The lights at the PCA Stadium in Mohali had taken full effect, bathing the green turf in an artificial, hyper-real glow. The scoreboard, usually a source of information, now loomed over the ground like a monolith of impossibility: INDIA 428/2. TARGET 429.
As the Indian team jogged onto the field, led by MS Dhoni, the crowd's roar was different from the first innings. It wasn't the frantic, anxious screaming of the afternoon. It was the deep, rhythmic, chest-thumping roar of a predator that knows the prey is cornered. Siddanth Deva, standing at mid-off, felt the cool night breeze on his face. His legs were heavy, but his mind was sharp.
The Pakistani openers, Mohammad Hafeez and Kamran Akmal, walked out. They didn't look at the crowd. They didn't look at the scoreboard. They looked only at the pitch, following Waqar Younis's instructions: Survive. Silence.
Zaheer Khan took the new ball. The master of swing was in his element.
Over 1: Zaheer Khan to Hafeez
0.1 Zaheer to Hafeez
Zaheer runs in, the seam position perfect. He bowls a length ball shaping away outside off. Hafeez watches it closely and shoulders arms.
Commentary (Harsha Bhogle): "And the chase begins. 429 is the target. But Pakistan isn't looking at that. Hafeez leaves the first one alone. Good shape for Zaheer early on."
DOT BALL
0.2 Zaheer to Hafeez
Fuller, swinging in slightly. Hafeez defends solidly back to the bowler.
DOT BALL
0.3 Zaheer to Hafeez
Zaheer pulls the length back. Hafeez taps it to point. No run.
DOT BALL
0.4 Zaheer to Hafeez
Hafeez pushes to mid-on. Still no run. The crowd cheers every dot ball like a wicket.
DOT BALL
0.5 Zaheer to Hafeez
Short of a length. Hafeez defends.
DOT BALL
0.6 Zaheer to Hafeez
Hafeez guides the last ball to third man for a single. Pakistan is off the mark.
Commentary (Wasim Akram): "Sensible start. Don't go looking for heroes yet. Just feel the ball on the bat. But look at the required rate... it's already climbing."
1 RUN
The first ten overs followed a script that seemed almost disconnected from the reality of the required run rate (8.58). Pakistan crawled. They blocked. They left. They nudged singles. It was disciplined, yes, but against a mountain like 429, it felt like trying to empty the ocean with a teaspoon.
Zaheer Khan and Munaf Patel bowled with suffocating accuracy. By the end of the Powerplay (10 overs), Pakistan was 38/0. The required run rate had skyrocketed to nearly 10 runs per over.
Commentary (Ravi Shastri): "This is baffling tactics, Sunny. I understand caution, I understand keeping wickets in hand. But they are treating this like a Test match! They are 38 for 0 after 10. They need 391 runs in 40 overs! They are digging a hole so deep they might reach the other side of the world!"
Commentary (Gavaskar): "They are scared of the collapse, Ravi. They saw what happened to the Indian batting line-up in 2003. They want to take it deep. But 'deep' against 429 is a myth. You have to fire shots."
---
As the fielding restrictions were lifted, the message from the dressing room was clear: Go for it. Hafeez and Kamran Akmal exchanged a glance. The blocking was over.
Over 11: Munaf Patel to Hafeez
10.1 Munaf to Hafeez
Munaf bowls back of a length. Hafeez charges. He slaps it over cover.
Result: FOUR.
10.2 Munaf to Hafeez
Fuller this time. Hafeez clears the front leg and lofts it over mid-on.
Result: FOUR.
Commentary (Shastri): "Finally! The shackles are broken! Two boundaries in a row. They have realized they cannot block their way to 429."
The crowd quieted slightly as the boundaries started to flow. For a brief moment, Pakistan looked dangerous. They raced to 65/0. But MS Dhoni, calm as ever, simply pushed his fielders back to the boundary rope. He knew exactly what was coming.
Over 14: Zaheer Khan to Hafeez
13.1 Zaheer to Hafeez
Hafeez is on 32. He sees width. He goes for a massive slash over point.
He doesn't keep it down. The ball flies fast and flat towards deep backward point. Yuvraj Singh runs to his left, dives, and plucks it inches from the grass.
Commentary (Bhogle): "Caught! Yuvraj Singh you beauty! Hafeez lived by the sword and dies by it! He hit a few boundaries, but the risk was always there. India breaks the stand!"
WICKET (Hafeez 32)
Over 16: Munaf Patel to Kamran Akmal
Kamran Akmal (28) decided to keep attacking. He hooked a short ball for six in the 15th over. But Munaf Patel had a plan.
15.3 Munaf to Kamran
Slower ball. 118kmph. Kamran is through his shot too early. He tries to check his lofted drive over mid-off.
It's a skier. Suresh Raina at mid-off circles under it, calls for it, and takes it comfortably.
Commentary (Gavaskar): "Another one bites the dust! The change of pace does the trick. They are trying to hit every ball out of the park now, and they are finding the fielders with precision."
WICKET (Kamran 34)
---
With both openers gone, the experienced duo of Younis Khan and Misbah-ul-Haq came together. But the run rate was now 12 runs per over. There was no time to settle. Younis Khan tried to sweep Harbhajan Singh.
Over 22: Harbhajan to Younis
21.4 Harbhajan to Younis
Younis gets down on one knee to slog sweep. The ball grips and turns. It catches the top edge.
Virat Kohli at deep square leg barely has to move. He cups it safely.
Commentary (Shastri): "He picks out the man in the deep! Pakistan is crumbling. They are hitting boundaries, yes, but they are losing wickets every time they look dangerous. 105 for 3!"
WICKET
Umar Akmal walked in next. He was in no mood to defend. He smashed Yuvraj Singh for two massive sixes in the 26th over. The score jumped to 150/3.
Over 28: Yuvraj to Umar Akmal
Umar tries to hit a third six. Ideally, he should have rotated the strike. But the scoreboard pressure forced his hand. He stepped out, missed the pitch of the ball, and Dhoni whipped the bails off.
WICKET (Stumped)
Shahid Afridi, the captain, walked out to a mix of cheers and jeers. He smashed his first ball for four. He smashed his second ball for six. The crowd held its breath. Was this the miracle?
Over 30: Harbhajan to Afridi
Afridi tried to launch Harbhajan into orbit. He swung so hard he almost fell over. The ball went miles up in the air... but didn't go the distance.
Virender Sehwag at long-on settled under it. He pretended to drop it, laughed, and caught it.
Commentary (Akram): "That sums up the chase. Brave, aggressive, but ultimately futile. Afridi goes. The captain sinks with the ship. 185 for 6."
WICKET
The Pakistani middle order had tried to fight fire with fire, but they had burned themselves out. They had scored with a good runrate, but at the cost of their best batsmen.
---
MS Dhoni threw the ball to Siddanth Deva.
Deva hadn't bowled a single ball in the first 35 overs. Dhoni had kept him in cotton wool, letting his body recover from the 263-run marathon. Now, with the tail exposed and the game won, Dhoni wanted to give the crowd one last show.
Deva marked his run-up. It was long. Fast bowler long.
Commentary (Harsha Bhogle): "And look who has the ball. Siddanth Deva. He has rested in the field, mostly patrolling the boundary. Now he warms up."
Over 36: Deva to Razzaq
35.1 Deva to Razzaq
Deva runs in. Smooth, rhythmic action. He loads up and snaps his wrist.
156.4 kmph
The ball is a blur. Razzaq, a veteran all-rounder, barely sees it. It whizzes past his outside edge before he can even lift his bat.
Commentary (Shastri): "Goodness gracious! Did you see that? 156 clicks! He's been batting for 3 hours and he comes out and bowls a thunderbolt! Razzaq looked like he was batting in slow motion!"
DOT BALL
35.2 Deva to Razzaq
Deva runs in again. Same arm speed. Same intensity.
112.0 kmph
It's a knuckleball. It floats. It dips. Razzaq, expecting the 156kmph missile, has already finished his drive before the ball arrives. He checks his shot awkwardly, chipping it just short of mid-off.
Commentary (Wasim Akram): "That is unfair. That is cruel. From 156 to 112 with no change in action. That is a 44 kilometer difference! How do you play that?"
DOT BALL
35.3 Deva to Razzaq
Deva goes wide of the crease.
144.8 kmph
This one swings. Massive inswing. It starts outside off and tails in viciously. Razzaq gets an inside edge onto his pads. A stifled appeal.
DOT BALL
35.4 Deva to Razzaq
Bouncer.
160.2 kmph
It flies over Razzaq's head. Dhoni has to leap high to collect it. The crowd gasps.
Commentary (Gavaskar): "160! He has cracked the 160 barrier! This boy is a genetic freak! He is bowling Shoaib Akhtar speeds after scoring a Brian Lara innings!"
DOT BALL
35.5 Deva to Razzaq
Razzaq manages to guide a fast one to third man for a single. He looks relieved to be off strike.
1 RUN
35.6 Deva to Umar Gul
Gul backs away, trying to slash. Deva follows him with a 155kmph yorker. Gul digs it out.
DOT BALL
The Pakistan tail wagged for a bit, adding some respectable runs. But the end was inevitable.
Over 39: Deva to Wahab Riaz
38.1 Deva to Wahab
Wahab, who had been hammered for runs earlier, now faced the man who hammered him.
Deva bowled a slower bouncer. 115kmph. Wahab swung hard, way too early. The ball looped up gently. Deva ran forward in his follow-through and took the catch himself.
Commentary (Shastri): "Caught and Bowled! Wahab Riaz's nightmare is finally over."
WICKET (Wahab 8)
Over 41: The Final Nail
Pakistan was 240/9. The last man, Saeed Ajmal, was on strike. Deva had the ball.
40.1 Deva to Ajmal
Speed Gun: 159.8 kmph
Ajmal backs away to leg. The ball screams past off stump.
DOT BALL
40.2 Deva to Ajmal
Deva bowls the swinging yorker. 146kmph.
Ajmal somehow gets bat on it. The ball trickles to fine leg.
1 RUN
40.3 Deva to Misbah
Misbah is on strike. He is the last man standing. He steps out, trying to hit a consolation six.
Deva sees him coming. He bangs it in short, but rolls his fingers over it.
108.5 kmph
Misbah is through his shot ages ago. The ball arrives late, kisses the top edge of the bat, and lobs gently to short fine leg. Zaheer Khan takes the easiest catch of his life.
Commentary (Ravi Shastri): "IT'S ALL OVER! INDIA WINS! India is in the World Cup Final! A comprehensive, absolute dismantling of Pakistan in Mohali! Siddanth Deva is the hero, the legend, the Devil who broke the neighbors' hearts! Pakistan all out for 241. India wins by a massive 187 runs!"
Commentary (Harsha Bhogle): "Look at the scenes! The fireworks go off! The players rush to the middle! Dhoni collects a stump as a souvenir. But everyone is surrounding one man. Siddanth Deva. 263 runs and 2 wickets. It is the greatest individual performance in the history of this sport. Siddanth Deva, you have united a billion people tonight."
The scorecard flashed one last time:
INDIA: 428/2
PAKISTAN: 241 (40.3 Overs)
MoM: Siddanth Deva
As the Indian team took a victory lap, Deva walked with the Indian flag draped over his shoulders, looking up at the corporate box where his father was weeping tears of joy.
---
The match had technically ended twenty minutes ago, but not a single soul had left their seat. The concrete bowl was vibrating, a living organism humming with the aftershocks of a seismic event.
On the outfield, the ground staff had hastily erected the presentation podium. It glowed like a spaceship under the floodlights, which had been dimmed slightly to allow the pyrotechnics to take center stage. Bursts of saffron, white, and green fireworks exploded in the night sky, their thunderous cracks syncing with the beating hearts of thirty-five thousand people.
The air smelled of gunpowder, sweat, and victory.
Ravi Shastri stood center stage, checking his microphone. He looked like a ringmaster preparing to tame a lion. He adjusted his tie, looked at the camera operator, and nodded. The giant screen flickered to life, showing his face, and the crowd roared.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Shastri's voice boomed, echoing off the stands. "We are in Mohali. We are in the Semi-Final. And tonight, we have witnessed not just a cricket match, but a phenomenon!"
The cheers were deafening. Shastri had to wait a full ten seconds before he could continue. He went through the formalities—the losing captain, Shahid Afridi, who looked gracious but shell-shocked, admitting that "the boy took the game away in ten overs"; and the winning captain, MS Dhoni, who, in typical fashion, calmly praised the "process" while the crowd chanted the name of Deva.
But everyone knew what they were waiting for.
Shastri lowered his voice, leaning into the mic for dramatic effect. "Now. The moment you are waiting for. The award for the Man of the Match."
He paused. The stadium went silent. A pin-drop silence that felt heavier than the noise.
"For an innings that defies logic... for scoring a world-record 263 not out... for taking two wickets... and for breaking a million hearts across the border while winning a billion hearts here... THE DEVIL HIMSELF! SIDDANTH DEVA!"
The noise that followed wasn't human. It was primal. It was the sound of a sonic boom.
Deva, standing modestly at the back of the Indian player huddle, walked the thirty yards to the stage. He walked slowly, his limp from the cramps still visible, a warrior bearing the scars of his battle.
---
As Deva climbed the steps, he accepted the heavy crystal trophy from the ICC Chairman.
Shastri put a heavy arm around Deva's shoulder, turning him towards the camera and the screaming North Stand.
Shastri: "Sid, breathe. Just breathe. I want you to look at that scoreboard. India 428. Siddanth Deva 263 Not Out. Pinch yourself, young man. Is this real? Are you awake?"
Deva leaned into the microphone. He looked exhausted. His eyes were red, his hair matted with sweat, his jersey stained with grass and dirt. But his voice was steady.
Deva: "It feels... it feels like a dream, Ravi bhai. Honestly, I was in a trance. Sachin paaji told me during the drinks break, 'Don't play the score, play the ball.' I just kept watching the ball. It looked like a football today."
Shastri: "A football! Well, you certainly kicked it around the park! Let's talk about the acceleration. You reached 100 in 58 balls. You reached 200 in 112 balls. And then you went berserk. That switch hit off Shahid Afridi... tell me about that. You are a right-hander. That was a 100kph delivery. What went through your mind?"
Deva smiled, a shy, boyish grin that contrasted sharply with the violence of his batting.
Deva: "He moved the fielders. He put everyone on the leg side—deep mid-wicket, long-on, cow corner. He left the point boundary open. I saw the gap. I just hit it there."
Shastri: "Just hit it. He makes it sound so simple! And the celebration, Sid. The Bat Drop. We've seen helmets raised, we've seen punches in the air. But you just dropped the bat and stood there. That was some serious attitude. That was the Devil coming out!"
Deva looked down at his boots, slightly embarrassed.
Deva: "That wasn't attitude, Ravi bhai. That was... relief. That was exhaustion. And it was a message to my dad. He always told me, 'Let the bat do the talking.' So when I was done, I put the bat down. It had said enough."
Shastri turned his gaze to the VIP Corporate Box, pointing a finger upwards. The giant screen cut to a shot of Vikram Deva, who was wiping his eyes with a handkerchief, standing next to a beaming Sesikala.
Shastri: "We saw him. The whole world saw him crying when you reached 264. It's a proud moment for the family. One final question, Sid. You are in the Final. You are playing at the Wankhede. The job isn't done yet. What is the message for the millions of fans watching right now?"
Deva's expression shifted. The shy boy vanished. The predator returned. He looked directly into the camera lens, his eyes narrowing.
Deva: "One more step. We have conquered Mohali. Now we conquer Mumbai. We are bringing the Cup home."
Shastri: "There you have it! The Hero of Mohali! Siddanth Deva!"
---
As Deva stepped down from the podium, he didn't walk back to the team. The team came to him.
Virat Kohli was the first to arrive. He didn't high-five him; he tackled him. He lifted the 264-run scorer off the ground, spinning him around. Suresh Raina and Yusuf Pathan joined in.
Sachin pulled him into a tight embrace. The camera captured the image that would be on every newspaper front page the next morning: The God of Cricket hugging the new Devil. The torch had been passed, not in a whisper, but in a roar.
MS Dhoni stood back, watching with a calm smile, holding a stump he had uprooted as a souvenir. He knew the team had found its X-factor.
---
While the scenes inside the stadium were of organized jubilation, the scenes outside the gates of the PCA Stadium were absolute, unadulterated bedlam.
Mohali had ceased to be a city; it had become a carnival. The streets were gridlocked for miles. Cars weren't moving; they were parked in the middle of the road, their owners dancing on the roofs. Horns were blaring in a rhythmic beat—India Jeetega, India Jeetega!
Anjali Sharma, a reporter for a national news channel, stood near Gate 4, clutching her microphone. Her hair was messy, her voice hoarse, and she was being jostled from all sides.
Reporter: "We are live... we are live from outside the PCA Stadium! And as you can see, Mohali has lost its collective mind! The police have given up trying to control the traffic; they are celebrating with the fans! I am going to try and speak to some of the people here."
She waded into a group of college students who had painted their bodies blue. One of them was holding a cardboard cutout of Deva that looked like it had survived a war.
Reporter: "You guys just watched the match. What is your reaction to Deva's innings?"
Fan 1 (Face painted like the Indian flag, screaming): "HE IS NOT HUMAN! I AM TELLING YOU! DID YOU SEE THAT HELICOPTER SHOT? DID YOU SEE THE SWITCH HIT? PAKISTAN CAME TO PLAY CRICKET, DEVA PLAYED VIDEO GAMES WITH THEM!"
Fan 2 (Crying tears of joy, clutching a broken stump): "I skipped my final exam for this! My dad said he would kill me! But now he is calling me saying 'Well done!' I saw history! I saw Deva hit 263! My life is complete! I can die happy now!"
The reporter pulled away, laughing, and moved towards an auto-rickshaw that had been converted into a DJ booth. An elderly man, easily in his 70s, was dancing on the roof of the rickshaw with a dhol (drum) hanging from his neck. He was beating it with a ferocity that defied his age.
Reporter: "Babuji! Babuji! You have seen 1983. You have seen Kapil Dev. How does this compare?"
The old man stopped drumming for a second, breathless, sweat dripping from his white beard.
Elderly Man: "Beta, I saw Kapil Paaji at Tunbridge Wells. I saw Sachin at Sharjah. But this... this boy... he has no fear. In our time, we played with respect. This boy plays with fire! He destroyed them! He didn't just beat Pakistan; he broke their spirit! Today, I feel twenty years younger! Chak De India!"
He resumed drumming, the rhythm infectious. The crowd around him erupted into Bhangra, strangers hugging strangers, sharing sweets (ladoos) that seemed to appear out of nowhere.
Further down the road, a family was stuck in a luxury sedan. The father, instead of being angry at the traffic, had opened all the doors and was blasting the commentary replay on the car stereo.
Reporter: "Sir, you are stuck in traffic. Are you frustrated?"
Father (Laughing): "Frustrated? Madam, I hope this traffic never clears! Look at this!" He pointed to his young son in the back seat, who was wearing a helmet way too big for him and holding a plastic bat. "My son's name was Rahul. I am changing it tomorrow! He is Siddanth now! He wants to be the Devil!"
Suddenly, a massive roar—louder than anything before—erupted from the stadium exit. The team bus, a blue fortress on wheels, was slowly inching its way out. The police formed a human chain, struggling to hold back the sea of fans.
Crowd Chant:"DE-VA! DE-VA! DE-VA!"
People were throwing rose petals at the bus. Some were prostrating on the road. It was bordering on religious hysteria.
The reporter turned back to the camera, shouting to be heard over the exploding firecrackers that were being set off right in the middle of the highway.
Reporter: "As you can see, emotions are running high! It is not just a win; it is an assertion. It is a statement. The streets of Mohali will not sleep tonight. The entire nation will not sleep tonight. From a middle-class boy to the Devil of Cricket, Siddanth Deva has arrived, and India is celebrating its new God!"
The camera panned out, rising above the reporter, capturing the endless river of blue jerseys, the waving flags, the smoke from the fireworks, and a thousand voices singing the national anthem in disjointed, beautiful, chaotic unison under the Mohali stars.