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The heavy oak door of his bedroom clicked shut, sealing out the world of cricket, business, and parental lectures. Aarav tossed his kit bag into the corner and exhaled, a long, weary breath that seemed to carry the weight of the entire match with it.
He walked over to the mini-fridge in his room, grabbed a protein shake—more out of habit than hunger—and slid open the glass doors to his private balcony. The Mumbai night air was humid, carrying the distant, salty tang of the Arabian Sea mixed with the city's eternal smog. He sat on the large, cushioned swing, the chains creaking softly as he settled in.
Down below, the city was asleep, but his phone was buzzing with life. He ignored the notifications—congratulations from Virat, a meme sent by Gill, a PR update from his manager. There was only one person he wanted to see.
He tapped on the contact named simply 'Dr. S 🩺' and hit the video call icon.
Ring... Ring... Ring...
Usually, she picked up on the second ring. Tonight, it rang for a full forty seconds. Just as he was about to disconnect, the screen flickered to life.
The angle was low, propped up against a stack of thick medical textbooks. Shradha Tendulkar sat at her study table, the harsh white light of a table lamp illuminating her face. She looked tired. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, secured by a pencil. She wore oversized reading glasses that slid slightly down her nose.
She didn't look at the camera. She was highlighting a paragraph in Gray's Anatomy, her highlighter moving aggressively across the page.
"Hey," Aarav said softly, his voice tender. "You're studying late."
Silence. The highlighter scratched against the paper. Scritch-scratch.
"Shradha?" Aarav leaned closer to his phone. "Can you hear me? The connection seems fine."
She finally looked up. Her eyes, usually warm and teasing, were cold. There was a glassiness to them that made Aarav's stomach drop.
"I can hear you," she said. Her voice was flat, devoid of its usual melody.
"You watched the match?" he asked, trying to find a footing. "We won. It was a close one."
"I saw," she replied, returning her gaze to the book. "The whole world saw. Especially the ending. The celebration."
Aarav winced. "Babe, listen. That was just—"
"Just what?" She snapped, looking at him again. The hurt was visible now, raw and unprotected. "Just style? Just swag? That's what you told the commentators, right? 'I just felt like doing it.'"
"It's part of the game, Shradha. It's for the crowd."
"And the looking back?" She challenged, her voice trembling slightly. "Was that for the crowd too? Or was it for the special guest in the VIP box? The one wearing your jersey? The one the cameras couldn't stop zooming in on?"
"Shradha, come on," Aarav pleaded, running a hand through his hair. "She's just an Bollywood star. You know the media. They edit things. They slow it down to make it look like a movie scene."
"It looked pretty real to me, Aarav," she whispered, looking away. "And apparently, to the astrologers too. I was taking a break, I turned on the TV, and there it was. 'The Stars Align for the Superstar Couple.' They said your horoscopes are a perfect match. Soulmates."
"That's garbage! You know that's garbage!"
"Is it?" She laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. "Because right now, I'm sitting here in my pajamas, buried under books about the nervous system, while you are out there being the Prince of Cricket, having Bollywood stars cheer for you. I feel... stupid, Aarav. I feel like I'm the second choice. The hidden choice."
"You are the only choice!" Aarav shouted, his voice echoing on the balcony.
"Go talk to your soulmate, Aarav," she said, reaching for the screen. "I have an exam on Monday. I can't deal with this tonight."
"Shradha, wait, don't—"
Click.
The screen went black.
Aarav stared at his reflection in the dark phone screen. Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at his chest. This wasn't a normal fight. This wasn't about him forgetting to call or being late. This was deep-seated insecurity, fueled by a relentless media machine he couldn't control.
He hit the call button again. Declined. Again. Declined. He texted: Please pick up. I'm coming over. No delivery report. She had turned off her data.
He cursed, jumping off the swing. He scrolled through his contacts and found Sara Tendulkar.
Ring... Ring...
"Hello?" Sara's voice was sleepy.
"Sara, thank God," Aarav said, rushing back into his room. "Is she in her room? She just hung up on me. She's really upset."
"I know," Sara sighed, her voice heavy. "I could hear her from the hallway. She's been crying for the last hour, Aarav. She saw those Instagram edits. The ones with the romantic music? It messed with her head."
"Can you go talk to her? Please? Just tell her to pick up the phone."
"Hold on."
Aarav waited, pacing the length of his room. He heard muffled sounds on the other end—a knock, a door handle turning, muted voices.
"Shradha? It's me," he heard Sara say faintly. Then a shout from inside the room. "I don't want to talk to him, Sara! Tell him to leave me alone! Tell him to go to his... his actress friend!"
Sara came back on the line. "You heard that?"
"Yeah," Aarav whispered, closing his eyes.
"She locked the door again," Sara said sympathetically. "She's stubborn, Aarav. You know that. She feels invisible right now. Give her time."
"I can't give her time," Aarav said, his voice hardening with resolve. "Time is what caused this. I need to fix this now."
"What are you going to do? It's 1:00 AM."
"I'm coming over."
"Aarav, are you crazy?."
"Yeah!"
He hung up.
He didn't bother changing. He was still in the comfortable grey sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt he had worn after the shower. He grabbed his wallet and the keys from the dresser. Not the Audi. Not the Porsche. He grabbed the heavy fob of the Range Rover SV. He needed the tank.
He ran down the stairs, two at a time. The house was quiet now. Ramakaant was locking up the kitchen.
"Baba?" the old man asked, surprised. "Going out?"
"Tell Mom I went to meet Shradha," Aarav said, not breaking stride. "Don't wait up."
He burst out the front door, the cool night air hitting his face. He unlocked the Range Rover, the V8 engine roaring to life with a deep, guttural growl that shattered the silence of Juhu.
He reversed out of the driveway, the tires crunching on the gravel, and sped onto the main road.
The streets of Mumbai were emptier now, the chaotic traffic replaced by the occasional taxi and truck. Aarav drove with focused aggression. His mind was racing faster than the car. He replayed every interaction, every moment in the match. Why did he look at the box? Why did he have to be so flamboyant? His mother was right. His style had cost him his peace.
As he neared Bandra, he saw a 24/7 cafe open—a popular spot for the night owls. He slammed on the brakes, pulling up to the curb.
He ran inside. The barista, half-asleep, widened his eyes as he recognized the Gujarat Titans captain standing in his shop at 1:15 AM.
"Two Belgian Chocolate Shakes," Aarav ordered, tapping his card on the machine. "Extra thick. Extra whipped cream. To go."
"S-Sure, Sir! Right away!" The barista stammered, scrambling to the blender.
Five minutes later, Aarav was back in the car, the two chilled cups sitting in the holder. It was their thing. Since they knew each other, whenever she was stressed about exams or any other tension. It was her peace offering.
The Tendulkar residence in Bandra was a fortress. High walls, heavy security. But the guards knew the black Range Rover. They knew the boy behind the wheel. The gate opened without a question.
Aarav parked the car silently. He grabbed the shakes and walked to the front door.
It opened before he could ring the bell. Sara stood there, wearing her pajamas, looking equal parts amused and worried.
"You are actually insane," she whispered, stepping aside to let him in. "Do you know what time it is?"
"Is she still awake?" Aarav asked, stepping into the cool foyer.
"Yes. Lights are on."
From the living room, a voice drifted out. "Aarav?"
Aarav froze. Sachin Tendulkar walked into the hallway, holding a glass of water. Beside him was Anjali, looking concerned.
"Dad," Aarav nodded respectfully, a wave of nervousness hitting him. Facing Bumrah's yorkers was easier than facing the God of Cricket when you had made his daughter cry.
Sachin didn't look angry. He looked at the shakes in Aarav's hand and a small, knowing smile appeared on his face. He remembered the days when he had to do similar things for Anjali amidst the media storms of the 90s.
"She's upstairs," Sachin said softly. He pointed towards the ceiling. "She thinks you're ignoring her for the fame. Go fix it, son."
Anjali smiled gently. "Don't break the door, Aarav. Just knock."
"Thank you, Mom. Thank you, Dad."
Aarav bounded up the stairs, his heart pounding against his ribs. He reached the familiar white door at the end of the hallway. He could hear faint sniffing from inside.
He took a deep breath. He didn't knock. He slowly turned the handle. It was unlocked.
The room was dim, lit only by the study lamp and the glow of fairy lights wrapped around her bedpost. Shradha was sitting on the floor now, leaning against her bed, hugging a pillow. Her face was buried in her knees.
Aarav stepped inside, closing the door silently behind him. He placed the shakes on the study table.
"Sara, go away," Shradha mumbled into her knees, her voice thick with tears. "I told you, I don't want to talk to him. If he calls again, tell him I'm asleep. Tell him to go to his party."
Aarav didn't speak. He walked across the plush carpet, his socks making no sound. He reached her.
"Sara, please," she sniffed, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "If anything, Aarav would talk to me directly, not send my sister..."
She trailed off as she felt a presence behind her. Not Sara. Sara smelled of vanilla body mist. This presence smelled of expensive cologne, fresh grass, and... chocolate.
Aarav knelt down behind her. He reached out, his large hands gently covering her eyes. His fingers were warm.
Shradha stiffened. She struggled for a second, grabbing his wrists to pull them away.
"Sara, stop it, I'm not in the mood for—"
She stopped. She felt the calluses on the hands—cricketer's hands. She felt the silver bracelet on the right wrist.
She froze.
"Aarav?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "Aarav, is that you?"
Aarav didn't remove his hands. He leaned forward, his chin resting gently on top of her head.
"Who else would drive across Mumbai at 1 AM with two melting chocolate shakes?" he whispered into her hair.
Shradha pulled his hands away and spun around. Her eyes were red, her face blotchy from crying. She looked at him—really looked at him—standing there in his simple t-shirt, looking tired and desperate and completely devoted.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, though the anger in her voice was already cracking.
"I tried to call," Aarav said, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her. "You hung up. You said I should go to my soulmate. So... here I am."
Shradha stared at him, her lip quivering. "That's cheesy."
"It's true," Aarav said, his face serious. He reached out and took her hand. It was cold. "Shradha, look at me. Not at the TV. Not at the phone. Look at me."
She met his gaze.
"That girl in the VIP box?" Aarav said firmly. "She loves the Captain of the Gujarat Titans. She loves the sixes. She loves the cameras. But the guy sitting here? The guy who gets scared when his mom yells at him for not washing his hands? The guy who drives like a maniac because he can't sleep knowing you're upset? Only you know him."
"But the news..." Shradha whispered, a fresh tear escaping. "They said you look perfect together. They said..."
"They are selling ads, Shradha," Aarav interrupted gently. "It's TRP. It's a business. They don't know that I hate waking up early. They don't know I steal your medical highlighters because I like the colors. They don't know that my favorite place in the world isn't the Wankhede, it's this carpet, right here."
He squeezed her hand. "You aren't second place. You are the game. Everything else is just warm-up."
Shradha looked down at their joined hands. The silence stretched for a minute, heavy but healing. The reality of his presence—the fact that he was here, in her room, ignoring his victory party, ignoring the world—was washing away the insecurity.
"I felt so small," she admitted finally, her voice barely a whisper. "Everyone was talking about her. Even my friends were texting me, 'Did you see Janhvi?'. I just... I wanted to disappear."
"I know," Aarav said soothingly, moving closer. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have played to the gallery so much. I got carried away. But Shradha... none of it means anything if I can't come here and tell you about it."
She looked up, searching his eyes for any sign of deception. She found only exhaustion and love.
"You really bought shakes?" she asked, a small, watery smile tugging at her lips.
"Two," Aarav grinned, sensing the shift. "Belgian Chocolate. Extra whipped cream. But they are probably soup now."
She let out a choked laugh, wiping her eyes. "You idiot."
"I love you," Aarav said suddenly. The playfulness vanished. "I love you. A lot. Dearly. More than cricket. More than my Range Rover. Maybe not more than Mom's mutton curry, but it's a close second."
She laughed again, a genuine sound this time, and threw herself at him.
Aarav caught her easily, wrapping his arms around her small frame as she buried her face in his neck. He rocked her gently, feeling the tension leave her body. She was crying again, but these were different tears—tears of relief, of release.
"I hate you," she mumbled into his t-shirt, her grip on him tightening.
"I know," he kissed the top of her head. "I'm the worst."
"You're the worst," she agreed, sniffing. "Don't ever look at her again."
"I won't. I'll wear blinkers. Like a racehorse. I'll only look at the pitch."
She pulled back, sitting in his lap, her legs draped over his. She looked at his face, tracing the stubble on his jaw with her thumb.
"You look tired," she whispered.
"Played a match," he shrugged. "Hit a few sixes. Got yelled at by my girlfriend. Typical Friday."
She hit his chest lightly. "Shut up."
Aarav reached behind him and grabbed the cups from the table. He handed one to her. "Peace offering?"
She took the cup, taking a long sip. "It's melted."
"It's vintage," Aarav corrected, opening his own. "Aged to perfection during the traffic at Bandra Worli Sea Link."
They sat there on the floor, the world outside forgotten. The medical books lay open, forgotten. The chaos of the IPL, the flashing cameras, the screaming fans—it all faded into the background.
"How was the match, really?" Shradha asked after a while, resting her head on his shoulder, playing with the collar of his t-shirt. "Dad said you played well."
"It was good," Aarav said, relaxing against the bed frame. "The ball was coming on nicely. Bumrah was tricky, though. He was angry."
"He's always angry when you hit him," she giggled. "Remember in the nets last year? He nearly took your head off."
"Yeah, well, today I took his head off," Aarav smirked. "But then Pollard got me. I got greedy."
"Mom says greed is bad," she murmured sleepily.
"Mom is always right," Aarav sighed. "Speaking of Mom, she wants to sue the news channels."
Shradha sat up, eyes wide. "What? No!"
"Yeah. She was furious. She said, 'How dare they insult my future daughter-in-law?' She was ready to call the lawyers."
Shradha blushed, a deep crimson that spread to her ears. "Your mom is scary."
"She loves you. More than me, I think."
Aarav looked at her, the moonlight from the window catching the softness of her face. The glasses were gone, the hair was messy, and she wore old cotton pajamas with cartoon bears on them. And yet, she was the most beautiful thing he had seen all night.
"Shradha," he said softly.
"Hmm?"
"I'm serious. About what I said. I'll tone it down. The media stuff. I don't want you to feel like this ever again."
She smiled, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "You don't have to change your game, Aarav. Just... keep coming back here. Okay? Just remind me sometimes that I'm the one you drive to at 1 AM."
"Every time," he promised. He leaned in, capturing her lips in a soft, lingering kiss that tasted of chocolate and forgiveness. It wasn't a movie kiss. There were no fireworks, no background score. It was quiet, desperate, and real.
An hour later, the shakes were finished.
"You should go," Shradha whispered, though she made no move to get off his lap. "You have recovery tomorrow. Nehra sir will kill you if you're late."
"Nehra sir is probably asleep," Aarav yawned. "Or talking to himself about field placements."
"Go, Aarav."
"Five more minutes."
"You said that ten minutes ago."
"I'm the Captain. I make the rules."
"Not in this house. In this house, Sachin Tendulkar makes the rules. And if he finds you here at 3 AM, he will hit you for a six."
Aarav laughed, finally untangling himself. He stood up, stretching his stiff limbs. He pulled her up with him.
"I'll call you tomorrow?" he asked, holding her hands.
"Video call," she corrected. "So I can check if you're looking at anyone else."
"Deal."
He walked to the door, then stopped. He turned around.
"Hey, Shradha?"
"Yeah?"
"You're going to be a great doctor. You have a way of fixing hearts."
She rolled her eyes, but her smile was blinding. "Get out, Aarav."
Aarav slipped out of the room, closing the door softly. As he walked down the hallway, he saw the light in the master bedroom turn off. Sachin and Anjali had been waiting up, making sure everything was okay.
Aarav smiled to himself as he walked out to his car. The drive back to home would be long, and he would be exhausted tomorrow. But as he started the engine of the Range Rover, he felt lighter than he had in weeks.
He had won the match on the field. But more importantly, he had saved the match off it.
And as he merged onto the empty highway, he tapped his steering wheel, humming a tune. Not a romantic ballad, but the Champions League anthem. Because tonight, he felt like a winner on all fronts.
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The sun was streaming through the heavy curtains of Aarav's bedroom, but the Captain of the Gujarat Titans was buried deep under a mountain of duvets, lost in a dream where he was hitting sixes.
Suddenly, the dream shattered.
"UTH JA! (WAKE UP!)"
A voice, loud enough to wake the dead and annoying enough to belong to only one person, boomed next to his ear.
"CAPTAIN! THE SHIP IS SINKING! NEHRA JI IS COMING WITH A BAT!"
Aarav groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. "Go away," he mumbled, his voice hoarse. "Security..."
"Security is eating Poha downstairs!" The intruder yelled, ripping the duvet off the bed. "It is 10 AM! Even the sun has done a half-day shift, and you are here hibernating!"
Aarav didn't open his eyes. His hand blindly searched for a weapon. It found a heavy memory-foam pillow. With the precision of a slip fielder, he launched it in the direction of the voice.
Thump.
"Nice catch," Abhishek Sharma grinned, catching the projectile with one hand and spinning it on his finger. "But your throwing arm needs work. You're engaging the shoulder too much."
Aarav finally cracked one eye open. Abhishek was standing there, dressed in a neon green t-shirt that hurt Aarav's eyes, looking far too energetic for a morning after a match.
"Abhishek," Aarav croaked, sitting up and rubbing his face. "Why are you in my house? Don't you have a home? Don't you have parents who miss you?"
"My parents love me, but I love your mom's cooking more," Abhishek shrugged, tossing the pillow back. "Get up. Training started hours ago. The boys have already done recovery pool sessions. I told the physio you have 'strategic fatigue'."
"Strategic fatigue?" Aarav raised an eyebrow, swinging his legs out of bed.
"Yeah. It sounds better than 'sleeping like a log because he drove across Mumbai at 3 AM for a romantic reconciliation'." Abhishek wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "So? Did it go well? Or are you single again?"
Aarav couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips. "It went well. Now get out. I need to shower."
"Ten minutes!" Abhishek shouted, heading for the door. "Priya Aunty made sandwiches! If you're late, I'm eating yours!"
Twenty minutes later, freshly showered and wearing a simple white linen shirt and shorts, Aarav walked down the grand staircase of Pathak Villa. The smell of toasted bread and brewing masala chai wafted through the air.
In the dining room, the scene was domestic bliss. His father, Rajat, had already left for a board meeting. His mother, Priya, was sitting at the head of the table, laughing. Abhishek was sitting next to her, buttering a massive slice of toast, charming her as usual.
"Good morning, Mom," Aarav said, pulling out a chair. Ramakaant Kaka immediately placed a steaming cup of tea and a plate of grilled vegetable sandwiches in front of him.
"Good morning, hero," Priya smiled, though she looked significantly more relaxed than the previous night. "Your friend here has been telling me stories about your U-19 days. I didn't know you once broke a window at the academy and blamed it on a bird?"
Aarav glared at Abhishek, who was innocently chewing his toast. "It was a very large bird, Mom. Abhishek is a liar."
"I am a truth-teller, Aunty," Abhishek grinned. "But listen, the mood is good today. You know why? Look at this."
He slid his phone across the mahogany table towards Aarav. "Fresh out of the oven. Posted thirty minutes ago."
Aarav picked up the phone. It was Twitter. Janhvi Kapoor's official handle.
@janhvikapoor:"To all the media houses and fan pages: Please stop the speculation. It's flattering but completely false. I am just a die-hard fan of cricket and the Gujarat Titans (and yes, our Captain is playing well!). But I have never met Aarav Pathak personally. Let's respect their privacy and focus on the game. 🏏 #GT #IPL2022 #JustAFan"
Aarav let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Oh, thank God."
"See?" Abhishek pointed a crust of bread at him. "PR crisis averted. She's smart. She killed the rumors before they could become a headache."
Priya nodded, sipping her tea. "Good girl. Sensible. I was about to call the legal team this morning, but this is better. Still, Aarav, keep your distance. No more 'no-look' shots for a while."
"Yes, Mom," Aarav muttered, taking a bite of his sandwich. "I will play with my eyes closed next time."
"So," Abhishek wiped crumbs off his face. "Now that you are not being sued and your girlfriend isn't dumping you... we have free time till 4 PM."
"I was planning to sleep," Aarav said.
"Boring," Abhishek dismissed. "We are going to Shivaji Park. Rao Sir called me yesterday. He said, 'You big IPL stars have forgotten your old coach.' We have to go pay our respects."
Aarav sat up straight. "Rao Sir? I haven't seen him in two years."
"Exactly. So let's go. And after that... Ashok Vada Pav."
Aarav looked at his watch. "Abhi, it's Saturday. Shivaji Park will be packed. If we go there, we won't get to meet Sir. We'll get mobbed. I can't take the Range Rover there."
"Who said anything about a Range Rover?" Abhishek smirked, reaching into his backpack which was lying on the floor. "And who said anything about Aarav Pathak and Abhishek Sharma going?"
He pulled out a plastic bag and dumped its contents on the dining table.
Two oversized, tacky trucker caps. Two pairs of thick, black-rimmed spectacles (zero power). And two dense, bushy, fake beards with elastic bands.
Aarav stared at the items. Then he looked at his mother. Then back at the items.
"You have got to be kidding me," Aarav deadpanned. "I look like a terrorist in this."
"You look like a hipster from Bandra," Abhishek corrected. "Trust me. We take the old bicycles from your garage. We ride there. We eat. We come back. No security. No cameras. Just vibes."
Priya laughed, picking up one of the beards. "You should do it, Aarav. You haven't had a normal day in months."
Half an hour later, two questionable-looking figures rolled out of the back gate of Pathak Villa on rusty Hercules cycles that hadn't been oiled since 2018.
Aarav felt ridiculous. The fake beard scratched his chin, and the oversized sunglasses kept sliding down his nose due to the sweat. He was wearing a faded grey t-shirt and baggy shorts. Abhishek looked equally absurd in a bright yellow cap and a beard that looked like it belonged to Santa Claus's evil twin.
"This is a bad idea!" Aarav shouted over the noise of the traffic as they pedaled onto the busy Juhu Tara Road.
"It's a great idea!" Abhishek yelled back, standing on his pedals to gain speed. "Look! No one cares! That auntie just cursed at you for cutting her off! She didn't ask for a selfie! It's freedom, baby!"
Aarav realized he was right. In a city of twenty million people, everyone was too busy fighting their own battles to notice two cyclists. For the first time in a long time, Aarav wasn't being watched. He wasn't the 'Prince'. He was just another nuisance in traffic.
He pedaled harder, feeling the wind against his face (and the fake beard).
They reached Shivaji Park, the Mecca of Mumbai cricket. The red clay dust kicked up as hundreds of kids in whites practiced their drives. The sound of leather hitting willow was a symphony.
They found Rao Sir near the nets, yelling at a 12-year-old for playing a cross-batted shot. He looked exactly the same—khaki shorts, a white shirt tucked in, and a hat that had seen better decades.
Aarav and Abhishek parked their cycles and approached him, pulling down their beards slightly.
"Sir?" Aarav called out tentatively.
Rao Sir turned around, squinting. "Who? ... Aarav? Abhishek?"
He blinked, then his stern face broke into a wide, toothy grin. "Oye! You rascals! What is this getup? Ramleela actors?"
Aarav laughed, touching the older man's feet. "Disguise, Sir. Otherwise, we wouldn't reach you."
Rao Sir patted their backs hard—solid, heavy thumps of affection. "Good, good. I saw the match yesterday. Aarav, your elbow dropped on that pull shot to Meredith. It went for six, but technically it was risky. Keep the elbow high."
Aarav grinned. He had scored 74 and won Man of the Match, but for Rao Sir, the technique mattered more. "Yes, Sir. I'll work on it."
"And you," he pointed at Abhishek. "14 runs? You were in a hurry to catch a train? Stay at the wicket! Respect the new ball!"
"Yes, Sir," Abhishek beamed, happy just to be scolded.
They spent twenty minutes chatting, watching the young kids play, feeling the grounding energy of the red soil where they had learned everything. It was a humble reminder of where they came from.
"Sir, we have to run," Abhishek said eventually, checking his watch. "But we are craving the Vada Pav."
"Go, go. Don't let the fans catch you," Rao Sir waved them off.
They cycled to the famous stall near the park corner. It was crowded, as always. They parked the cycles and stood in line like commoners.
"Two Vada Pavs. Extra chutney. And two Thums Up," Abhishek ordered, pulling his cap lower.
They got their food and sat on a low concrete wall nearby, balancing the glass bottles and the spicy, fried potato dumplings.
"This," Aarav mumbled, taking a bite of the hot, spicy goodness, "is better than the Trident buffet."
"Told you," Abhishek munched happily. "The secret ingredient is the dust and pollution."
Suddenly, a shadow fell over them.
A man, roughly 35 years old, wearing a tight polo shirt and jeans, was standing right in front of them. He was staring. Intense, unblinking staring.
Aarav froze mid-chew. Busted. Abhishek stiffened. Run?
The man tilted his head. He had a distinct Punjabi vibe about him. "Oye... wait a minute."
Aarav slowly lowered his Vada Pav. He exchanged a panicked look with Abhishek. If this guy shouted, 'Aarav Pathak!', within thirty seconds there would be a stampede.
"Shh, Uncle," Abhishek whispered, quickly swallowing his food. "Please don't shout. We are just eating. You want a photo? We can do a quick selfie. Just come to the side."
Aarav nodded, pulling his beard down slightly to confirm his identity, putting a finger to his lips. "Quietly, please."
The man's eyes widened. He recognized them.
But instead of pulling out his phone, his face turned red with rage.
"PHOTO?!" The man bellowed, his voice cracking. "Who wants a photo with you two useless fellows?!"
Aarav and Abhishek blinked. "Huh?"
"You!" The man pointed an accusatory finger at Aarav, ignoring the Vada Pav in Aarav's hand. "You call yourself a Captain? What was that shot to Pollard? Huh? The man is 40 years old! He has knees made of cement! He can't bend! And you hit a catch straight to his chest? Are you playing cricket or playing catch-catch?"
Aarav was so stunned he nearly dropped his Thums Up. "I... I was trying to clear the boundary..."
"Try harder!" The man snapped. Then he swiveled to Abhishek.
"And you! Mr. Hair-Style! 14 runs? ONE-FOUR? My washerman's nephew scores more than that with a washing bat! You faced Bumrah and got out like a primary school kid! Where was the footwork?"
Abhishek's mouth fell open. "Uncle, Bumrah bowled a yorker..."
"Bahana! (Excuses!)" The man waved his hand dismissively. "Do you know what you two did?"
"We... we won the match?" Aarav ventured weakly.
"You ruined my Fantasy Team!" The man roared, slapping his forehead. "I had you (Aarav) as Captain! And you (Abhishek) as Vice-Captain! I needed 20 more points! Just 20 points! If you hadn't played that stupid shot, I would have won the Mega Contest! ONE CRORE RUPEES!"
Both cricketers sweat-dropped. A literal bead of sweat rolled down Aarav's temple behind his fake glasses.
"One crore..." Abhishek whispered.
"Yes! One Crore!" The man lamented, looking up at the sky. "I had the perfect team. Rashid took wickets. Miller hit runs. But my 'Star Openers' decided to donate their wickets. My wife is going to kill me. I told her I'd buy a new washing machine with the winnings."
The man looked at them with genuine heartbreak. It wasn't anger; it was the sorrow of a gambler who was this close.
"Sorry... Uncle ji?" Aarav said still confused.
"Sorry won't wash my clothes, beta," the man sighed. He then looked at Aarav's half-eaten Vada Pav. He shook his head. "Look at the grip. You are holding the Vada Pav wrong too."
"What?" Aarav looked at his hand.
"Give me that," the man snatched a tissue paper and mimicked a batting stance right there on the pavement. "When Pollard bowls the cutter, you don't swing across the line! You wait! Like this!"
He demonstrated a straight drive with an imaginary bat. "You play in the V! Late timing! Not 'Whoosh' and out!"
Aarav, the Captain of an IPL franchise, a man who had scored 74 off 38 balls the previous night, sat on a roadside wall wearing a fake beard, getting batting lessons from a stranger who lost a fantasy league bet.
"Okay," the man turned to Abhishek. "And you. Next match, if you get out before 30, I will unfollow you on Instagram. I am serious."
"No, no, Uncle, please don't do that," Abhishek said, suppressing a laugh. "I will score 50. Promise."
"You better," the man grumbled. He looked at them one last time, adjusting his collar. "Anyway. Good win. But improve the fantasy points. Think about the common man."
He turned around and walked away, muttering to himself about "Pollard's knees" and "One Crore."
Aarav and Abhishek sat in silence for a full ten seconds, watching him disappear into the crowd.
Then, they burst out laughing.
They laughed until their stomachs hurt. They laughed until tears streamed down their faces, getting caught in their fake spectacles.
"He... he tried to teach you the straight drive," Abhishek wheezed, clutching his sides. "With a tissue paper!"
"He said he wouldn't take a photo with us!" Aarav wiped his eyes, gasping for air. "We are famous, Abhi! But not famous enough for his washing machine!"
"Oh my God," Abhishek shook his head, finishing his Vada Pav. "That was... humbling. I think I needed that."
Aarav nodded, a genuine, easy smile on his face. The pressure of the captaincy, the media, the expectations—it all felt a little lighter. At the end of the day, to some people, they were just points on a screen. And somehow, that was liberating.
"Come on," Aarav stood up, adjusting his fake beard which was now peeling off. "Let's go home. I need to practice my straight drive. Uncle Ji might be watching the next match."
"And I need to score 50," Abhishek hopped onto his cycle. "Or I lose a follower. Can't have that."
They pedaled back into the chaos of Mumbai, two superstars disguised as nobodies, carrying the secret wisdom of the Fantasy League Uncle.
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The Gujarat Titans team room had a different vibe as they returned to their hotel. The air wasn't thick with the tension of qualification scenarios or the desperation of Net Run Rate calculations. Instead, it was relaxed, almost celebratory.
With 10 wins out of 11 matches, the Gujarat Titans sat on a throne of 20 points. They were uncatchable. Even if they lost every single remaining game by a massive margin, they were mathematically guaranteed a top-two finish. They had conquered the league stage with three games to spare—a level of dominance rarely seen in the unpredictable chaos of the IPL.
In the management suite, Head Coach Ashish Nehra, Mentor Gary Kirsten, and Captain Aarav Pathak sat around a table littered with spreadsheets.
"We have done the hard work," Nehra said, leaning back and chewing his gum rapidly. "Now, we have a choice. We can keep playing the same XI and risk burnout or injury before the playoffs. Or..."
"Or we test the engine," Aarav finished the sentence, looking at the list of players who hadn't gotten a game yet. "We have guys on the bench who would walk into any other IPL team. It's criminal to keep them seated."
Gary Kirsten nodded. "Rest is crucial. Especially for the fast bowlers. And Aarav, you've played every minute of every game. You need a break mentally before the Qualifiers."
Aarav smiled. "I hate sitting out, Gary. But I trust the boys. Besides, I think someone else wants to wear the Captain's armband for a week."
The next morning at practice, the announcement was made. The "Big Guns" were going into cryo-sleep.
Out: Aarav Pathak, Heinrich Klaasen, David Miller, Rinku Singh, Rashid Khan, Kuldeep Yadav, Josh Hazlewood, Arshdeep Singh.
In: Sai Sudharsan, Jitesh Sharma, Jonny Bairstow, Abhinav Manohar, Sai Kishore, Noor Ahmad, Jason Behrendorff, Yash Dayal, Umran Malik.
It was a wholesale change. A completely new XI, barring the openers and Rahul.
And leading this "GT B-Team" was none other than Abhishek Sharma.
"Ladies and Gentlemen!" Abhishek announced in the dressing room, adjusting his collar. "The King is on vacation. The Prince is taking over. Please address me as 'Skipper' or 'Captain Cool 2.0'."
Shubman Gill laughed, throwing a towel at him. "Just win the toss, Skipper. Don't embarrass us."
Match 12: Gujarat Titans vs Lucknow Super Giants (Vijay Khel Maidan, Patra City)
The first test of the new-look Titans was against the other new franchise, LSG.
Abhishek Sharma walked out for the toss, looking surprisingly calm despite his earlier jokes. He lost the toss, and Hardik put GT in to bat.
The Debutant's Nerves: All eyes were on the young left-hander taking Aarav's Number 3 spot—Sai Sudharsan. The Tamil Nadu youngster looked nervous. He faced Avesh Khan, played three dots, and then, trying to force a shot through mid-wicket, got a leading edge. Caught.Sai Sudharsan: 0 (4). A duck on debut. The critics immediately started chatting. "Can he replace Aarav?" "Big shoes to fill."
The Middle Order Fire: But the rest of the new faces had no such nerves. Jonny Bairstow, playing his first game of the season, smashed a quickfire 40. But the real surprise was Jitesh Sharma. Replacing the mighty Klaasen, Jitesh came in at the death. He didn't try to power the ball like Klaasen; he used 360-degree angles. He scooped, he ramped, he slashed. He scored a brilliant 38 off 20 balls, propelling GT to a competitive 170.
The Speed Demons: In the second innings, the "Jammu Express" arrived. Umran Malik steamed in. He wasn't worried about line and length; he just wanted to break the speed gun. 152 kmph.154 kmph.156 kmph. The sheer pace rattled the LSG middle order. Deepak Hooda was late on a pull shot and lost his stumps. Yash Dayal provided the swing upfront, and the spin twins—Sai Kishore (tall, turning it steep) and Noor Ahmad (the mystery chinaman)—choked the runs in the middle overs.
GT won by 24 runs. Even with their 'B-Team', they were too strong. Abhishek Sharma's captaincy debut was a success.
Match 13: Gujarat Titans vs Chennai Super Kings (Chepauk)
The next stop was the lion's den—The M. A. Chidambaram Stadium, Chennai.
Playing CSK at Chepauk is the ultimate test. The yellow sea of fans was deafening. MS Dhoni, the master tactician, knew this was an inexperienced GT side.
Sai Sudharsan's Redemption: Walking in at 0/1 after Gill fell early, Sai Sudharsan showed his character. On a slow, turning track where the ball was gripping, he didn't panic. He used his feet against Jadeja and Moeen Ali. He rotated the strike beautifully, constructing a mature innings. He fell for 34 (30), but he had stabilized the ship. It wasn't a match-winning knock, but it proved he belonged at this level.
The Spin Web: However, the GT bowlers struggled to defend a low total of 145. While Sai Kishore bowled beautifully on his home ground (2/20), the lack of experience in the death overs hurt them. Ruturaj Gaikwad anchored the chase, and CSK won comfortably by 5 wickets.
GT's winning streak was snapped, but the management wasn't worried. They had seen Sai Sudharsan handle pressure, and they had seen Sai Kishore's quality against top-class players of spin.
Match 14: Gujarat Titans vs Royal Challengers Bangalore
The final league game.
For Virat Kohli, it was a must-win. For Aarav (watching from the dugout), it was a strange feeling hoping his team would play well but knowing his 'Big Brother' needed the points.
Sai Sudharsan Arrives: This was the night the world truly saw Sai Sudharsan. Facing a desperate RCB attack of Lockie Ferguson, Siraj, and Maxwell, Sai played a gem. He drove gracefully through covers. He pulled Siraj with authority. He looked like a clone of Mike Hussey. He scored a magnificent 65 (48)*, anchoring the innings while Abhinav Manohar provided some late fireworks. GT posted 168.
The Kohli Show: Chasing 169, Virat Kohli, who had had a quiet season, finally woke up. Perhaps it was the pressure, or perhaps it was seeing Aarav's team on the other side. "The King is back," the commentators screamed as Virat smashed a 70+ score. Despite Jason Behrendorff getting an early wicket and Noor Ahmad spinning a web, Glenn Maxwell went berserk in the middle overs.
GT lost by 8 wickets. RCB chased it down with over an over to spare.
The Stadium erupted. RCB had qualified. Virat punched the air, looking towards the GT dugout. Abhishek Sharma smiled, shaking hands with Faf du Plessis. GT had lost, but they had given their bench valuable game time and found a reliable backup #3 in Sai Sudharsan.
As the dust settled on the 70 league matches, the table was finalized. The experiments were over. The "A-Team" was rested, recovered, and hungry.
The IPL 2022 Playoff Qualifiers:
Gujarat Titans (20 Points) - The Dominators.
Strength: Best bowling attack, deepest batting lineup, charismatic leadership.
Weakness: Maybe over-reliance on the Aarav?
Rajasthan Royals (18 Points) - The Pink Army.
Key: Jos Buttler (Orange Cap holder) and Yuzvendra Chahal (Purple Cap holder). They were the only team that looked like they could challenge GT on paper.
Lucknow Super Giants (18 Points) - The New Challengers.
Key: KL Rahul's consistency and a solid all-round unit with depth provided by Hardik Pandya.
Royal Challengers Bangalore (16 Points) - The Perennial Hopefuls.
Key: Sneaked in at the last moment thanks to GT's experiment. They had momentum and the "Kohli Factor."
The Playoff Schedule:
Qualifier 1:Gujarat Titans vs Rajasthan Royals at Eden Gardens, Kolkata. (Winner goes to Final).
Eliminator:Lucknow Super Giants vs Royal Challengers Bangalore at Eden Gardens, Kolkata. (Loser goes home).
Back to Business
In the GT hotel room, Aarav packed his bag. The break was over. The experiment was a success—they had found depth in Jitesh Sharma and Sai Sudharsan, and kept their prime bowlers fresh.
"Fun is over, Skipper," Aarav grinned at Abhishek Sharma, taking back the Captain's blazer. "Thanks for keeping the seat warm."
Abhishek laughed, raising a toast with his protein shake. "I got a 100% win record against LSG. I'm retiring from captaincy on a high. Now, let's go get that trophy."
The road to the trophy went through Kolkata. And waiting for them was Jos Buttler, the man in the form of his life. It was going to be the battle of the season.
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Author's Note: - 7200+ Words [Back-to-Back Long Chapter. I deserve praise]
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