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This Chapter Kind of feel Rough or bad, pls forgive me, and fuck webnovel. I am writing this chapter for the 3rd time, all time I don't know, why it gets deleted.
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30 April 2022 – Bengaluru
The wheels of the team bus hummed against the asphalt, but the sound was drowning out the closer we got to the stadium.
M. Chinnaswamy Stadium. My home for three years.
My heart did a strange double-beat as the familiar red and black banners came into view. This was where it all happened. 2020. That golden year. I closed my eyes for a second and the memories flooded back—lifting the trophy under these floodlights, the weight of the Orange Cap on my head, the Purple Cap in my hands. nearly 1000 runs and a bag full of wickets in a single season. We had turned the "Ee Sala Cup Namde" chant from a hope into a reality.
"Look at that crowd," Shubman whistled from the seat next to me.
I looked out the window. The sea of red was parting for our bus, but it wasn't the hostile reception opposing teams usually get here. As the Gujarat Titans bus slowed down near the gate, faces pressed against the glass.
Then, I heard it. Muffled through the thick safety glass, but unmistakable.
"Aarav! Aarav! Aarav!"
They weren't booing. They were chanting.
I felt a lump in my throat. I wasn't wearing their jersey anymore. I was in the charcoal and gold of Gujarat. But to them, I was still their boy. I raised my hand and waved. The roar outside intensified, a chaotic mix of love and longing.
"Some things don't change, huh?" Abhishek grinned from the front seat, adjusting his sunglasses.
"Guess not," I murmured.
We stepped off the bus and walked into the tunnel. The air here smelled different—freshly cut grass and ozone. As we walked out onto the field for warm-ups, the noise hit us like a physical wave.
And then, I saw them.
Mohammed Siraj was marking his run-up. He stopped when he saw me, a wide grin breaking across his face. He ran over, engulfing me in a bear hug that knocked the wind out of me.
"Miyan! Welcome back!" he laughed.
Mahipal Lomror and Akash Deep joined in, slapping my back. It felt like I had never left. We had bled on this field together.
Then, walking towards us with a bat under his arm, was the King.
Virat Kohli.
He looked intense as always, but his eyes softened when he locked eyes with me. He didn't say anything at first, just pulled me into a firm embrace.
"Feels weird seeing you in that jersey on this ground," Virat said, pulling back and holding me by the shoulders.
"Feels weird wearing it here, Bhaiya," I admitted.
"Don't expect any mercy though," he winked, the competitive fire already flickering. "We know your tricks."
"I have a few new ones," I grinned back.
The warmth of the reunion lingered even as we drifted apart to our respective sides of the pitch. The toss was minutes away. The crowd was buzzing, torn between cheering for their team and cheering for the guy who once won them everything.
I took a deep breath, soaking it in. The Chinnaswamy roar. There is nothing quite like it in the world.
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The scoreboard loomed over us like a monolithic challenge: RCB 221/4.
In the dressing room, the silence was heavy, but not fearful. The air conditioning hummed, battling the heat radiating from the thousands of bodies packed into the stands outside. 222. It was a mountain. In T20 cricket, anything over 200 requires not just skill, but a kind of madness. You can't just play shots; you have to assault the very idea of a good delivery.
Ashish Nehra leaned against the tactics board, drinking coconut water. "Small ground," he said, his voice cutting through the quiet. "The ball travels here. If they can hit 220, we can hit 225. Go hard, but don't lose your heads."
I sat padding up, the familiar weight of the shinguards grounding me. Beside me, Abhishek Sharma was already helmeted, tapping his bat on the floor with a rhythm that matched his frantic energy. Shubman Gill was calmer, adjusting his gloves, his eyes focused on something distant.
"You ready for the noise?" I asked Abhishek.
He grinned, his teeth white against the grill of his helmet. "I love the noise, Paaji. Let's give them a show."
Abhishek and Shubman walked out to a deafening roar. The Chinnaswamy was a sea of red, vibrating with the energy of a home crowd that smelled blood. They had the runs. They had the bowlers.
Over 1 to 3 Mohammed Siraj started with fire. His eyes were wild, his run-up aggressive. He banged the first one in short, trying to unsettle Abhishek. Crack. Abhishek didn't flinch. He swiveled on one leg, a pull shot that sounded like a gunshot. The ball flew over square leg and landed deep in the second tier. The crowd gasped, then roared. It was a statement. "That's how we start!" I muttered from the dugout.
By the third over, it was clear: Abhishek Sharma had woken up and chosen violence. He wasn't just hitting the ball; he was dismantling the bowling attack. Lockie Ferguson, usually so precise, was treated with disdain. Abhishek stepped down the track, turning good length deliveries into half-volleys, lofting them inside-out over extra cover with a flourish that was pure arrogance.
Over 4 to 6 Spin was introduced early to curb the flow. Wanindu Hasaranga, the magician. Abhishek didn't care. Ball 1: Swept for four. Ball 2: Stepped out, lofted straight back over the bowler's head. The ball crashed into the sight screen. SIX. Ball 3: A flatter delivery, trying to skid it through. Abhishek rocked back and cut it past point. Four more.
He was a bomb blast in human form. The small boundaries of the Chinnaswamy seemed to shrink further under his assault. He raced to his fifty in just 19 balls. Shubman was playing the perfect foil, rotating the strike, hitting the occasional boundary to keep the bowlers honest. He was on 20 off 12, looking sublime, but tonight, he was a spectator at the non-striker's end.
Harshal Patel came into the attack. The master of deception. He bowled a slower dipping yorker. Shubman tried to flick it, read the pace a fraction too early. The ball dipped, took the leading edge, and lobbed gently to mid-off. Shubman Gill c du Plessis b Harshal 37 (20)
The crowd erupted. "RCB! RCB!" I stood up. It was time.
I walked out to the center. The noise was deafening, a wall of sound that hit you in the chest. I marked my guard—middle stump. I looked at Abhishek. He was breathing hard, sweating, but his eyes were alive. "Keep going," I told him, punching his glove. "Don't stop."
Over 7 to 10 I took a few balls to get my eye in. The surface was true, a belter of a wicket. I pushed a single, giving the strike back to the man of the moment. Abhishek continued his rampage. He hit Shahbaz Ahmed for two massive sixes in the 9th over, one landing on the roof. He was on 66 now, off just 26 balls.
Maxwell came on. He tossed one up, wide outside off, tempting the drive. Abhishek's eyes lit up. He went for the expansive cover drive, trying to hit it into Cubbon Park. He didn't quite get to the pitch of the ball. It spun away, took the thick outside edge, and flew to short third man. A sharp catch by Siraj. Abhishek Sharma c Siraj b Maxwell 66 (27)
The crowd found its voice again. The danger man was gone. Abhishek walked back, bat raised, acknowledging the applause that rippled through even the RCB faithful. He had done his job. 66 off 27. He had broken the back of the chase.
Heinrich Klaasen walked in. The South African giant. He looked calm, almost bored, chewing his gum. We met in the middle. "Still a long way to go," I said. "98 needed off 58 balls." "Just watch the ball," he replied in his thick accent. "Hit through the line."
We couldn't afford a slump. The required rate was hovering around 10.5 runs per over. I decided to take the lead. Harshal Patel was back, trying to use his variations. I waited for the slower ball. I knew he would bowl it wide. I shuffled across my stumps, exposing all three, and scooped him over fine leg. It was risky, pre-meditated, but it came off. The ball sailed for six. Klaasen, at the other end, was playing straight. He punched Hazlewood down the ground for four, a shot of pure power, no follow-through, just a punch. We rotated the strike hard. Ones became twos. The fielders were feeling the pressure of the heat and the relentless running.
By the end of the 15th over, the equation was: 52 runs needed off 30 balls. Manageable. But one wicket could change everything.
Over 16: Siraj came back. The crowd chanted his name. "Miyan! Miyan!" First ball: Short, into my body. I pulled, not with power, but timing. It raced to the square leg boundary. Four. Second ball: Yorker length. I dug it out. Dot. Third ball: Full toss. A mistake. I didn't miss. I swung hard, connecting with the middle of the bat. The ball soared over long-on. Massive. Siraj looked frustrated. He tried a bouncer. I swayed out of the way. Wided. By the end of the over, we had taken 16 runs. The pressure shifted back to the fielding captain.
Over 17: Klaasen's Turn Hasaranga was bowled out. They had to go to the part-timer, Maxwell, or bring back Pacer. Faf went with Hazlewood. Klaasen was on strike. Hazlewood bowled a length ball, trying to hit the top of off. Klaasen cleared his front leg. It was a brutal, muscular heave over mid-wicket. The sound of the bat was sickeningly sweet. The ball landed in the top tier. Next ball: Fuller. Klaasen drove it, straight as an arrow, past the bowler. The umpire had to duck for his life. Four. Klaasen was in the zone. He was seeing the ball like a football. He moved to 30 off 20.
Over 18: The Aarav Show Harshal Patel for the 18th. 24 runs needed off 18 balls. I was on 58. I needed to finish this. Harshal ran in, fingers spread for the off-cutter. I read it from the hand. I waited, waited, waited... and then unleashed a lofted drive over extra cover. The timing was exquisite. Six. Next ball, he tried the yorker. missed by an inch. I turned my wrists, whipping it through mid-wicket for four. I was flowing now. The tiredness in my legs vanished, replaced by adrenaline. I reached 70. We took three singles to end the over. Equation: 9 runs needed off 12 balls.
Over 19: The Finish Line Siraj again. He looked exhausted. The crowd had gone quiet, a nervous murmur replacing the roar. Klaasen was on strike. Ball 1: Siraj bowled a wide yorker. Klaasen squeezed it out to deep point. Two runs. Ball 2: Short ball. Klaasen pulled. It didn't come off the middle, landing safely in the vacant mid-wicket region. Two runs. 5 runs needed off 10 balls.
I walked down to Klaasen. "Let's finish it this over." He nodded. "big hit?" "Why not?"
Ball 3: Siraj ran in. He went for the yorker again but missed his length. It ended up being a low full toss on leg stump. Klaasen didn't try to hit it too hard. He just flicked his wrists, using the pace of the ball. It raced past short fine leg. Four runs! Scores tied. 1 run needed.
Ball 4: The field came in. Faf brought everyone inside the circle to stop the single. Klaasen tapped his bat. Siraj steamed in, aiming for the toes. It was a perfect yorker. Klaasen dug it out, jamming the bat down. The ball trickled to mid-on. "RUN!" I screamed. I sprinted. My legs burned, but I flew down the pitch. The mid-on fielder, Du Plessis, charged in, picked up cleanly, and had a shy at the stumps at the non-striker's end. If he hit, I was gone. The ball whistled past the stumps. I dived, sliding my bat across the crease. safe.
GT Won by 8 Wickets
We had done it. 19.4 Overs. Chased down 222.
The stadium was stunned for a heartbeat, and then, surprisingly, applause broke out. They appreciated good cricket, and they had just witnessed a heist.
I lay on the ground for a second, breathing in the smell of the turf. 72 not out off 42 balls. Klaasen walked over, offering a hand to pull me up. "Good running, mate," he grinned. "Good hitting, Henny," I replied, grabbing his hand.
We stood there in the middle of the Chinnaswamy, the scene of so many of my past victories, celebrating a new one. The RCB players—Virat, Faf, Maxi—walked over. Virat came straight to me. He looked disappointed, but the respect was there. "Well played, Aarav," he said, shaking my hand firmly. "You really know this ground, don't you?" "Learned from the best," I smiled.
Klaasen and I walked off the field, unbeaten. Aarav Pathak: 72 (42)* Heinrich Klaasen: 40 (26)* Extras: 6Total: 222/2 (19.1 Overs)
The "Ee Sala Cup Namde" chants were silent tonight, replaced by the jubilation of the Titans. We had chased the unchaseable.
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03 May 2022 – Vijay Khel Maidan, Patra City
There is something inherently intimidating about a fortress that has never been breached.
The Vijay Khel Maidan in Patra City had become exactly that for us. Our home ground. Our bastion. We had played here multiple times this season, and every single time, we had walked off as victors. The crowd knew it, we knew it, and more importantly, the opposition knew it.
Today, it was the Punjab Kings.
The rivalry had a bit of spice to it. We had gone to their den—the PCA Stadium in Mohali—earlier in the season and silenced their home crowd with a clinical chase. Now, the tables were turned. They were in our backyard. They were here to return the favor, to break the streak.
The stadium was a sea of dark blue and gold. The heat was stifling, typical of Patra City in May, a dry heat that sucked the moisture right out of you. The pitch looked hard, a little abrasive; a bat-first wicket if I ever saw one.
Aarav walked out for the toss with Mayank Agarwal. The coin went up, shimmering in the harsh afternoon sun.
"Heads," Mayank called.
"Tails it is," the match referee announced.
Aarav grinned, that familiar swagger in place. "We are going to have a bat first."
A roar went up from the stands. We loved setting a target here. The squeeze was our specialty.
"180 plus," Nehra paji said in the huddle. "Don't settle for 160. This outfield is fast, but the pitch will slow down later. Put the runs on the board now."
Shubman Gill and Abhishek walked out to the middle. The Punjab opening bowlers, Kagiso Rabada and Sandeep Sharma, were looking for early swing.
It started cautiously. Rabada was bowling heat, clocking 145 clicks consistently. Abhishek tried to take him on in the third over, attempting his trademark lofted shot over the infield. Clunk. It came high off the bat. The ball swirled in the air and settled into the hands of mid-on. Abhishek c Dhawan b Rabada 12 (10)
I walked in at number three. The noise level spiked. This was my home crowd in the truest sense. They expected magic every time.
"Watch the bounce," Shubman murmured as I punched his glove. "It's stopping a bit."
I took his advice. We spent the remainder of the powerplay consolidating. I played late, letting the ball come to me, using the pace of Sandeep Sharma to guide the ball through the vacant slip region. Shubman, on the other hand, played some exquisite drives.
At the end of the Powerplay, we were 48/1. decent, but not explosive.
The spinners came on. Rahul Chahar and Liam Livingstone. This was the phase where we had to dominate.
I decided to target Chahar. He dragged one short, and I rocked back, pulling it deep into the mid-wicket stands. That broke the shackles. Shubman was anchoring beautifully, ticking the scoreboard over. We put up a 50-run partnership in quick time. But just as Shubman looked set for a big one, he tried to reverse-sweep Livingstone—a shot he doesn't play often—and was trapped LBW. Shubman Gill lbw b Livingstone 43 (35)
Klassen came and went quickly, trying to force the pace too early, caught at long-off. Klassen c Saha b Chahar 11 (7)
We were 110/3 in 13.4 overs. We needed a kick. Enter David Miller. 'Killer Miller'.
I was on 45. I knew I had to bat deep. "I'll take the risks," Miller said, his eyes scanning the field. "You hold the end."
Miller didn't just take risks; he calculated them. He took on Odean Smith, Punjab's death bowler, in the 15th over. Six. Over long-on. Four. Slashed past point. Six. A monster hit over deep square leg that nearly left the stadium.
I reached my fifty with a quiet single, but the celebration was muted. The job wasn't done.
I got out in the 17th over, trying to clear the ropes off Sandeep. A slower ball completely foxed me. Aarav Pathak b Arshdeep 58 (42)
But the platform was set. Rinku Singh joined Miller. The 'Iceman' and the 'Killer'. They went berserk in the last three overs. Rabada was brought back, but Miller used his pace, ramping him over the keeper for four. Rinku played his scoops and flicks, finding gaps that drove the fielders mad.
The last over went for 18 runs. We finished on 183/4. It was a competitive total. In Patra City, defending 183 was something we backed ourselves to do 10 times out of 10.
Defending a total is an art. It's not just about bowling good balls; it's about creating pressure, choking the runs, and forcing the batsman to make a mistake.
Punjab Kings had a dangerous lineup. Shikhar Dhawan, Saha, Bhanuka Rajapaksa, Liam Livingstone. If they got going, 183 would vanish in 18 overs.
Arshdeep started with the new ball. The seam position was upright, perfect. Over 1: Just 4 runs. Over 2: I took the other end with the new ball. I kept it tight, back of a length, cramping Dhawan for room. 5 runs.
The pressure built immediately. Saha, feeling the heat, tried to blast Arshdeep out of the attack in the third over. He stepped down the track, swinging blindly. Arsh saw him coming, shortened the length, and the ball jagged back in. It took the inside edge and crashed into the stumps. Saha b Arsh 8 (9)
Shikhar Dhawan anchored one end, playing sensibly, but the man who scared us was Liam Livingstone. He walked in at number 4 after another wicket by Aarav. He was looking like he wanted to end the match in a hurry.
He started aggressively. He hit Josh for a 112-meter six that landed on the roof of the commentary box. The sound of bat on ball was terrifying. For a moment, the stadium went quiet. If Livingstone stayed for 10 overs, the game was over.
Aarav threw the ball to Rashid Khan. The trump card. "Get him," Aarav said simply.
Over 11: Rashid vs Livingstone Ball 1: Leg break. Livingstone defended. Ball 2: Googly. Livingstone didn't pick it, played inside the line. The ball missed the off-stump by a whisker. Ball 3: Rashid tossed it up, brave bowling. Livingstone's eyes lit up. He went for the slog sweep, trying to hit it into the next pin code. But the ball dipped. It wasn't in the slot. It was the slider. Livingstone was through the shot too early. The ball skidded under his bat and rapped him on the back pad. Plumb in front. "HOWZAT!" The umpire's finger went up instantly. L. Livingstone lbw b Rashid 19 (6)
That was the game. You could feel the air go out of the Punjab dugout.
After Livingstone fell, we tightened the noose. Dhawan was still there, but he was losing partners. Mayank Agarwal had already been out by a brilliant piece of bowl from Aarav.
I came back for my second spell in the 16th over. The equation was getting tough for them: 58 needed off 30 balls.
I varied my pace. Knuckleballs, wide yorkers, bouncers. Sharukh Khan, their finisher, tried to take me on but could only manage singles. I gave away just 6 runs.
Over 17: Josh. pure pace. He cleaned up Rishi Dhawan with a yorker. The stumps were shattered.
Over 18: Rashid Khan finished his spell. 4-0-22-3. A masterclass. He removed Shikhar Dhawan, who was tired and trying to force a shot that wasn't there. Caught at deep mid-wicket by Gill. S. Dhawan c Gill b Rashid 62 (50)
With Dhawan gone, it was a formality. The last over was bowled by Josh. They needed 28 runs. Impossible against a bowler of his caliber. He kept it simple. Yorker. Yorker. Low full toss. Yorker.
The final ball was dotted. Punjab Kings: 165/8 (20 Overs)
GT Won by 18 Runs
The fireworks went off around the stadium perimeter. The streak was alive. The Fortress remained unbreached.
We shook hands with the Punjab players. They looked deflated. They had come close in phases, but in Patra City, close isn't enough.
"Good game," Mayank said, shaking my hand, looking at the scoreboard. "We let it slip in the middle." "Rashid's spell," I nodded. "That was the difference."
I looked around the ground. The fans were still chanting, waving the flags. We were building something special here. A legacy of invincibility at home. As we walked back to the dugout, Ashish Nehra put his arm around my shoulder.
"Another day, another win," I grinned. "This habit... I like it."
"Me too, Captain," he replied. "Me too."
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Sorry for short chapter, but this is fucked up! I wrote a long chapter of 6k+ words. Sorry. Really -Really sorry!
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Author's Note: - 5900+ Words
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