Date: March 29, 2011
Location: Star Sports Studios, Mumbai
Time: 8:00 PM (Prime Time Special)
Show: World Cup Central: The Mother of All Battles
The air conditioning in the studio hummed, a low-frequency drone fighting against the palpable static of anticipation that filled the room. Outside, India was a country holding its breath. From the bustling streets of Mumbai to the foggy lanes of Mohali, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. It was the night before the Semi-Final. India vs. Pakistan. A match that transcended sport, politics, and logic.
Inside the sleek, blue-lit studio of Star Sports, the producers were counting down.
"In five, four, three, two..."
The iconic World Cup theme music blared—a thumping, orchestral crescendo that sent shivers down the spine of every cricket fan. The graphic swooped across the screen: a rotating golden globe, exploding into the logos of the BCCI and the PCB, finally settling on the title: DESTINY IN MOHALI.
The camera cut to the host, Mayanti Langer, looking sharp and serious.
"Good evening, and welcome to history," she began, her voice steady but laced with the gravity of the moment. "Tomorrow, the world stops. Tomorrow, at the Punjab Cricket Association Stadium in Mohali, India takes on Pakistan for a place in the World Cup Final. It is the match everyone wanted, and the match everyone fears. Tonight, we break down the strategies, the stars, and the statistics that will define this clash of titans."
She turned to the panel. It was a heavyweight lineup.
To her left sat Sunil Gavaskar, the Little Master.
To her right, joining via satellite was Wasim Akram, the Sultan of Swing.
And next to him, Ravi Shastri, the voice of Indian cricket.
"Sunny, let's start with you," Mayanti said. "We talk about pressure in World Cups. But this? This is different, isn't it?"
Gavaskar adjusted his glasses, a small smile playing on his lips. "Mayanti, pressure is an understatement. If you lose a Quarter-Final to Australia, people are sad. If you lose a Semi-Final to Pakistan... well, let's just say people don't forget. The streets are empty. The offices are closed. This is war without the bullets."
The screen behind them shifted to a sepia-toned montage of past battles. Miandad jumping in 1992. Venkatesh Prasad pointing the way to the pavilion in 1996. Sachin cutting Shoaib Akhtar for six in 2003
"The history is one-sided," Ravi Shastri boomed, his voice echoing in living rooms across the nation. "Five times they have met in World Cups. Five times, India has won. 5-0. It is a monkey on Pakistan's back the size of a gorilla. They are desperate to break the jinx."
"That desperation makes them dangerous," Wasim Akram countered from the screen, his tone cautious. "You look at the 1992 team or the 1999 team—we were better on paper. But against India in World Cups, we freeze. This team... Afridi's team... they are unpredictable. They play with a 'nothing to lose' attitude. And that is scary."
Mayanti tapped her tablet. "Let's talk about the men in green. They topped Group A. They ended Australia's 34-match unbeaten streak in World Cups. Who are the threats?"
A graphic flashed up: KEY PLAYERS: PAKISTAN.
Shahid Afridi: 21 Wickets (Leading Wicket Taker)
Umar Gul: The Death Bowling Specialist
Misbah-ul-Haq: The Anchor
"It starts and ends with the captain," Akram analyzed. "Lala. Shahid Afridi. He is having the tournament of his life with the ball. 21 wickets. He is flighting it, drifting it, bowling that fast leg-break. The Indian batsmen—especially the right-handers—need to watch his googly."
"And don't forget Umar Gul," Gavaskar added. "If the ball reverses in Mohali—and it will—Gul is lethal. He hits the blockhole consistently. India's lower order, which collapsed against South Africa, will be tested."
"But India has weapons of their own," Mayanti said, swiping the screen.
KEY PLAYERS: INDIA.
Sachin Tendulkar: 379 Runs (2 Centuries)
Zaheer Khan: 17 Wickets
Virender Sehwag: The Tone Setter
Yuvrah Singh: All-rounder
"Sachin is batting like a dream," Shastri said. "He is two centuries down. He missed one against the West Indies by two runs. He scored 53 against Australia. He is the anchor. But the man who allows him to be the anchor... is the one we need to talk about."
The music in the studio shifted slightly—a deeper, more ominous bassline played. The giant screen behind the experts went dark, then exploded into a singular image.
A silhouette of a batsman with a high backlift, eyes burning with intensity.
The text simply read: THE DEVIL.
"Siddanth Deva," Mayanti said, and even saying the name seemed to change the energy in the room. "The 20-year-old sensation. The 'Devil of Cricket.' We have talked about his impact in this World Cup—the 162 kmph ball to Ponting, the centuries against Bangladesh, England, and Australia. But tonight, we want to look at the bigger picture. His career numbers."
The screen changed to a full-page graphic that made the experts lean in.
CAREER STATS: SIDDANTH DEVA (ODI)
Matches: 49
Innings: 47 (Did not bat in 2)
Runs: 3,727
Highest Score: 154
Centuries: 15
Fifties: 30
Average: 98.07
Strike Rate: 135.4
Wickets: 109
Bowling Average: 21.3
"Just look at those numbers," Gavaskar gasped, taking off his glasses to polish them, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. "He has played 49 matches. He has 45 scores of over fifty. That is... that is Bradmanesque. No, in ODI cricket, that is beyond Bradman. That is consistency that shouldn't be possible."
"He averages nearly 100," Shastri noted, shaking his head. "And look at the conversion rate. 15 centuries in 49 games? Most players wait a lifetime for 15 centuries. He has done it in two years. And he bowls! 109 wickets! He is taking 2 wickets a game on average. He is Jacques Kallis, Viv Richards, and Brett Lee rolled into one."
"But," Wasim Akram interrupted, his voice serious, "stats are one thing. Context is another. What scares Pakistan isn't his average. It's his history against us."
The screen shifted again. DEVA vs PAKISTAN: HEAD-TO-HEAD.
Mayanti walked over to the large touch screen. "This is where it gets interesting. Deva has faced Pakistan only three times in his carrer that to in major tournaments. But those three matches have been nightmares for the Men in Green."
She tapped the first image: 2009 T20 World Cup Final (Lord's).
Performance: 188 Runs off 65 balls.
Bowling: Hat-trick
Result: India wins the T20 World Cup.
"I remember this," Akram sighed. "We had India 1 for 1. Then this kid—he was 18 then—walked in. He hit Umar Gul out of the ground. He hit Ajmal onto the roof of the pavilion. 188 in a T20 final? It was a massacre. He single-handedly won them the cup."
Mayanti tapped the second image: ICC Champions Trophy (2009).
Performance: 115* (Not Out).
Bowling: 2/35.
Result: India wins by 4 wickets.
"A turning track in Centurion," Shastri recalled. "Pakistan made 280. India was struggling. Deva came in at number 4. He played perfectly. He stayed till the end, 115 not out. He guided the tail. That showed his maturity."
Mayanti tapped the third image: Asia Cup (2010, Dambulla).
Performance: 105* (Not Out).
Bowling: 2/28
Result: India wins by 6 wickets.
"Three matches," Gavaskar summarized. "Three centuries. Two of them are not out. And a hat-trick. He averages... well, infinity against Pakistan because they haven't gotten him out in the last two games. In the T20 final, he was out at the end, trying for a double century. So, his batting average against Pakistan is effectively 408."
The studio fell silent for a moment, letting that number sink in.
"So, let's say," Mayanti asked, looking at Wasim Akram. "You are in the Pakistani camp. You are the bowling coach. How do you stop him? What is the plan?"
Akram rubbed his forehead. "It is a headache, Mayanti. A migraine. If you bowl short, he hooks—we saw what he did to Brett Lee. If you bowl full, he drives like Sachin. If you bowl spin, he uses his feet."
"There is talk," Shastri interjected, "that Pakistan might bring back Shoaib Akhtar for this one game. The Rawalpindi Express. He hasn't played much in this World Cup, but he has pace. Maybe they think fire can fight fire?"
"Shoaib is desperate to play," Akram confirmed. "He knows this is his last chance against India. He wants one crack at Deva. He believes he can bounce him out. But it's a risk. Shoaib is not match-fit. If Deva gets hold of him, it could be ugly."
"The plan has to be early wickets," Gavaskar said. "You cannot let Deva come in at 200/2. You have to get Sehwag and Sachin cheaply. If Deva walks in at 20/1, under pressure, maybe he makes a mistake. Maybe. But looking at his stats... he seems to enjoy the pressure."
The screen returned to a live shot of the Indian team practicing in the nets at Mohali under lights. The camera zoomed in on net number 1.
Siddanth Deva was batting. He wasn't smashing the ball. He was defending. Solid, forward defensive shots.
Then, suddenly, he stepped out and lofted a ball towards where long-on would be. Even in the nets, the sound of the bat hitting the ball was crisp, like a gunshot.
"He is the X-Factor," Shastri said softly. "Sachin is the emotion. Sehwag is the adrenaline. But Deva? Deva is the insurance policy. He guarantees you runs. He guarantees you wickets. In a Semi-Final, you need someone who can grab the game by the scruff of the neck. He has done it three times against Pakistan already. Tomorrow, a billion people are praying he does it a fourth time."
Mayanti turned to the results of the SMS poll running at the bottom of the screen.
QUESTION: Who will be the Man of the Match?
Sachin Tendulkar: 32%
Shahid Afridi: 18%
Siddanth Deva: 45%
Others: 5%
" The public has spoken," Mayanti smiled. "They are backing the Devil. 45% believe Deva will be the difference maker."
As the show neared its end, the music swelled again.
"The stage is set," Mayanti said, looking directly into the camera. "Mohali is ready. The Prime Ministers are flying in. The fans are painting their faces. The prayers have begun in temples and mosques. History beckons."
She paused.
"Will the streak continue? Will it be 6-0? Or will Pakistan finally exorcise their demons? Join us tomorrow at 1:30 PM for the toss. But for now, sleep well, India. If you can."
The broadcast faded to a highlight reel of Deva's 188 against Pakistan in the 2009 T20 Final, playing to the tune of "Vande Mataram."
---
In millions of homes, the TV sets were switched off, but the conversations continued.
In a hostel in Bangalore, students were debating Akram's point.
"Shoaib Akhtar vs Deva," one student whispered in the dark. "Can you imagine? It will be a gladiator fight."
In a high-rise in Mumbai, a father tucked his son into bed.
"Papa, will Deva score a century tomorrow?" the boy asked.
"He loves playing Pakistan, beta," the father replied. "He scored 188 once. Tomorrow, he just needs to score one more run than them."
---
The air in the conference room on the third floor of the Taj Chandigarh was thick enough to choke on. The curtains were drawn tight, shutting out the frenzied lights of the city below, where thousands of Indian fans were already chanting in the streets. Inside, the only light came from the harsh glare of a projector screen, humming quietly against the silence.
Fifteen men sat around the long mahogany table. They were wearing the green training kits of Pakistan, but the usual banter and laughter that defined this mercurial team were absent.
Tonight, the mood was somber, heavy with a burden that only they could understand. They weren't just cricketers tonight; they were soldiers preparing to walk into a minefield.
At the head of the table stood Waqar Younis, the coach and legendary fast bowler. His face was a mask of concentration, lines of stress etched deep around his eyes. Next to him sat the captain, Shahid Afridi, spinning a cricket ball in his hands, his leg bouncing nervously under the table.
Waqar cleared his throat. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet room.
"Gentlemen," Waqar began, his voice low but commanding. "I do not need to tell you what tomorrow is. You know the history. You know the numbers. Five times we have played them in World Cups. Five times we have lost."
He paused, letting the shame of that statistic settle on them. Misbah-ul-Haq stared at the table. Umar Gul adjusted his cap. Shoaib Akhtar, sitting at the far end, cracked his knuckles.
"But history," Waqar continued, his voice rising, "is written by the victors. Tomorrow, we have a chance to burn that history book. We topped our group. We beat Australia. We are ready. But to win tomorrow, we have to be perfect. Not good. Perfect."
He clicked a remote. The screen behind him changed. It wasn't a picture of Sachin Tendulkar. It wasn't Sehwag.
It was a picture of Siddanth Deva.
A collective ripple of unease moved through the room. It was subtle—a shifting of chairs, a clearing of throats—but it was there. This was the ghost that haunted their sleep. The 20-year-old who had turned their bowling attacks into his personal playground three times in three years.
"Okay," Afridi said, slapping the ball onto the table. "Let's talk about the elephant in the room. Or should I say, the Devil."
"Siddanth Deva," the team analyst, a young guy with a laptop, spoke up nervously. "We all know the stats, but let's review them. In three matches against us—T20 Final, Champions Trophy, Asia Cup—he has scored 408 runs. He has been dismissed once."
"Once," Younis Khan muttered, shaking his head. "And that too because he was in a hurry."
"He strikes at 150 against spin," the analyst continued. "And as we saw against Australia, he is now hooking 150 kmph bouncers for six. He has no clear weakness."
"Everyone has a weakness," Shoaib Akhtar growled from the back. The Rawalpindi Express looked tired, his knees taped up, his body a map of old injuries. But his eyes were burning coals. "He is a boy. You are treating him like a jinn. He bleeds like anyone else."
"He hasn't bled against us, Shoaib," Misbah said calmly, his voice of reason cutting through the bravado. "He destroyed us in Lord's. He milked us in Centurion. The boy adapts. If we bowl short, he hooks. If we bowl full, he drives. We need a plan, not just aggression."
"The plan," Waqar said, "is to starve him. We cannot let him come in when the score is 120 for 1. If he comes in with a platform, he will kill us. We need Sehwag and Sachin to be gone early. If Deva walks in at 20 for 1, under pressure, in a semi-final... maybe he cracks."
"And if he doesn't?" Hafeez asked. "If he plays like he did in the Champions Trophy? Just rotating strike?"
"Then we attack his ego," Afridi said, leaning forward. "He is young. He is being called the 'Devil'. He will want to dominate. We feed that. We give him a single to bring him on strike, then we bowl wide outside off. Frustrate him. Make him play a rash shot."
"Saeed," Waqar turned to Saeed Ajmal, the magician spinner. "You are the key. The doosra. He picks it, but he takes risks against it. You need to bowl flatter. Don't give him flight. If he steps out, he misses."
Ajmal nodded, stroking his beard. "I will trap him, skip. I have a new variation. I will save it for him."
The conversation shifted to the bowling lineup. This was the most contentious point. Wahab Riaz, the young left-arm pacer, was in good form. But Shoaib Akhtar was Shoaib Akhtar. And this was India.
"I should play," Shoaib said, his voice heavy with emotion. He stood up, pacing the small room. "Waqar bhai, you know me. I live for this match. I know my body is broken. But give me 10 overs. I will break his toes. I will break his spirit. That ball he bowled to Ponting? The 162 kmph one? That was my record he threatened. Let me show him what real speed looks like."
The room went silent. It was a seductive offer. The romance of Shoaib Akhtar tearing in one last time against India was intoxicating.
But Waqar looked at Afridi. They shared a look of pragmatic regret.
"Shoaib," Afridi said softly. "We need fielders. Deva and Kohli steal singles like thieves. If the ball goes to fine leg, we need someone who can dive. Your knees..."
"My knees are fine for one day!" Shoaib shouted, slamming his hand on the chair. "It is a Semi-Final! You need fear! Wahab is a good boy, but does Sachin fear him? Does Deva fear him? No. They fear me!"
"We haven't decided the XI yet," Waqar lied gently, trying to defuse the situation. "But Wahab has reverse swing. The Mohali pitch is dry. Wahab can move the old ball. That might be crucial against Deva in the death overs."
Shoaib sat down, fuming, staring at the floor. He knew, deep down, that his time had passed. But the warrior in him refused to accept it.
"It's not just Deva," Misbah reminded everyone, tapping his pen on the notepad. "We focus so much on him, we forget the God. Sachin Tendulkar. He is two centuries down. He is playing at home. If he gets going, the crowd will go mad. We won't be able to hear ourselves think."
"Sachin gives chances," keeper Kamran Akmal said. "He has been edgy early on."
"And you need to catch them, Kamran," Afridi snapped, the tension momentarily breaking his composure. Kamran looked down, knowing his keeping had been under scrutiny. "No drops tomorrow. If you drop Sachin, you drop the World Cup. If you drop Deva... well, don't drop Deva."
"Sehwag is the danger early," Umar Gul piped up. "He has a finger injury, but he doesn't use his feet anyway. He will slash hard. I will bowl tight on the off-stump. Cramp him."
"Good," Waqar noted. "And Yuvraj? He is in the form of his life."
"Yuvraj struggles against spin early," Hafeez said confidently. "I will bowl to him. Off-spin against the left-hander. I will keep him quiet."
"So the plan," Waqar summarized, writing on the whiteboard:
Sehwag: Short of length, cramping him. Gul to attack.
Sachin: Spin early? Maybe Ajmal in the powerplay.
Deva: Do not give him pace to work with (unless it's a yorker). Bowl dry. Frustrate him. Aggressive fielding.
Yuvraj/Dhoni: Spin choke.
"Now," Afridi flipped the page on the chart. "Our batting."
The mood shifted from anxiety to a fragile kind of hope. Pakistan's bowling was world-class, but their batting was a rollercoaster.
"We cannot collapse," Younis Khan said, the senior statesman speaking up. "India has three spinners. Ashwin, Harbhajan, Yuvraj. Plus Deva bowls cutters. Mohali will turn in the second innings. If we bat first, we need 280. If we bat second... Allah help us, we cannot chase more than 260 against that attack."
"Hafeez, Kamran," Waqar looked at the openers. "You need to survive the new ball. Zaheer Khan is deadly. Watch the inswinger. Don't play across the line."
"And the middle order," Afridi looked at Misbah and Younis. "You are the wall. If we lose early wickets, you two rebuild. Do not play rash shots. Leave that to me and Razzaq."
"Razzaq," Afridi turned to the all-rounder. "You are the finisher. If Deva bowls the death overs, you need to stand deep in the crease. He bowls that yorker. Be ready for it."
Abdul Razzaq nodded. "I will be ready, Lala. I have been practicing the helicopter shot. If he bowls full, I will dig it out."
The tactical talk died down. The X's and O's were done. Now came the part that mattered most. The heart.
Waqar Younis walked to the center of the room. He looked at each player in the eye.
"Boys," he said softly. "Do you know what is happening outside? In Lahore? In Karachi? In Islamabad? People have set up screens in the streets. They are praying. They are not sleeping. For them, this is not cricket. It is dignity."
He pointed to the window, towards the imaginary border just a few hours away.
"They say India is invincible at home. They say we are the underdogs. Good. I like being the underdog. The underdog has bite."
"We are Pakistan," Afridi stood up, his charisma filling the room. "We are the cornered tigers. When we are written off, that is when we are dangerous. Tomorrow, when you walk out onto that field, don't look at the crowd. There will be 30,000 Indians screaming at you. Ignore them."
He picked up the cricket ball again, gripping it so hard his knuckles turned white.
"Look at the man next to you. Play for him. Play for the flag on your chest. And as for Deva..." Afridi's eyes narrowed. "He is just a man. He has two hands, two legs. He breathes air. Tomorrow, we cut off his air."
"We will attack him," Shoaib Akhtar said from the corner, his voice low and menacing. "Even if I am sitting on the bench, I will stare him down. We make him feel the heat. We make him realize that this is the World Cup Semi-Final."
"Whatever happens," Misbah added quietly, "we fight till the last ball. No dropped shoulders. If they hit a four, we smile and walk back. We show them we are not afraid."
"Right," Waqar clapped his hands. "Go to your rooms. No TV. No news. No phones. Visualize the win. Visualize holding that trophy. Visualize Sachin walking back for a duck. Visualize Deva's stumps cartwheeling."
The team stood up. Chairs scraped against the floor. They formed a tight circle in the middle of the room, arms linked over shoulders—veterans and rookies, stars and journeymen.
"For Pakistan!" Afridi shouted.
"FOR PAKISTAN!" the team roared back, the sound vibrating off the walls.
As they broke the huddle and filed out of the room, the tension was still there, but it had changed shape. It was no longer the paralyzing fear of the unknown. It was the focused, adrenaline-fueled anxiety of a boxer stepping into the ring.
Wahab Riaz lingered for a moment, looking at the whiteboard where the name "DEVA" was written in red marker. He stared at it for a long second, then reached out and wiped it off with his thumb.
"Not tomorrow," he whispered to the empty room. "Tomorrow, you fall."
He turned off the lights, plunging the room into darkness, leaving only the distant, muffled sound of the Indian fans celebrating in the streets below—a sound that Pakistan was determined to silence.