Date: March 30, 2011
Location: Outside Punjab Cricket Association Stadium, Mohali
Time: 7:30 AM
The sun had barely breached the horizon over the plains of Punjab, but the road leading to the PCA Stadium in Mohali was already a parking lot. It wasn't just a traffic jam; it was a human migration. A river of blue, punctuated by islands of green, flowed sluggishly towards the concrete coliseum that would host the most important cricket match of the decade.
The air was crisp and cool, typical of a North Indian spring morning, but it carried a cocktail of scents that defined the subcontinent: the exhaust fumes of idling Maruti Suzukis, the sharp tang of frying aloo parathas from roadside stalls, the sweet aroma of masala chai, and the overwhelming, electric scent of adrenaline.
Security was tighter than a fortress. Black Cat commandos stood atop buildings; police barricades turned the wide avenues into narrow chokepoints. But nothing could dampen the spirit of the crowd. They had come from Mumbai, from Chennai, from Kolkata, and from across the Wagah border in Lahore and Karachi.
Right outside the main VIP gate, the media OB vans were lined up like tanks preparing for battle. Satellite dishes pointed skyward, humming with the load of broadcasting to a billion people.
Reporter: Rahul Kanwal (Aaj Tak)
Location: Amidst a sea of college students with painted faces.
Rahul, shouting into his microphone to be heard over the rhythmic beating of a massive dhol (drum), turned to the camera.
"Good morning, India! If you are waking up now, you are already late! The atmosphere here in Mohali is not electric; it is nuclear! We are six hours away from the first ball, but the party has already started. I am standing here with the 'Blue Brigade', a group of students who have traveled all the way from Delhi University. Guys, how is the josh (energy)?"
The group of twenty students erupted. "HIGH SIR! VERY HIGH!"
Rahul thrust the mic towards a young man whose entire upper body was painted in the Indian tricolor, with the number '10' on his chest and '6' (Deva's number) on his back.
Rahul: "I see two numbers on you. Sachin and Deva. Who are you here to watch today?"
Student 1 (Arun): "Sir, Sachin is the heart. We want his 100th hundred. But Deva... Deva is the fist! Did you see what he did to Ponting? Today, we want to see him bowl to Afridi. We want to see the stumps fly!"
Rahul: "You are confident? Pakistan has a strong bowling attack. Umar Gul, Wahab Riaz..."
Student 2 (Female, Priya): "Let them come! They have Gul? We have the Devil! Deva owns them! Pakistan is scared, sir. You can see it in their eyes. They know if Deva stays for 10 overs, the match is over."
The group broke into a chant: "Ek Bhagwan, Ek Shaitan! India jeetega shaan se!" (One God, One Devil! India will win with pride!)
A few hundred meters away, near the designated enclosure for the visiting fans, the mood was different but equally passionate. It was a rare sight—hundreds of Pakistani fans, granted special visas for the match, waving the Crescent and Star.
Reporter: Mel McLaughlin (Fox Sports - providing international coverage)
Mel stood next to a group of older men wearing green shalwar kameez, looking dignified amidst the chaos.
Mel: "The rivalry is often called 'war without shooting', but here on the ground, there is a lot of camaraderie. I'm here with Mr. Sohail from Lahore. Mr. Sohail, you've crossed the border for this. What are your feelings?"
Mr. Sohail (Smiling): "It is beautiful. The hospitality in India has been amazing. But on the field, no mercy. We have waited a long time to beat India in the World Cup."
Mel: "India is the favorite. They have a formidable batting lineup. Does that worry you?"
Mr. Sohail: "India has batting, yes. But Pakistan has bowling. We have the 'Boom Boom'. Afridi is taking wickets for fun. And we have the Rawalpindi spirit. If our boys play with heart, we can beat anyone."
A younger Pakistani fan, wearing a 'Shoaib Akhtar' jersey, leaned in.
Young Fan (Bilal): "We are only scared of one man. Siddanth Deva. I will be honest. Sachin is great, but he gives you a chance. Deva doesn't gives chances. He destroyed us in the every game. If we get Deva early, Pakistan wins. If Deva plays... Allah khair kare (God help us)."
Mel: "So Deva is the threat?"
Bilal: "He is the nightmare! My friends back in Lahore, they are praying for two things: India to bat first, and Deva to get out for a duck. If he gets going... he hits the ball too hard, man. He disrespects the bowlers."
Further down the road, a makeshift dhaba (eatery) was doing roaring business. People were sitting on plastic chairs, eating chole bhature, their eyes glued to the small TV set in the corner showing match highlights.
Reporter: Barkha Dutt (NDTV)
Barkha crouched next to a family of four—The Vermas from Chandigarh. The father was applying sunscreen to his son's face, while the mother fanned herself with a match ticket.
Barkha: "Sir, you are here with the whole family. Is this your first India-Pakistan match?"
Mr. Verma: "Yes, live at the stadium. We couldn't miss it. Tickets were impossible to get. I paid... well, let's not say how much I paid. But it's worth it."
Barkha: "And who is the favorite in the family?"
Mrs. Verma: "I am praying for Yuvraj Singh. He is our Punjabi boy, no? He is fighting so hard. But my son..." She pointed to the 10-year-old boy.
Barkha: "Who is your favorite, beta?"
Boy (Rohan): "SIDDANTH DEVA!" The boy screamed, holding up a plastic bat. "I want to bowl like him. 162 kph! Zoom! Just like a rocket!"
Barkha (Laughing): "162 is very fast. Do you think he will bowl that fast today?"
Rohan: "Yes! He will break Afridi's bat! And then he will hit a six over the roof!"
Mr. Verma: "See, the generation gap. We grew up worshipping Sunil Gavaskar and Kapil Dev. Then Sachin. Now, these kids... they want the aggression. Deva represents that new India. He doesn't back down. That's why the kids love him. He looks the opposition in the eye."
Near Gate 1, the noise was deafening. This was the territory of the "Superfans"—men like Sudhir Gautam (Sachin's biggest fan) and others who painted their bodies and traveled everywhere with the team.
Reporter: Deep Dasgupta (Star Sports - Hindi)
Deep was barely audible. He had to lean in close to a man named "Tricolor Tony," a fan from Mumbai who had painted his entire body in blue, orange, and green, with Deva's face painted on his stomach.
Deep: "Tony bhai, the paint looks fresh! How long did it take?"
Tony: "Four hours, Deep bhai! I woke up at 3 AM. This is not paint; this is devotion! Today is the day!"
Deep: "What is your prediction?"
Tony: "India 320! Sehwag to start the fire, Sachin to build the house, and Deva to burn the neighborhood down! We saw Mohali in the nets yesterday. The ball is flying. Deva was hitting huge sixes. I predict Deva will take 3 wickets and score a 50. Minimum!"
Deep: "And the Pakistan fans? Have you spoken to them?"
Tony: "Yes! We exchanged sweets. They are good people. But for 8 hours today, they are the enemy! After the match, we will eat biryani together. But during the match... we will eat their bowlers!"
It wasn't just fans. The infrastructure was groaning.
Reporter: A local Punjabi news channel reporter.
The reporter approached a traffic policeman, Inspector Singh, who was frantically blowing his whistle, trying to direct a snarl of cars, buses, and VIP convoys.
Reporter: "Inspector Sahib, have you ever seen traffic like this?"
Inspector Singh (Wiping sweat): "Never. Not for IPL, not for political rallies. This is madness. People have been lined up since 4 AM. There are cars with number plates from Kerala, Bengal, Gujarat. It seems the whole of India is in Mohali today."
Reporter: "Are you getting to watch the match?"
Inspector Singh: "I have a small radio in my pocket. I will listen. My duty is here. But my ear is there. I just want to hear the sound of the crowd when Deva comes to bat. That roar... you can hear it three kilometers away. It shakes the ground."
---
Around 12:30 PM, the atmosphere shifted again. Sirens wailed. The Prime Ministerial convoys were arriving. Manmohan Singh and Yousuf Raza Gilani.
Reporter: Rajdeep Sardesai (CNN-IBN)
Rajdeep: "Diplomacy is usually conducted in closed rooms, but today, it is being conducted in the open, amidst 30,000 screaming fans. This is 'Cricket Diplomacy'. But talk to the fans, and they don't care about the Prime Ministers. They care about the 22 yards in the middle."
He turned to a group of corporate executives entering the VIP box.
Rajdeep: "Gentlemen, final thoughts? Who wins?"
Executive 1: "India. It has to be India. We have the psychological edge. We beat Australia. Pakistan scraped through."
Executive 2: "It depends on the first 10 overs. If Sehwag and Sachin survive Shoaib and Gul, we win. If we lose early wickets, it will be a test of character. That's where Deva comes in. He is the crisis man. He is the one player Pakistan doesn't have an answer for."
---
The huge scoreboard at the PCA Stadium flickered to life. It showed highlights of the tournament.
When Sachin's picture flashed, the crowd chanted "Sachin! Sachin!"
When Afridi's picture flashed, there was a mix of boos and respectful applause.
But when Siddanth Deva's picture flashed—him roaring after the Ponting wicket—the sound was different. It was guttural. It was aggressive. It was a roar of anticipation.
Reporter: Anjali (Back to the studio wrap-up)
Anjali: "So there you have it. The mood is confident, bordering on arrogant, but underlined with that classic Indian anxiety. Everyone knows the stats. Everyone knows the history. But everyone also feels that this team is different. They feel that with the God of Cricket and the Devil of Cricket playing side by side, destiny is wearing blue today."
She paused as a massive cheer erupted from the stadium behind her—the Indian team bus had just arrived.
Anjali: "The gladiators are here. The wait is over. Mohali is ready to explode. Back to the studio."
As the camera panned out, showing the sprawling mass of humanity surrounding the stadium, the magnitude of the event became clear. This wasn't just a game. It was a shared heartbeat of a billion and a half people.
Inside the bus, Siddanth Deva looked out the window at the sea of faces, the painted bodies, the desperate hope in their eyes.
He adjusted his headphones. The music was loud, but not loud enough to drown out the expectations of a nation.
He checked his kit bag. The bat was there. The shoes were spiked.
The Devil was ready to play.
---
The world outside the PCA Stadium had ceased to exist. There were no borders, no politics, no economies, and no daily struggles. There was only the green oval of Mohali, bathed in the soft, golden light of a North Indian afternoon, surrounded by thirty thousand screaming souls and watched by a billion unblinking eyes.
The atmosphere wasn't just electric; it was radioactive. The noise was a physical wall that hit you the moment you stepped out of the tunnel—a constant, thrumming roar of vuvuzelas, drums, and the collective heartbeat of two rival nations.
Up in the commentary box, the tension was palpable. The glass windows vibrated with the sound from below.
Ravi Shastri: "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. If you are watching this, wherever you are in the world, stop what you are doing. Pull up a chair. History is being written in Mohali. It is the Semi-Final of the 2011 World Cup. India vs Pakistan."
Wasim Akram: "Ravi, I have played in many big games. I played the '92 Final. I played in '99. But this? The air is heavy. You can taste the pressure. Look at the crowd. There is no blue or green separate anymore; it is just a sea of passion. The players down there... they are not just cricketers today. They are carriers of national hope."
Ramiz Raja: "Absolutely, Wasim. And look at the security. It looks less like a cricket match and more like a state event. We have the Prime Ministers of both nations in the house. It adds a layer of diplomatic weight to what is already a pressure cooker."
---
The giant screens in the stadium flickered to life, showing the VVIP box. A roar went up, different from the cricket chants—a polite but deafening acknowledgment of power.
Prime Minister Manmohan Singh of India, in his trademark blue turban, stood side-by-side with Prime Minister Yousuf Raza Gilani of Pakistan. They waved to the crowd. It was a powerful image—Cricket Diplomacy in action. But down in the dressing rooms, the players were trying to ignore the politics and focus on the ball.
MS Dhoni and Shahid Afridi walked out to the middle. The noise reached a crescendo. Dhoni looked calm, his face a mask of detached focus. Afridi looked pumped, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, chewing gum furiously.
Ravi Shastri (at the toss): "Here we go. Two captains who carry the weight of millions. MS, Shahid, welcome. The coin is in the air."
Dhoni flicked the coin. It spun in the Mohali sunlight, a silver blur deciding the fate of the first innings.
"Heads," Afridi called.
It landed. Tails.
A massive cheer erupted from the Indian sections of the crowd. Dhoni allowed himself a small smile.
Ravi Shastri: "MS, you've won the toss. What are you going to do?"
MS Dhoni: "We are going to bat first, Ravi. It looks like a good wicket. It might slow down a bit later on, and in a big pressure game, it's always better to put runs on the board. The boys are ready. The preparation has been good. We just need to keep it simple."
Ravi Shastri: "Shahid, disappointed?"
Shahid Afridi: "A little bit, yes. We wanted to bat first too. But our bowling is our strength. If we can restrict them to under 260, we have the batting to chase it. The boys are very motivated. Playing India in India... it is a big challenge, but we are ready."
---
The teams lined up on the luscious green turf. The stadium fell silent—a rare, eerie silence that felt heavier than the noise.
First, the Pakistani National Anthem (Qaumi Taranah).
"Pak sarzamin shad bad..."
The Pakistani players stood with their hands over their hearts, singing with fervent passion. Shoaib Akhtar (carrying drinks today) was seen wiping a tear near the boundary rope. It was a moment of fierce pride.
Then, the Indian National Anthem (Jana Gana Mana).
"Jana-gana-mana-adhinayaka jaya he..."
Thirty thousand voices joined the eleven players. The sound was overwhelming. Sachin Tendulkar had his eyes closed, head tilted up. Virat Kohli was singing loudly, chest puffed out. Siddanth Deva stood between Yuvraj Singh and Suresh Raina, singing with a quiet intensity, absorbing the energy.
As the final "Jaya he!" echoed around the stadium, the roar returned, louder than ever.
The two Prime Ministers walked onto the field, flanked by security personnel. They moved down the lines, shaking hands with the players.
Manmohan Singh stopped briefly to speak to Sachin. He then moved to Deva.
"Make us proud, son," the PM said softly.
Deva nodded, shaking the leader's hand. "We will, sir."
---
As the formalities ended, the Indian team turned and began walking back toward the pavilion—all except Sachin Tendulkar and Virender Sehwag, who stayed back to open the innings.
The rest of the team walked together.
And then—
Deva, hands tucked into his pockets, softly hummed a tune.
🎵 "Mauka… Mauka…" 🎵
Not loud. Barely audible.
But enough.
Yuvraj Singh turned his head slightly.
Raina frowned.
Zaheer Khan raised an eyebrow.
"Oye," Yuvraj said, half-smiling. "What song is that?"
Deva froze.
Oh crap.
He suddenly remembered.
This song hasn't been released yet.
Thinking quickly, Deva scratched his head.
"Uh… I don't know. Just something random I made up. Like… every time Pakistan thinks they have a chance—India wins. So… 'mauka' never comes."
There was a split second of silence.
Then—
Laughter.
Raina burst out first.
Yuvraj doubled over.
Harbhajan slapped Deva's shoulder.
"You should sell that to an ad company," Yuvraj laughed. "They'll make crores."
Those behind them caught up.
"What happened?" Dhoni asked, walking calmly.
The song was repeated—badly, loudly, with exaggerated lyrics.
🎵 "Mauka mauka… bas mauka hi reh jaata hai…" 🎵
Dhoni smirked.
Even Zaheer chuckled.
By the time they reached the steps to the dressing room, the entire Indian team was laughing.
---
To the outside world, this scene was baffling.
The cameras broadcast the image to millions: The Indian team, moments before the highest-pressure match of their lives, walking back to the pavilion laughing hysterically. Not nervous smiles. Not forced bravado. Genuine, belly-aching laughter.
Ravi Shastri (Commentary): "Well, look at this! The Indian team is walking back, and they are in splits! Virat Kohli is laughing his head off. Yuvraj Singh looks relaxed. Even Dhoni is smiling. I wonder what the joke was?"
Ramiz Raja (Voice sounding concerned): "This is... unusual. Usually, you see tension. You see grim faces. But India looks remarkably relaxed. Is this a mind game? Are they showing Pakistan that they are not feeling the pressure at all? If I was the Pakistani captain looking at this, I would be worried. Why are they so happy?"
Inside the stadium, the Pakistani players, who were stretching near the boundary, looked up.
Shoaib Akhtar frowned. "Why are they laughing?" he muttered to Umar Gul. "Are they mocking us?"
Gul looked unsettled. "They look too confident, Shoaib bhai. Like they already know the result."
The psychological blow had been struck, accidental or not. The "Devil" had loosened the tension for India and planted a seed of doubt in Pakistan—all with a jingle that didn't exist yet.
The laughter died down as the players entered the dressing room, replaced by the sound of Velcro straps and the smell of Deep Heat.
Out in the middle, the two gladiators took their positions.
Virender Sehwag. The butcher.
Sachin Tendulkar. The artist.
Facing them was Umar Gul with the new ball.
Over 1:
Gul started nervously. A wide down the leg side.
Then, Sehwag did what Sehwag does. The third ball was short and wide. Sehwag didn't move his feet. He just threw his hands at it.
CRACK.
The ball screamed through the covers. Four.
Ravi Shastri: "And we are away! Viru Sehwag doesn't care about the occasion. He sees the ball, he hits the ball. What a start for India!"
The next five overs were carnage. Sehwag decided that the best way to handle the pressure was to murder it.
He targeted Umar Gul, Pakistan's premier bowler.
In the 3rd over, Sehwag smashed Gul for five boundaries.
Cover drive. Four.
Cut shot. Four.
Straight drive. Four.
Flick through square leg. Four.
Slash over point. Four.
The crowd went berserk. Mohali sounded like a jet engine. India raced to 30/0 in 3 overs.
Sourav Ganguly (Commentary): "This is unbelievable batting. He is dismantling their best bowler. Pakistan looks shell-shocked. Misbah is already scratching his head. You cannot set a field for this."
Sachin, at the other end, was a spectator. He watched Sehwag destroy the attack, offering a calming nod every time Viru punched gloves.
Wahab Riaz was brought into the attack.
He bowled a bouncer to Sehwag. Sehwag hooked. Missed.
The next ball, fast and full. Sehwag drove it for four.
India reached 48/0 in just 5.4 overs. The run rate was nearly 9.
But cricket is a game of moments.
5.5, Wahab Riaz came around the wicket. He bowled a good length ball that angled in and straightened slightly.
Sehwag, looking to work it to the leg side, was beaten by the subtle movement. The ball thudded into the pads.
Wahab Riaz screamed an appeal. "HOWZATTTT!"
The umpire, Simon Taufel, raised his finger.
Wicket: V Sehwag lbw b Wahab Riaz38 (25 balls)
9 Fours. Strike Rate 152.
A silence fell over the crowd, immediate and profound, before the Pakistani fans (small cluster) erupted.
Wasim Akram: "That is the breakthrough Pakistan desperately needed! Sehwag was taking the game away. Umar Gul, stands up! Vital wicket."
Sehwag walked back, swinging his bat in frustration. He had set the fire, but he had burned out too quick.
The scoreboard read 48/1.
The giant screen flashed the graphic: SIDDANTH DEVA.
The roar that greeted him was different from the one for Sehwag. Sehwag's roar was excitement. Deva's roar was expectation. It was a roar that demanded dominance.
As Deva walked out of the tunnel, the sun glinted off his helmet. He looked at the sea of blue. He looked at the Pakistani fielders.
He remembered the song. Mauka Mauka.
He smiled inside his helmet. Not today, boys. Not today.
Ravi Shastri: "And listen to that noise! The Devil of Cricket walks out to join the God. Siddanth Deva. The man who has three centuries in three games against Pakistan. The man with a batting average of 98. He walks into a pressure cooker, but he looks like he's walking into his living room."
Ramiz Raja: "This is the moment, Wasim. This is the battle. Pakistan fears this boy. Look at Afridi. He is already changing the field. Slip comes in. Mid-off comes up. They want to attack him early."
Deva crossed the boundary rope. He looked at Sachin Tendulkar, who was waiting for him mid-pitch.
Sachin tapped his bat. "Watch the ball. It's stopping a bit. Umar is bowling fast."
Deva nodded. "Yes, Paaji."
He took his guard. center stump.
He looked up. Umar Gul was at the top of his mark, chest heaving, pumped up from the wicket of Sehwag.
Riaz glared at Deva. Deva stared back, his eyes dead calm.
The stadium held its breath.
The Semi-Final had officially begun.