hum of traffic. Here, there was only the wind. The hum of quiet automation was everywhere—security drones hovering like benevolent dragonflies.
It was a blend of extreme luxury and radical sustainability. Every building we looked down upon ran on green tech—solar grids built into the glass facades themselves, turning skyscrapers into power plants. Beneath the streets, a pneumatic waste management system sucked trash directly from buildings to recycling centers at 70 kilometers per hour.
"Dad outdid himself," I murmured, feeling a surge of pride that had nothing to do with cricket. "He didn't just build buildings. He built an ecosystem."
The inauguration ceremony was scheduled for 10:00 AM. The guest list was a roll call of Indian power. It wasn't just a VIP list; it was the GDP of the nation walking through the door. Prime Minister Narendra Modi.The Gujarat Chief Minister.Mukesh Ambani.Gautam Adani.The Chairman of Tata Sons.
But the man of the hour, the center of gravity in this room of heavyweights, was Rajat Pathak. My father. The richest man in Asia. The 4th richest man in the world.
We took the high-speed elevator down to the lobby. The descent was so smooth it felt like floating. The atrium was vast, a cathedral of commerce filled with vertical gardens that climbed ten stories high and holographic displays projecting the city's real-time energy consumption.
Dad was waiting near the entrance, flanked by Mom (Priya Pathak). He looked calm, his hands clasped behind his back, but I could see the glint of immense satisfaction in his eyes. He had built townships before. He had built dams and highways. But this was his legacy. A city named after us, Patra, but built for the 22nd century.
"Ready, son?" Dad asked, straightening my blazer lapel, a habit he had never outgrown.
"Born ready, Dad," I smiled. "This is your day. We're just the supporting cast."
The air in the lobby shifted. The security detail stiffened. The wireless comms of the SPG agents buzzed. Outside, the sirens wailed. The Prime Minister's convoy rolled in—a fleet of armored Range Rovers that looked like land sharks.
PM Modi stepped out of the vehicle. He looked up at the towering gate of chrome and glass, where PATRA CITY shimmered in bold steel letters, reflecting the morning sun.
"Rajat bhai," the PM smiled, walking over with open arms. "You promised me you would build a smart city. You didn't say you would build paradise."
"For India, Sir," Dad replied, shaking his hand with humble dignity. "We deserve the best."
We began the tour. It wasn't a walk; it was a procession. A fleet of silent, open-air electric golf carts glided through the futuristic streets, flanked by security.
We drove past the massive structure that dominated the northern sector. The Torrent Arena. A 60,000-seat cricket stadium that rivaled rivalled the best cricket grounds in the world and was better than all. Its roof was a retractable solar dome. "Training ground for the Titans?" the PM asked, looking at the blue and gold seats shimmering in the stands. "And for the youth of Gujarat," I added from the backseat. "It will be open to state academies 300 days a year. We want the next Aarav Pathak to come from here, not just Mumbai." The PM turned back and gave me a thumbs up. "Good thought."
This was my personal favorite part of the design. We entered a massive, air-conditioned glass structure that smelled of nostalgia. Instead of sterile fast-food chains, there were rows of small, high-tech stalls. "Street food plaza?" the Chief Minister asked, surprised. "Hygiene meets heritage," Dad explained passionately. "Each stall is rented to small vendors from the old city the ones who make the best fafda and pani puri but can't afford a shop. We give them the infrastructure filtered water, solar power, automated waste disposal. They give us the flavor. It's the soul of the city." The aroma of frying jalebis was already wafting through the air, making even the billionaires sniff appreciatively.
We drove to the edge of the city, where the concrete gave way to a lush, man-made jungle. Vantara. The animal rescue and rehabilitation center. This was a collaboration with the Ambani Family. Anant Ambani was there to greet us, his passion for wildlife evident as he guided us through the facility. "It's beautiful," Shradha whispered, watching a rescued elephant bathe in a purpose-built lake that mimicked a natural river. The enclosure was vast, cageless, monitored by thermal cameras to ensure the animals' health. "You built a sanctuary in the middle of a smart city." "Technology without compassion is just machinery," Dad quoted his favorite line. "A city must have a heart."
Later, as the VIPs went to the banquet hall for high tea and political discussions, I stole Shradha away. "Come with me," I whispered. "I want to show you something."
We took a separate cart and drove into the Residential Zone. This was the Beverly Hills of Patra City, but greener. Huge mansions lined an artificial lake, each villa grander than the last, designed with a mix of modern minimalism and traditional Indian courtyards. The water shimmered, catching the reflection of the glass facades.
I slowed the cart near the biggest villa. It was a sprawling structure of glass, white stone, and teak wood, surrounded by the lake on three sides. It had a private jetty with a small boat, a professional-grade cricket net in the garden, and a garage that looked large enough to house a Formula 1 team.
"Who lives there?" Shradha asked, admiring the floating staircase visible through the double-height glass window. "That looks like a palace."
"No one yet," I said, stopping the cart and engaging the brake. "It's waiting for the owner."
She looked at me, a realization dawning in her eyes. "Is it... ours?"
"It's Dad's gift," I smiled, looking at the house. "To us. For when we... you know. Settle down. He said he wants his grandkids to have a cricket ground in the backyard."
She blushed a deep crimson, looking back at the house with wide eyes. "It's too big, Aarav. We'll get lost in there."
"We'll buy walkie-talkies," I teased. "Over and out, honey, I'm in the west wing."
She laughed, hitting my arm. "But it's... it's breathtaking."
We sat there for a moment, just looking at the future. A future made of stone and glass, but built on the foundation of love and family.
As the day went on, we explored the rest of the city—the shopping arcades that resembled European high streets, the twin tech towers where Google and Microsoft were already setting up their India R&D hubs, and the botanical gardens filled with exotic flora. Shradha took pictures of everything, her excitement almost childlike. I found myself watching her more than the city—the way her eyes sparkled at every new sight, the way she gasped softly at the automated systems, the way she smiled like the whole world had just opened up in front of her.
12:00 PM. The Central Plaza.
A massive stage was set up in the middle of the city square. Thousands of people—Pathak Group employees, new residents, international media—had gathered. The NDTV cameras (now owned by us) were broadcasting live to the nation. Reporters from Forbes, Bloomberg, and The Economist were seated in the front row, ready to chronicle the rise of the East.
The Prime Minister gave a stirring speech about "New India," "Urban Futures," and "Atmanirbhar Bharat." Then, it was time.
A pedestal with a large golden button stood in the center of the stage. Usually, in these events, the politician presses the button. But PM Modi stepped back. He gestured to my parents. "This vision," the PM said into the mic, his voice echoing across the plaza, "belongs to the Pathak family. It is the sweat of Rajat ji and the support of Priya ji. This is your honor."
My parents walked up. They looked at each other—a shared look that spanned a journey of thirty years, from a small construction firm in a dusty town to this moment of global dominance. They placed their hands on the button together. They pressed it.
BOOM.
Fireworks erupted from the rooftops of every skyscraper in a synchronized explosion of color. The fountains in the plaza shot water jets 100 feet into the air, illuminated by tricolor lights. A squadron of 5000 drones rose into the sky, forming the shape of the Indian map, then morphing into the Pathak Group logo, and finally, the words PATRA CITY.
Patra City was officially open.
After the ceremony, we retreated to the hotel ballroom for the press gala. The room was buzzing with networking—billion dollar deals being discussed over canapés. A senior reporter from Forbes cornered my father near the buffet.
Forbes: "Mr. Pathak, you are now the wealthiest man in Asia. You have passed Gautam Adani and Mukesh Ambani. You have built a city from scratch. What drives you? Is it the money? Is it the ranking?"
Dad smiled, sipping his water. He looked across the room to where I was standing with Shradha, laughing at something Abhishek Sharma (who had crashed the party) was saying.
Rajat Pathak: "Money is a byproduct, my friend. It's just fuel. It pays for the steel and the cement. What drives me? Legacy. I wanted to build something that my son can't just inherit, but something he has to live up to. He set a standard of excellence that is frightening. I had to make sure the business world kept up with him."
Forbes: "And the future? Is Aarav joining the board soon?"
Rajat Pathak: "Aarav has his own battles to fight on the pitch. The Gujarat Titans, the World Cups... that is his arena. But this city... this ecosystem... it's his playground. When he is ready to hang up his boots, his desk is waiting on the 80th floor. But for now... let him play. The boy loves to win."
The day ended on the roof of the Torrent Tower. The VIPs had left. The helicopters had flown away. It was just the family. I stood by the edge, the wind whipping my hair. The city lights were turning on below, a grid of amber and white waking up for the night.
"Not bad," I said to the wind. "Not bad at all."
"It's incredible," Shradha said, slipping her hand into mine. "Your dad is a magician. He turned dust into gold."
"He is," I agreed. "And now... it's my turn."
"Your turn?"
"The auction is done. The team is picked. The city is built."
"Now," I whispered, the resolve hardening in my chest. "I have to build my own monument. Not of glass and steel. But of gold and silverware."
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From Next Chapter I am Shifting to IPL.
After this, would switch to International Cricket. I have missed few of the chapters.
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Sorry For Small Chap. would get to proper length from next chapter. this is just set up of the IPL.
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Author's Note: - 3500+ Words
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