The sun didn't just rise over India on April 2nd; it spotlighted a nation that had effectively pressed the 'pause' button on reality.
By 8:00 AM, the streets of major metropolitan cities—usually choked with the impatient honking of traffic—were eerily silent. It wasn't the silence of sleep; it was the silence of preparation. The buses were empty. The trains were running at half capacity. The schools and colleges, technically open, were ghost towns. Even the strictest professors had miraculously developed a 'fever', deciding that teaching calculus was futile when history was being written in Mumbai.
In the community halls of residential colonies across Delhi, giant projectors were being rigged up with the precision of a military operation. "Check the HDMI cable!" shouted Rakesh, the secretary of the 'Sunrise Apartments' in Dwarka. "If the signal drops during India's batting, I will be murdered!"
Restaurants and bars had thrown their profit margins out the window. 'The Blue Frog' in Bangalore displayed a chalkboard sign: "If India wins, drinks are on the house until we run out of alcohol or pass out." A biryani chain in Hyderabad offered a "Deva Special Platter"—a meal so large it mimicked the 263 score, priced at a discount that made accountants weep but made fans cheer.
India was no longer a country of 28 states; it was a single, pulsating organism with one collective heartbeat, waiting for 2:30 PM.
---
If India was the body, Mumbai was the heart, and Marine Drive was the aorta.
The famous Queen's Necklace had turned into a Blue Tsunami. The Arabian Sea on one side was grey and calm; the human sea on the promenade was blue and turbulent.
From the Oberoi Hotel to the Wankhede Stadium, the road was a carnival of chaos. It was impossible to walk; you simply floated with the current of the crowd. Every second person held a tricolour flag. Every face was painted—'IND' on cheeks.
Vendors were making a year's worth of income in a single morning. They sold jerseys, caps, whistles, and horns. The sound was a deafening, continuous drone of vuvuzelas—a remnant of the 2010 Football World Cup that had found a permanent, noisy home in Indian cricket culture.
Anjali Sharma, the breathless reporter from a national news channel, was right in the thick of it. She had lost one earring and her hair was a mess, but her adrenaline was spiking. She shoved her microphone towards a group of young men who had painted their entire torsos to spell out B-L-E-E-D-B-L-U-E.
"We are live from Marine Drive!" Anjali shouted to be heard over the din. "The atmosphere here is electric! It is madness! Sir, sir! How are you feeling right now?"
The man painted with the letter 'E' screamed into the mic, his eyes wide. "FEELING? I CAN'T FEEL MY LEGS! WE HAVE BEEN STANDING HERE SINCE 4 AM! BUT IT DOESN'T MATTER! TODAY WE WIN! TODAY DEVA HITS 300!"
Anjali laughed, pulling the mic back. "300? That's optimistic!"
"NOTHING IS IMPOSSIBLE FOR THE DEVIL!" the group chanted in unison, starting a rhythmic dance in the middle of the road.
She moved to an elderly couple sitting on a folding chair they had brought themselves. The old man was wearing a faded 1983 World Cup jersey.
"Uncle," Anjali asked, kneeling down. "You have seen 1983. You have seen it all. What does today mean to you?"
The old man's eyes twinkled behind his thick glasses. "Beta, 1983 was a surprise. It was a miracle. Today... today is not a surprise. Today is a demand. We are at home. We have the Master. We have the Devil. If we don't win today, I don't think I can handle the heartbreak. I just want to see Sachin lift that cup before I die."
His wife patted his hand. "He will, ji. He will. I did a special puja this morning. Deva will protect him."
"Tickets! Anyone selling tickets?" a desperate man in a suit shouted, holding a bundle of cash. "I will pay one lakh! Cash right now!"
"Keep your lakh, uncle!" a student laughed, clinging to a lamppost to get a better view. "Even God couldn't buy a ticket today!"
As the clock ticked towards noon, the VVIP gate of the Wankhede Stadium turned into the most exclusive red carpet on Earth. The police had cordoned off a small lane, but the fans pressed against the barricades, screaming every time a luxury car rolled up.
A sleek black Mercedes stopped, and the door opened. A roar went up that rivaled a jet engine.
Aamir Khan, the perfectionist of Bollywood, stepped out. He was dressed simply, but the crowd noticed the detail immediately. He was wearing the exact same blue t-shirt he had worn during the Semi-Final in Mohali.
Reporters swarmed him, thrusting microphones over the barricade.
"Aamir sir! Aamir sir! Over here!"
Aamir smiled, waving politely, but looked visibly anxious. He stopped for a brief interview.
"Aamir," a reporter asked, pointing at his chest. "We have to ask. That t-shirt. Is it the same one from the India-Pakistan match? Is it a superstition?"
Aamir laughed, a nervous, charming sound. He touched the fabric of his shirt. "You guys notice everything, don't you? Yes, it is the same one. I haven't washed it."
"I'm not usually a superstitious man," Aamir continued, his voice earnest. "I believe in hard work. But... today? I just wanted everything to be perfect. If something worked once, why change it? We need every bit of luck against Malinga and Murali. If wearing a dirty t-shirt helps Deva hit a century, I will wear it for the rest of my life."
"Any message for the team?"
"Just play your game," Aamir said, flashing a thumbs up. "The whole country is breathing with you. Just bring it home."
Minutes later, another car arrived. The crowd went berserk. "RAJINI! RAJINI!"
Superstar Rajinikanth stepped out, wearing a simple white shirt. He didn't speak much. He just flashed his signature smile, waved his hand in that distinct, stylish manner, and the crowd went into a frenzy. For a moment, cricket was forgotten, and the Thalaiva reigned supreme.
Then came the power couple, Saif Ali Khan and Kareena Kapoor, looking glamorous despite the heat.
"We are here for Sachin," Saif said, adjusting his sunglasses. "And we are here for the new kid, Deva. My son is obsessed with him."
But the loudest cheers were reserved for the royalty of cricket.
Kapil Dev, the captain who started it all in 1983, walked in looking majestic in a suit. He stopped, looking at the sea of blue.
"Kapil Paaji! Can Dhoni do what you did?"
Kapil smiled, his eyes crinkling. He pointed to the towering stadium. "I had a team of tigers. Dhoni has a team of lions. And he has a Devil. I think 1983 will have company tonight. The cup is lonely; it needs a brother."
Sunil Gavaskar, Shane Warne, Sir Viv Richards—the legends of the game filed in, taking their seats. Even politicians who usually commanded heavy security details were forced to walk the last few hundred meters, humbled by the sheer density of the crowd.
The air was thick with humidity and hysteria. It was a festival without a religious calendar date. It was the Festival of Cricket.
---
Amidst the glitz and the glamour, a modest Innova managed to navigate the VIP entry lane. The security guards checked the ID cards and immediately snapped to attention.
"Let them through! It's Deva's family!"
Vikram Deva stepped out of the car, adjusting his collar. He was wearing a crisp white shirt and formal trousers, looking every bit the proud, disciplined father. But his hands were shaking slightly. He looked up at the towering floodlights of the Wankhede.
Sesikala stepped out beside him, clutching her prayer beads. She looked terrified and ecstatic at the same time. "Vikram, look at the people. They are all here for our Siddanth?"
"They are here for India, Sesi," Vikram said, placing a reassuring hand on her back. "But today, Siddanth is India."
Following them were three young men who looked like they had just won the lottery.
Arjun adjusted his rimless glasses, looking at the stadium structure with a fan's heart. He was wearing a NEXUS hoodie, representing the company they built.
Sameer, the loudmouth of the group, was wearing a jersey that said 'DEVA'S BROTHER' on the back (which was technically a lie, but emotionally true).
Feroz, the quiet, intense one, simply soaked it in. He remembered the gully cricket games where Deva used to break windows. Now, he was about to break world records.
"Can you believe this?" Sameer shouted over the noise, grabbing Arjun's shoulder. "We used to pay 50 rupees to rent a ground to play. Now we are sitting in the President's Box!"
"Sid earned this," Arjun said, "He earned every inch of this."
They made their way to the elevator. As the doors opened to the hospitality suite, they were greeted by the sight of the Wankhede bowl. It was a cauldron of blue fire. The noise hit them physically, a wall of sound that vibrated in their chests.
Vikram Deva walked to the glass front of the box. He looked down at the pitch—the 22 yards of destiny. He took a deep breath, smelling the cut grass and the ambition.
"He is ready," Vikram said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. "He was ready for this since the day he held a bat in his hands."
---
Outside, suddenly, the buzz on the streets changed pitch. It wasn't just a cheer; it was a roar that started a mile away and rolled towards the stadium like thunder.
"THE BUS! THE BUS IS HERE!"
The gleaming blue Volvo bus, carrying the hopes of a billion people, turned the corner onto the final stretch leading to the stadium. But it couldn't move.
The police barricades were holding, barely. The fans swarmed the road, pressing against the police line, desperate for a glimpse of their gods. The bus moved at a snail's pace, inching forward tire rotation by tire rotation.
Inside the bus, the atmosphere was surreal. The tinted glass created a separation, muting the outside world slightly, but the visual was overwhelming.
Siddanth Deva sat by the window, his headphones around his neck. He looked out. He saw faces pressed against the barricades—faces distorted by screaming, by tears, by sheer passion. He saw a father holding a toddler high on his shoulders, the child waving a plastic flag. He saw an old woman pressing her palms together in prayer as the bus passed.
"Look at them," Virat Kohli whispered, sitting in the seat next to him. Kohli, usually hyper-active, was staring out with a mix of awe and intimidation. "They aren't just fans, Sid. They are worshippers."
"It's scary," Deva admitted softly. "If we lose..."
"We won't," MS Dhoni's voice came from the seat behind them. The captain was calm, peeling an orange. "Don't look at the fear in their eyes. Look at the belief. They believe in you. Just borrow that belief."
The bus lurched forward another meter. The thumping of hands against the side of the bus reverberated inside. Thump-thump-thump. It sounded like a giant heartbeat.
Outside, the reporter Anjali was being crushed against a railing but kept reporting.
"The bus is passing us now! I can see Dhoni! I can see Sachin! And there he is! The Devil! He is looking right at us! The crowd is going absolutely berserk! They are throwing rose petals on the roof of the bus! It is a royal procession!"
Inside the bus, Sachin Tendulkar sat alone in the front seat. He looked out at his city, his people. He had done this drive hundreds of times. But today, the streets looked different. They looked final. He closed his eyes for a moment, absorbing the energy, letting it fuel him one last time.
It took the bus twenty minutes to cover the last 500 meters. As it finally turned into the secure tunnel of the stadium, the noise cut out abruptly, replaced by the cool, echoing silence of the concrete underbelly.
The engine hissed to a halt. The doors hissed open.
MS Dhoni stood up, threw his orange peel into the bin, and slung his kit bag over his shoulder.
"Alright boys," he said, his voice echoing in the quiet bus. "Let's go to work."
They stepped out, one by one. The gladiators had entered the arena. The countdown had begun. The Day of Days was about to reach its zenith.
---
Inside the studio, Sunil Gavaskar and Sourav Ganguly were engaged in a deep discussion, their voices grave with anticipation.
"It's the quiet moments," Ganguly said, adjusting his tie. "Right now, in that dressing room, it's not about technique. It's about controlling your heartbeat. You look around, you see your teammates, and you wonder: is this the day we become legends?"
"Absolutely, Sourav," Gavaskar nodded. "And for Sri Lanka, it's the same. Sangakkara is a thinker. He knows the crowd is against him. He knows 35,000 people will cheer if he gets out for a duck. How do you handle that mental disintegration? That's the battle."
The camera cut abruptly to the center of the pitch.
MS Dhoni and Kumar Sangakkara stood in their blazers, flanking match referee Jeff Crowe. Ravi Shastri, holding the microphone, looked up at the sky.
"Time for the toss," Shastri announced, his voice echoing through the stadium PA system. Dhoni flipped the coin high into the Wankhede air. It spun, glinting in the sunlight.
Sangakkara called out, "Hails."
The coin landed. Jeff Crowe looked down. But there was confusion.
Jeff Crowe shook his head. "Wrong call. Retake."
The tension in the stadium spiked. A re-toss in a World Cup Final? It was unheard of. It added a layer of surreal drama to an already charged moment.
Dhoni flipped the coin again.
"Heads," Sangakkara called clearly this time.
The coin landed. Heads it was.
"Sri Lanka has won the toss," Shastri announced. "Kumar?"
"We are going to bat first," Sangakkara said, a steely glint in his eyes. "It looks like a good wicket. Runs on the board in a final is always pressure. We want to put up a total and let the scoreboard do the work."
Shastri turned to Dhoni. "Disappointed, MS?"
"A little," Dhoni admitted with a shrug. "We would have batted first too. But it's a good strip. The dew will come later, might help the chase. We just need to field well."
"Any changes to the playing XI?"
"Yes," Dhoni said. "Piyush Chawla misses out. Sreesanth comes in."
A murmur went through the crowd. Sreesanth, the aggressive, unpredictable pacer, replacing the leg-spinner. It was a clear signal: Dhoni wanted pace and aggression upfront.
Back in the studio, Gavaskar analyzed the move. "It's a bold call. Sreesanth swings the new ball. Dhoni wants wickets early. He doesn't want to contain; he wants to strike. If Sreesanth gets Dilshan early, the pressure is right back on Lanka."
---
The umpires walked out. Then, the two teams lined up on the lush green outfield, facing the giant tricolour flag fluttering on the North Stand.
First, the Sri Lankan anthem played. Sri Lanka Matha. The Lankans sang with hand over heart, a moment of unity for their island nation.
Then, silence fell. A heavy, pregnant silence.
And then, the first note of Jana Gana Mana.
It wasn't just the eleven players singing. It was 35,000 people in the stadium. It was the millions on Marine Drive. It was the billions in front of TVs. The sound was overwhelming, a harmonic convergence of pride and hope.
Siddanth Deva stood between Virat Kohli and Yuvraj Singh. His eyes were closed. He wasn't singing loud; he was feeling the vibration in his chest. Tears streamed down Yuvraj's face. Sachin Tendulkar looked up at the sky, perhaps having a private conversation with his late father.
As the final "Jaya He" echoed into the ether, the roar that followed shook the camera lenses.
The Prime Minister of India, Dr. Manmohan Singh, and the President of Sri Lanka walked down the line, shaking hands. When the PM reached Deva, he paused.
"Make us proud, son," the PM said softly.
Deva nodded, his grip firm. "We will, Sir."
---
The dignitaries left. The Sri Lankan openers, Tillakaratne Dilshan and Upul Tharanga, walked to the pitch, shadow practicing.
The Indian team formed a tight huddle near the boundary rope. Arms locked over shoulders. A circle of blue brothers.
"Sachin paji," Dhoni said, breaking protocol. "You say it."
Sachin Tendulkar, the man who usually let his bat talk, looked at his teammates. He looked at the young faces of Kohli and Deva, and the seasoned faces of Zaheer and Sehwag.
"I have waited 22 years for this day," Sachin said, his voice trembling with emotion. "I have played in five World Cups. This is the last time I will wear this jersey in a World Cup. Do not play for me. Play for that flag. Play for the people outside who can't afford a ticket. Play so that twenty years from now, you can look in the mirror and say, 'I gave everything.' Let's do this."
He took a breath and shouted, "BHARAT MATA KI!"
"JAI!" the team screamed in unison, breaking the huddle with an explosion of energy.
The players sprinted to their positions. The crowd went wild.
Dhoni trotted behind the stumps, adjusting his gloves. He looked at Zaheer Khan at the top of his run-up. He moved his slip cordon—Sehwag at first slip, Sachin at second. He placed Deva at a sharp backward point, prowling like a panther.
The umpire, Simon Taufel, checked the field. He nodded.
"Play!"
Zaheer Khan turned. He started his run-up. Rhythmic. Gathering pace. The crowd rose to its feet, a sea of blue noise.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
He reached the crease. He leaped.
The arm came over.
The Final had begun.