The Fortress of Gwalior
Date: February 24, 2010.
Venue: Captain Roop Singh Stadium, Gwalior.
Occasion: 2nd ODI, South Africa tour of India.
The afternoon sun in Gwalior was not just hot; it was piercing. The air shimmered above the pitch, a flat, hard deck that looked less like a cricket strip and more like a highway built for speeding. The noise was deafening, a relentless wall of sound that vibrated through the concrete stands and penetrated the glass windows of the Indian dressing room.
The series against South Africa was finely poised. The Test series had ended in a hard-fought draw, a testament to the resilience of the Indian side against the formidable pace battery of Steyn and Morkel. The 1st ODI in Jaipur had been a comfortable win for India, but the Proteas were hurting. They were a team of champions, and they were looking to level the series.
Inside the cool, air-conditioned sanctuary of the pavilion, Siddanth Deva sat with an ice pack strapped to his shoulder. He had done his job. He had walked out at number three, played a fluid, aggressive innings of 76 off 65 balls, and kept the momentum going after Sehwag's early dismissal.
On the crease, Sachin Tendulkar was batting on 138. Alongside him was the power-hitter Yusuf Pathan, batting on 14.
In the corner of the dressing room, the "Young Brigade"—Virat Kohli, Suresh Raina, Ravindra Jadeja, and Deva—were huddled together. They were watching the TV screen, but the conversation had drifted, as it often did during long partnerships, into the realm of the absurd.
Ravindra Jadeja, the rockstar from Jamnagar, leaned in, his eyes wide with feigned seriousness.
"Listen, I'm telling you guys, it's true. It's an ancient legend in Jamnagar."
"What is?" Virat asked, chewing his gum, half-watching Sachin drive Dale Steyn through the covers.
"There are these two massive buildings," Jadeja whispered, using his hands to demonstrate height. "Old, ancient structures. And the legend says that every year, they move closer to each other by the length of exactly one single grain of rice."
Raina frowned. "A grain of rice? How does anyone measure that?"
"That's not the point!" Jadeja insisted. "The point is, the prophecy says that the day these two buildings touch... the world will end. Destruction. Apocalypse. Everything gone."
There was a moment of silence.
Deva looked at Jadeja. Then he looked at Virat.
"Rice grain?" Deva deadpanned.
"Yes!"
"Kya phektha hai, yaar!" (What a bluff, man!) Virat burst out laughing, nearly choking on his gum. "Jaddu, you have to stop with these Saurashtra fairy tales. Physics, mere bhai. Have you heard of it?"
"It's not physics, it's mysticism!" Jadeja defended himself. "You Delhi boys have no soul."
"I have soul," Raina laughed, clapping Jadeja on the back. "But I also know that buildings don't walk, Jaddu."
The laughter in the corner drew a few glances from the seniors, but the mood was light. India was cruising. The score was massive.
---
As the banter subsided, the focus returned to the screen.
On the field, Sachin Tendulkar paddled a ball to fine leg. He jogged a single.
150.
The stadium erupted. It wasn't just a cheer; it was a roar of reverence.
In the dressing room, every single player, support staff, and water boy stood up. They clapped. It was Sachin's 5th score of 150+ in ODIs.
He raised his bat, sweating profusely, looking up at the sky.
"He is God," Raina whispered, sitting back down. "Actually, God."
Deva kept his eyes on the screen. He watched Sachin's body language. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't relaxing. He was taking guard again immediately. He looked... hungry.
The current record for the highest ODI score was 194, shared by Saeed Anwar and Charles Coventry. Nobody had ever touched the double ton.
Deva leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"He's going to do it," Deva said softly.
"Do what?" Virat asked.
"200," Deva said. "Sachin Paaji is scoring 200 today."
The trio looked at him.
"200?" Virat scoffed slightly. "Deva, look at the overs. It's the 38th over. He needs 50 more runs. He is tired. He's been batting since the first ball. Plus, Yusuf is hitting, and Dhoni bhai is next. He won't get enough strikes."
"Yeah," Jadeja agreed. "170, maybe 180. But 200 is impossible. It's never been done in history."
"He's tired," Raina added. "Running between the wickets is getting hard for him. He's cramping a bit."
Deva turned to them. A small, mischievous smirk played on his lips—the smile of a man who knows the future, or at least, believes in it with absolute certainty.
"How about a bet?"
Virat's ears perked up. He could never resist a challenge. "What bet?"
"If Sachin Paaji scores 200," Deva said, pointing a finger at the three of them, "the three of you... No, actually, the loser of the bet does 200 pushups immediately after the match. In the dressing room."
"200 pushups?!" Raina's eyes widened. "After fielding for 50 overs later? Are you mad?"
"Why?" Deva challenged. "Scared? You said it's impossible."
Virat looked at the screen. Sachin was on 152. 48 runs away. 12 overs left. It was mathematically difficult.
"Fine," Virat said, his competitive streak taking over. "I take the bet. He won't make 200. He'll get out trying to hit out, or run out of overs."
"I'm in," Jadeja said confidently. "200 pushups is a lot, Deva. Get your arms ready."
"I'm in too," Raina said. "Sorry Sid, but history says no."
Deva leaned back, crossing his arms. "We'll see. Get ready to sweat, boys."
The match progressed. Yusuf Pathan played a cameo of 36 before getting out.
India: 300/2.
Then, MS Dhoni walked in.
The atmosphere in the dressing room shifted from excitement to anxiety.
Dhoni was in a murderous mood. He was smashing the ball everywhere.
Sachin was on 180.
Then 190.
The overs were ticking down. 46... 47...
Sachin was visibly exhausted. The Gwalior heat had drained him. He wasn't running hard twos anymore.
Dhoni realised this. The captain saw the history beckoning. He stopped rotating the strike; now he was hitting boundaries so effortlessly that he ended up facing more balls.
"Dhoni bhai, give him the strike!" Virat yelled at the TV screen, biting his nails. "He's on 195!"
"You want him to get 200 now?" Deva teased. "I thought you wanted to win the bet."
"Screw the bet!" Virat snapped. "This is Sachin! This is the double ton!"
Jadeja and Raina were standing now, pacing the small area of the dressing room.
"196... 197..." Raina counted. "Oh god, 3 overs left."
Dale Steyn was bowling. Wayne Parnell was bowling. They were bowling wide yorkers. Sachin was reaching, tiredly, steering the ball.
198.
199.
The 49th over ended. Sachin was on 199.
Dhoni was on strike for the 50th over.
Charl Langeveldt had the ball.
"First ball," Deva narrated calmly. "Dhoni hits it hard."
Dhoni smashed the first ball of the 50th over. Six.
The crowd cheered, but there was an undercurrent of panic. Give the strike to Sachin!
The dressing room was silent. Even the support staff held their breath.
"Second ball," Deva whispered.
Dhoni took a single.
49.3 Overs.
Sachin Tendulkar on strike. 199 Not Out.
The noise in Gwalior died down for a split second as Langeveldt ran in.
It was a full ball outside off.
Sachin steered it behind point.
It was a simple single.
But as he ran that 22 yards, the weight of 39 years of ODI history was lifted.
200.
The stadium exploded. It was a sound that defied description—a mixture of joy, relief, and hysteria.
Ravi Shastri's voice on the commentary box echoed through the TV: "First man on the planet to reach 200... and it's the Superman from India!"
In the dressing room, Virat, Raina, and Jadeja were jumping on each other, screaming. They hugged Deva. They were witnessing immortality.
The South African players—Hashim Amla, Jacques Kallis—walked up to shake Sachin's hand.
Deva stood amidst the chaos, clapping slowly. He looked at the trio who were celebrating wildly.
"Ahem," Deva cleared his throat.
Virat froze mid-jump. Jadeja stopped clapping. Raina looked at the floor.
They looked everywhere but at Deva.
"I believe," Deva said loudly over the noise, "that someone owes me something."
"What a knock!" Virat shouted, pointing at the screen. "Look at that strike rate!"
"Amazing!" Jadeja agreed, looking at the ceiling. "Greatest ever."
"Yeah, yeah, you won," Raina mumbled, still clapping for Sachin to avoid eye contact. "We'll talk later."
On the field, Dhoni smashed a four on the last ball.
India finished on 401/3.
Sachin remained unbeaten on 200*. Dhoni on 68* off just 35 balls.
---
The Indian team lined up at the entrance of the dressing room tunnel.
As Sachin walked up the stairs, sweat dripping, helmet in hand, they formed a guard of honor.
He walked in, looking absolutely drained but smiling.
They mobbed him. Hugs, high-fives, pats on the back.
"Thank you," Sachin wheezed, sitting down heavily. "Water."
Deva handed him a bottle. "History, Paaji. You made history."
Sachin patted Deva's cheek. "Thanks, Sid."
---
The adrenaline of the first innings made the second feel like a blur.
Chasing 402 was nearly impossible, even for a strong South African lineup.
Dale Steyn and Wayne Parnell had been demoralised.
However, AB de Villiers played a gem of an innings, scoring a brilliant century (114*), proving his own class.
But the pressure was too much.
Siddanth Deva was given the ball in the middle overs. He was fired up.
He removed Herschelle Gibbs with a cutter.
He trapped Albie Morkel LBW.
And he cleaned up the tailender.
Deva Figures: 3 wickets for 45 runs.
South Africa was bundled out for 248.
India Won by 153 runs.
Man of the Match: Sachin Tendulkar (Obviously).
---
The match was over. The presentation ceremony was done. The team was back in the dressing room, changing out of their sweaty kits into training gear for the bus ride.
The mood was euphoric. They had taken an unassailable 2-0 lead in the series.
Deva sat on the massage table, swinging his legs. He watched Virat, Raina, and Jadeja packing their bags with suspicious speed, trying to look busy.
They were hoping. Praying. Maybe Deva forgot. Maybe the euphoria of the 200 made him forget.
Deva whistled a sharp tune.
He walked over to the corner where the three were huddled.
"So," Deva said, crossing his arms. "Are we doing this now, or in the hotel lobby in front of the fans? I think the lobby would be more entertaining."
Virat sighed, dropping his kit bag. He knew there was no escape. Deva had the memory of an elephant.
"Fine," Virat grumbled. "You lucky prophet."
"Not luck," Deva grinned. "Faith. Now, drop and give me 200."
"What is happening?" Harbhajan Singh asked, walking over with a towel around his neck. "Why are Chiku and Jaddu looking like they are going to a funeral?"
"They made a bet," Deva announced to the whole room. "They bet against Paaji scoring 200. The penalty is 200 pushups."
"Oho!" Harbhajan laughed. "Betting against God? Sinners! Punish them!"
"200?" Zaheer Khan chuckled. "That's a full workout. Good luck, boys."
Even Sachin, who was icing his knees, looked over. He shook his head, smiling. "You guys bet against me?"
"We thought you were tired, Paaji!" Raina pleaded. "We were worried about your health!"
"Start!" Deva commanded.
---
The three of them—Virat, Raina, and Jadeja—got into the pushup position on the dressing room floor.
The rest of the team formed a circle around them, jeering and clapping.
"One! Two! Three!" the team counted in unison.
The first 50 were easy. These were elite athletes, after all. Their form was perfect.
"Too easy!" Jadeja boasted at 40. "I can do this all day."
"Talk to me at 150," Deva said, leaning against a locker.
By 75, the pace slowed.
By 100, the silence started to creep in. The banter stopped. The only sound was heavy breathing and the rhythmic thud of hands on the carpet.
Sweat was dripping onto the floor.
"101... 102..." Ashish Nehra counted, eating a banana. "Keep the back straight, Raina! Don't cheat!"
At 130, the struggle became real.
Jadeja's arms were shaking. Raina was grunting with every rep. Virat was gritting his teeth, his face turning red.
"Come on, boys!" Yuvraj shouted. "Don't give up!"
Jadeja gasped, pushing up. 140.
At 150, they collapsed for a second.
"Break!" Raina panted. "5 seconds break!"
"No breaks!" Deva said ruthlessly. "Continuous. Come on. 50 more."
They pushed up again. It was sheer willpower now. The triceps were burning. The chest muscles were screaming.
160... 165...
The team started clapping rhythmically. Thump. Thump. Thump.
"Push! Push! Push!"
180.
Virat was growling like a tiger. "I... hate... you... Deva..."
"Love you too, Chiku. 20 more."
190.
The last ten. The "Death Overs" of the workout.
The whole team was shouting now. Even Sachin stood up to watch.
"TEN! NINE! EIGHT!"
Jadeja looked like he was vibrating. Raina's face was buried in the carpet between reps.
"SEVEN! SIX!"
"COME ON!" Virat roared, pushing through the pain.
"THREE! TWO! ONE!"
200.
They collapsed. All three of them lay flat on the floor, groaning, pools of sweat forming around them.
The room erupted in cheers.
Deva walked over. He was smiling, but there was respect in his eyes.
"Well done," Deva said.
He reached down. He grabbed Virat's hand and pulled him up. Then Raina. Then Jadeja.
They stood there, arms trembling, chests heaving.
"You guys have integrity," Deva said, patting Virat's shoulder. "You pay your debts."
"Never," Virat gasped, wiping his face, "Never betting... against you... or Paaji... again."
"Good lesson," Deva laughed.
Sachin walked over. He put his hands on Virat and Raina's shoulders.
"200 runs for me. 200 pushups for you. Seems fair," the Master Blaster winked.
Laughter filled the room. The pain was temporary, but the memory was permanent.
They had witnessed history on the field, and they had forged a bond of brotherhood (and shared suffering) off it.
Deva looked at his teammates. They were exhausted, battered, but happy.
This was the team that would go to the World Cup. This spirit, this madness, this refusal to quit—whether it was chasing 400 runs or doing 200 pushups.
"Shower time!" Dhoni announced. "Bus leaves in 30 minutes!"
As they hobbled towards the showers, Jadeja nudged Deva.
"Next time," Jadeja whispered, wincing as he moved his arm. "Next time, the bet is who can eat the most Jalebis. I will crush you."
Deva smiled. "You're on."