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March 28, 2022. Ekana Stadium, Lucknow.The Visitor's Team Dressing Room.Time: 11:30 PM.
The music was loud. The bass of a Punjabi track was vibrating through the floorboards, competing with the shouts of victory. The Gujarat Titans dressing room was a scene of organized chaos. Kits were thrown in corners, ice packs were strapped to shoulders, and pizzas were being devoured with the hunger of men who had just burned 3,000 calories.
We had won our debut match. We had beaten a strong Lucknow side in their own backyard. And we had done it with style.
I stood near the whiteboard, a protein bar in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. Shubman Gill was sitting next to me, still in his pads, laughing at a joke Abhishek Sharma had cracked about Avesh Khan's expression during the first over.
Then, the music cut out.
Ashish Nehra walked to the center of the room. He was wearing his trademark bucket hat backwards, a wide grin plastered on his face. He clapped his hands once.
"Boys! Listen up!" Nehra shouted.
The chatter died down. The team gathered in a semi-circle.
"First game," Nehra began, pacing back and forth with his distinct, lanky stride. "First win. Two points in the bag. But more importantly... the way we won."
He pointed to the bowling group.
"The bowling. Exceptional. On a pitch that was good for batting in the second half, to restrict them to 163 was the game changer. The spin trap in the middle overs? That was artwork."
He looked at Rashid Khan and Kuldeep Yadav.
"Rashid, you are a wizard, we know that. But KD... Kuldeep. That spell was brave. You got hit for a six, but you didn't drop your head. You came back and got Manish Pandey. That is character. That is what we want."
Kuldeep smiled shyly, looking down at his shoes. Rashid slapped him on the back.
Then Nehra turned to Arshdeep Singh.
"Arsh," Nehra said, his tone shifting slightly from praise to coaching. "Death bowling? Top class. You nailed those yorkers. You broke the partnership of Stoinis when we needed it."
Arshdeep nodded, beaming.
"But," Nehra raised a finger. "The Powerplay. You went for 20 in your first two. You tried too many things. In the nets tomorrow, we work on that. We tighten up the swing. You control the new ball, and we are unstoppable. Okay?"
"Yes, Paaji," Arshdeep said seriously. "I'll fix it."
"Good lad," Nehra winked. "But enjoy tonight. You got the big wicket."
He looked at Josh Hazlewood and me. "And you two. Experience showed. Josh, hitting the hard length. Aarav, that first ball wicket of Rahul? That set the tone. Perfect Test match line."
Nehra stepped back. "Captain? Anything?"
I walked forward. I looked at the faces—the young, the old, the stars, the rookies.
"Just one thing," I said. "We talked about 'playing fast'. We talked about 'Aggression'. Today, I saw it. Abhishek hitting the first ball for four. Rinku and Miller finishing it with 4 overs to spare. We didn't just win; we dominated. Let's keep this hunger. This is just game one. We have several more."
The team roared. "TITANS!"
Then, a new figure stepped into the center. Abichal Kumar, our Fielding Coach. He was holding a small velvet box. He looked like he was about to perform a magic trick.
"Alright, settle down!" Abichal shouted, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"We have spoken about batting. We have spoken about bowling. But there is a third department. The department that requires no talent, only attitude. Fielding."
He looked around the room.
"In this team, we value every run saved. Every dive. Every throw. So, from today onwards, we are starting a tradition. After every match, win or lose, we will award the 'Titan of the Field' medal."
He pulled a heavy, gold medal out of the bag. It had the Titans logo engraved on it. It hung on a navy blue ribbon.
The players cheered. David Miller whistled.
"Today," Abichal continued, "we had some contenders."
He looked at Heinrich Klaasen. "Klaasen. That catch to dismiss Rahul first ball? Low, dipping, sharp. Brilliant glovework. You were a strong contender." Klaasen tipped his imaginary hat.
Abichal turned to me. "Captain. You stopped two certain sixes at long-on. You threw your body on the line. You were in the running." I shrugged, smiling.
"But," Abichal paused for dramatic effect. "There was one moment. One moment of pure commitment."
He mimed running.
"The ball was sliced high towards deep point. The fielder was at long-off. He ran forty yards. He sprinted. He didn't wait for the ball to drop; he attacked it. He dived forward, full length, elbows grazing the turf, and held onto it."
Everyone knew who he was talking about.
"The first winner of the Titan of the Field medal," Abichal shouted. "Is Rinku Singh!"
The room exploded. Rinku Singh, who was sitting quietly in the corner eating a banana, looked up in shock. I grabbed him and shoved him into the center. Shubman Gill poured a bottle of water over his head.
"Rinku! Rinku! Rinku!" The chant went up.
Rinku stood there, soaking wet, a wide, disbelief-filled grin on his face. Abichal walked up and placed the medal around his neck.
"Thank you, Sir," Rinku beamed, holding the medal like it was an Olympic Gold. "I just saw the ball and ran."
"That's all you need to do, buddy," I laughed, hugging him. "Run and catch."
Rahul Tewatia grabbed Rinku. "Party is on Rinku tonight! He has the gold!"
The laughter rang out. It was a small gesture a medal worth maybe a few thousand rupees but in that moment, it cemented a bond. It told every player in that room that effort would be rewarded, that the unglamorous work mattered.
We had the points. We had the trophy. And now, we had the brotherhood.
"Music back on!" Nehra shouted.
The bass dropped. Rinku started dancing with the medal bouncing on his chest. I stood back, watching my team. We were ready for anything.
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TRYING SOMETHING NEW....
POV's:
April 2, 2022. Surat, Gujarat.Saturday Morning.
For Hitesh, Jignesh, and Khushi, third-year engineering students at SVNIT Surat, today wasn't just a Saturday. It was a religious holiday.
The Gujarat Titans had won their opening game in Lucknow. Now, they were coming home.
"Oye, hurry up!" Hitesh shouted, adjusting his Titans jersey which was slightly too tight around the chest. He stood at the pick-up point near the Surat bus stand, checking his watch every thirty seconds. "The bus leaves in five minutes! If we miss this, we have to take the shared auto, and my hair will be ruined."
"Relax, hero," Khushi rolled her eyes, walking up with Jignesh trailing behind her carrying a backpack full of snacks (mostly thepla and farsan). Khushi was wearing a blue kurti with the GT logo pinned to it, her face painted with a small lightning bolt. "It's an electric bus. It runs on schedule, not on your panic."
"Exactly," Jignesh grinned, adjusting his glasses. "Besides, I checked the app. The 'Titan Express' is two minutes away. Real-time tracking."
A moment later, a sleek, silent behemoth glided around the corner. It wasn't the usual rattling state transport bus. This was a Volta Zero electric bus, painted in the navy blue and gold of the franchise. It looked less like public transport and more like a spaceship on wheels.
The doors hissed open with a sci-fi whoosh. The conductor, dressed in a crisp uniform, scanned their digital tickets on their phones. "Welcome to the Titans Express," he smiled. "Next stop: Patra City."
They stepped inside. The air conditioning hit them like a cool breeze from the Himalayas. The seats were plush, reclining, and had individual USB charging ports. There was free high-speed Wi-Fi.
"One hundred rupees for this?" Hitesh whispered, sinking into the seat. "I'd pay this just to sleep here."
"Look at the legroom!" Jignesh marveled, stretching his long legs. "I usually have my knees in my throat on the college bus."
The bus moved. There was no engine roar, just a high-pitched hum as it accelerated onto the highway.
The drive from Surat to the outskirts usually took an50 minutes in traffic. But the electric bus had a dedicated lane on the new smart highway developed by the Pathak Group near Patra city. They zipped past the chaos of the city, the landscape blurring into the green fields of Gujarat.
Khushi pulled out her phone. "Guys, look at the Bookmyshow. It is already 'House Full'."
"Of course it's House Full," Hitesh said, opening a packet of chips. "It's the first match. Against Delhi Capitals. Rishabh Pant vs Aarav Pathak. The Prince vs Spiderman. Who would miss this?"
Fifty minutes later, the bus began to slow down. The announcer's voice came over the speakers. "Ladies and Gentlemen, next station is Patra City."
They looked out the window. Ahead of them, rising from the flat plains like a mirage, was the entrance to Patra City.
It wasn't just a gate; it was a monument. Two massive, curving steel structures rose from the ground and met in the middle, forming a gigantic arch. Between them, a screen projection shimmered in the daylight: PATRA CITY - THE FUTURE LIVES HERE.
"Whoa," Jignesh breathed, his nose pressed against the glass. "That... is big."
As the bus passed under the arch, the world changed. One moment, they were on a dusty Indian highway with trucks honking and cows grazing on the median. The next moment, they were in 2050.
The bus glided onto a road that was smoother than glass. It wasn't black asphalt; it was a dark grey composite material that absorbed the tire noise. The lane markings glowed faintly even in the daylight.
On either side of the road, towering skyscrapers of glass and steel rose into the sky. They weren't just blocks; they were twisting, organic shapes, draped in vertical gardens.
"Look at that truck!" Khushi pointed.
In the adjacent lane, a silent, driverless vehicle was moving slowly. It had rotating brushes and vacuum nozzles. It was scrubbing the road, sucking up dust and leaves. "It's a Roomba," Hitesh laughed in disbelief. "A giant Roomba for the road."
"It's a cleaning vehicle," Jignesh corrected, the engineer in him geeking out.
The bus turned a corner, and the view opened up. Wide, pristine boulevards lined with solar trees. People walking on sidewalks that looked cleaner than Hitesh's kitchen floor.
"Is this Gujarat?" Khushi asked, stunned. "This looks like... I don't know, Singapore? But cleaner."
"It's Patra city," Hitesh said, shaking his head. "We're just living in it."
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For Hitesh, Jignesh, and Khushi, the afternoon wasn't just about killing time before the match; it was about stepping into a different dimension. They had stepped off the electric bus into a world that felt less like Gujarat and more like a simulation of a utopian future.
They spent the first two hours wandering through the Patra-CityMall, a sprawling glass structure located just a kilometer from the stadium. It wasn't just a collection of shops; it was an experience. The air was cool and scented with lavender. The floors were polished marble that reflected the holographic advertisements floating in mid-air.
He picked up a jacket, looked at the label, and put it back down as if it were hot coal. "Okay, window shopping is over. My wallet is crying just looking at this. Let's go towards the ground."
Time: 5:30 PM.
The sun was beginning to dip, casting long, golden shadows across the wide boulevards of Patra City. The trio walked towards the stadium precinct, joining a river of blue jerseys that was flowing steadily in the same direction.
Hitesh patted his pocket nervously for the tenth time. "You guys have the IDs, right? College IDs?"
"Yes, Papa," Khushi rolled her eyes, pulling out her SVNIT student card. "Relax."
The reason for Hitesh's anxiety was the golden ticket they held or rather, the lack of a price tag on it. When the Gujarat Titans tickets went live on BookMyShow, there was a special category: "Student Stand" Price: ₹0.
It was Aarav Pathak's personal initiative. Several seats in every home game were reserved exclusively for students. You had to verify your student status via a rigorous API check, and if you got lucky and early, you got in for free.
"I still can't believe it's zero rupees," Jignesh shook his head. "Usually, IPL tickets are 2000 minimum for decent seats. GT is literally giving away revenue."
"He's building a fanbase," Khushi said astutely. "He knows we don't have money now. But if he treats us like royalty today, we will buy season tickets when we get jobs. It's an investment."
They reached the outer perimeter of the Sardar Patel Sports Complex.
The entrance wasn't just a gate; it was a statement. A massive archway soared into the air. It wasn't made of cold steel or concrete. It was constructed from intricate sandstone latticework, reminiscent of the famous Sidi Saiyyed Ni Jali of Ahmedabad, but reinforced with modern composite materials. Embedded within the stone arches were bronze sculptures depicting athletes in motion—a cricketer playing a cover drive, a footballer mid-kick, a tennis player serving.
"Wow," Hitesh breathed, craning his neck.
They passed through the security scanners—sleek, walk-through arches that didn't require you to empty your pockets (advanced millimeter-wave scanners). Once inside the complex, the scale of the vision became apparent.
To their left was an Olympic-sized swimming centre with a retractable roof. To their right, a football turf that looked greener than any park in Surat. But dominating the horizon, sitting in the center like a landed spaceship from a civilization that worshipped cricket, was the Vijay Khel Maidan.
Jignesh stopped walking. He just stared. "I've been to Motera," Jignesh said quietly. "The Narendra Modi Stadium. It's big. It's huge. But... it's a concrete bowl. This?"
He pointed at the structure. The exterior of the Vijay Khel Maidan wasn't a solid wall. It was a diagrid structure, a lattice of Navy Blue steel beams that crisscrossed like a woven basket. Behind the beams, the stadium glowed with a soft, pulsing gold light. The roof didn't just sit on top; it flared outwards like the petals of a lotus flower opening to the sky.
"It looks like the Optus Stadium in Perth," Jignesh murmured. "But better. It has Indian soul. Look at the patterns on the steel. Those are Gujarati geometric designs."
"It's intimidating," Hitesh noted. "It looks like a fortress."
"That's the point," Khushi smiled. "Welcome to the Titans' Den."
Walking further, they reached a separate low-rise building next to the main stadium entrance. A sign above it read: THE FOOD PLAZA.
"I'm hungry," Hitesh announced. "But stadium food is a scam. 300 rupees for a samosa that tastes like cardboard."
"Not here," Khushi checked her phone. "Read the articles. The Pathak mandated 'normal Prices'."
They entered the plaza. It was a massive, open-air food court covered by a high tensile fabric roof that provided shade but let the breeze through. Instead of generic international chains, the stalls were local legends. Surat Khaman House.Ahmedabad Vada Pav Center.Rajkot Gola.
The prices were displayed on digital screens. Vada Pav: ₹70.Butter Puff: ₹65.Cold Coffee: ₹120.
"Seventy rupees?" Hitesh's eyes popped out. "That's barely more than the street vendor outside college! And look at this place!"
It was spotless. The floors were tiled. There were automated hand-wash stations. The waste bins opened automatically via sensors. They feasted. Hitesh ate three Vada Pavs. Khushi had a Dabeli. Jignesh bought a massive glass of sugarcane juice that was pressed by a hygienic, automated machine.
"He respects us," Jignesh said, wiping his mouth. "That's what this feels like. Usually, cheap tickets mean dirty toilets and bad food. Here... it feels premium, even if it's free."
"We need authentic jerseys now," Khushi declared, checking the time. 6:30 PM. "We can't go in wearing normal or fake clothes."
They walked towards the Titan Store, a glass cube located near the North Gate. Inside, it was mayhem, but organized mayhem. Racks of navy blue jerseys lined the walls. But the crowded section was at the back.
"CUSTOM PRINTING - 20 MINUTES."
They queued up. The system was efficient. You scanned a QR code, entered your name and number on your phone, paid online, and watched the magic. Behind the counter, a row of massive industrial printers hummed. Hitesh watched as a blank jersey was fed into the machine. The print head zipped back and forth. In 60 seconds, it emerged. HITESH - 18 (He wanted Kohli's number, obviously).
Jignesh got JIGGY - 07.
Khushi got KHUSHI - 04 (Aarav's number).
They pulled the jerseys on over their t-shirts. The fabric was light, breathable, high-quality polyester. "I feel like a player," Hitesh grinned, puffing his chest out.
Time: 7:00 PM.
They approached Gate 4 (Student Stand). The security check was swift. They scanned their student IDs and tickets at the turnstile. A green light flashed. Beep. Access Granted.
They walked up the concrete ramp. The noise grew louder with every step. A low rumble that vibrated in their chests. The chant was already starting. "G-T! G-T! G-T!"
They reached the top of the ramp and walked out into the bowl.
The breath left their bodies.
The Vijay Khel Maidan was a cauldron of blue. The seating arrangement was steep, bringing the fans right on top of the action. There was no athletic track separating the stands from the boundary rope. You felt like you could reach out and touch the players.
But it was the field that mesmerized them. "Look at the grass," Jignesh whispered.
It wasn't the patchy, brownish-green grass seen in some Indian grounds during summer. This was a lush, emerald carpet, manicured to perfection in a checkerboard pattern. It glowed under the LED ring of fire lights. It looked like the outfields in Australia or England—fast, true, and beautiful.
The giant screens at both ends were crystal clear 8K displays. The student stand was packed. Thousands of young people, full of energy, were already dancing to the DJ's beats. But it wasn't just students. Looking around, they saw families. Grandfathers in dhotis, mothers in sarees, little kids with painted faces. The stadium felt safe. It felt welcoming.
"This is it," Khushi said, her eyes reflecting the floodlights. "This is our home."
The players were warming up on the field. They looked small from the upper tier, but the energy they radiated was palpable. Hitesh spotted a figure in the center, doing shadow practice with a bat. Navy blue pads. Baggy blue cap.
"There he is," Hitesh pointed. "The Captain."
Aarav Pathak.
He was standing near the pitch, looking up at the stands. For a second, it felt like he was looking right at them. He raised a hand and waved to the crowd. The noise level spiked to a deafening roar.
Jignesh grabbed his friends' shoulders. "We are witnessing history, guys. The first home game. The first ball. And we are here."
They found their seats—surprisingly comfortable bucket seats with cupholders. They sat down, surrounded by 60,000 of their new family. The lights dimmed for the pre-match show. Lasers cut through the air.
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The walk from the dressing room to the center of the pitch is usually a lonely one for a captain. It is a walk of contemplation, of final strategy checks, of quieting the noise in your head.
But tonight, silence was impossible.
As I stepped out of the tunnel and onto the lush turf of the Vijay Khel Maidan, the noise didn't just hit me; it consumed me. It was physical. It vibrated in my chest cavity, rattling my ribs.
60,000 people.
Not a single seat was empty. The stadium was a cauldron of Navy Blue. Flags were waving in a synchronized, oceanic rhythm. The LED ring lights pulsed in gold, illuminating the faces of thousands of people who had traveled from Surat, Ahmedabad, Rajkot, and Vadodara to see their team.
I stopped for a second near the boundary rope. I looked up at the towering stands that flared out like lotus petals. I saw the Student Stand rocking, a mass of energy. I saw the families in the upper tiers.
I had spent billions building this. I had spent months planning the logo, the jersey, the bus. But seeing it alive... breathing, screaming, hoping... it brought a lump to my throat.
This is it, I thought. This is the kingdom.
I adjusted my jersey. I walked towards the pitch.
Waiting in the center was Rishabh Pant. The Spiderman. The Delhi Capitals Captain. My teammate, my friend, and tonight, my enemy.
He was wearing the blue and red of Delhi, looking relaxed, tossing the coin from hand to hand. Standing next to him was Ravi Shastri, the presenter, looking majestic in a beige suit, holding the microphone like a scepter. And Shakti Singh, the Match Referee.
I reached the center. Pant grinned, opening his arms. "Oye, Billionaire!" Pant shouted over the noise. "Nice backyard you built here."
I laughed, hugging him. "Welcome to the Den, Rishabh. Try not to get lost."
"It's huge, bhai," Pant admitted, looking around in genuine awe. "Feels like the MCG. But louder."
Ravi Shastri: "Gentlemen, welcome to the toss. Aarav, first home game. First time the Gujarat crowd sees their team. How is the feeling?"
I took the mic. "Electric, Ravi bhai. You dream of moments like this. To build something and see it come alive... it's special. But the emotion stops now. Now, it's about the cricket."
Shastri: "Rishabh, you have the coin. Spin it."
Pant flicked the coin high into the Patra City night. It spun, glittering under the floodlights.
"Heads," I called.
The coin hit the turf. It rolled. It settled. Shakti Singh leaned down. "It is Heads."
A roar went up from the crowd. We had won the first battle.
Shastri: "Aarav Pathak wins the toss. What are you going to do?"
Aarav: "We are going to bat first."
Shastri: "Bat first? Against this Delhi batting lineup? Usually, teams chase here."
Aarav: "We have a philosophy, Ravi bhai. We don't fear the chase, but we love setting the pace. The wicket looks hard. It looks true. We want to put runs on the board big runs and then let our bowlers squeeze them. We back our 'fast cricket' cricket."
Shastri: "Changes to the XI?"
Aarav: "No changes. Same team. Why fix what isn't broken? The boys are hungry."
Shastri: "Good luck."
Shastri turned to Pant. "Rishabh, disappointed?"
Pant: "A little bit. We would have bowled first anyway to check the dew. But it's a good wicket. Whether we chase 180 or 200, we back our batting. Same team for us too. Shardul Thakur is back, which is a boost."
Usually, after the toss, the captains hand back the mic and walk away. The broadcasters cut to a commercial break. But I didn't walk away.
I held onto the microphone. I looked at Ravi Shastri. "One minute, Ravi bhai. I want to say something to them."
I pointed at the crowd. Shastri looked surprised, but he nodded, stepping back. The cameras zoomed in on my face. The giant screen broadcasted my image to 60,000 people.
I raised my hand. The noise level dipped slightly. They were waiting. They expected a standard English speech about "good support" and "playing hard."
I took a deep breath.
I brought the mic to my lips.
"Kem cho Gujarat!"
The reaction was instantaneous. It wasn't a cheer; it was an explosion. The realization that the Bombay-born billionaire was speaking their language hit them like a shockwave. The noise was so loud I had to pause for ten seconds. I smiled, letting it wash over me.
When it settled, I continued. My accent was flawless—the sharp, sweet cadence of a local Surti.
(Original Gujarati Speech)"Tamaro prem, tamaro josh... aa joyine maru dil khush thai gayu che. Aaje, aa maidan par, ame fakt 11 khiladiyo nathi. Aaje ame 6 krod Gujaratiyo na sapna lai ne utarya chiye. Aa team tamari che. Aa Patra City tamaru che. Ane aa cup... aa cup pan apdo j thavano che!"
(English Translation)"Your love, your energy... seeing this, my heart is filled with joy. Today, on this ground, we are not just 11 players. Today, we step onto the field carrying the dreams of 6 crore Gujaratis. This team is yours. This Patra City is yours. And this cup... this cup is going to be ours too!"
The stadium was shaking. People were jumping on their seats. The connection had been made. I wasn't just an owner or a captain anymore. I was one of them.
Rishabh Pant was standing there, his mouth open. He whispered to Shastri, "Since when does he speak Gujarati? He speaks Marathi!" Shastri was grinning. "He's a smart lad, Rishabh. Very smart."
I wasn't done. I leaned closer to the mic for the finale.
(Gujarati)"Chinta na karta! Gujarat Titans... e jitu j che!"
(English)"Don't worry guys! Gujarat Titans... is winning this!"
I dropped the mic hand. I waved to the North Stand, then the South Stand. The chant began. It was new. It was organic.
"Aarav! Aarav!"
I handed the mic back to a stunned Ravi Shastri. I walked towards the dugout. My heart was racing faster than it had during the World Cup Final. Public speaking is harder than facing Trent Boult.
I entered the dugout. Ashish Nehra was laughing, clapping slowly. "Kya baat hai, Captain!" Nehra said. "You just won the election without standing for it. 'Kem cho!' Classic."
Shubman Gill was shaking his head. "Bro, you sounded like a local politician. '6 crore Gujaratis'. Where did you learn that?"
"I am smart," I grinned."
I sat down and started padding up. The adrenaline was pumping. The crowd was on our side. The toss was won.
"Abhishek," I called out to my opening partner. Abhishek Sharma was staring at the crowd, his eyes wide. "Yes, Captain?" "You hear that noise?" "Yes. It's loud." "Turn it up," I said, buckling my pads. "Go out there and make them scream louder."
Abhishek smirked. "On it."
The umpires walked out. The Delhi Capitals walked out. And then, the Titans walked out to bat in their own den for the very first time.
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