The clock struck 7:10 PM. The dew had begun to glisten on the outfield, turning the lush green carpet of the Wankhede Stadium into a shimmering stage. The air was heavy, humid, and vibrating with a noise so intense it felt solid.
From the dark mouth of the players' tunnel, two figures emerged.
One was short, walking with a heavy, purposeful gait, rotating his shoulders, carrying the weight of a billion dreams and twenty-one years of expectation. Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar.
The other was relaxed, whistling a tune, swinging his bat like a walking stick, looking as if he were strolling in a park rather than walking out to chase a World Cup in a final. Virender Sehwag.
As their spikes hit the turf, the sound in the stadium shifted pitch. It wasn't just a cheer anymore; it was a roar of devotion. Thirty-five thousand people stood up as one, arms raised, worshipping the ground they walked on.
High above in the commentary box, Ravi Shastri and Wasim Akram leaned into their microphones, their voices grave with the magnitude of the moment.
Shastri: "Here they come. The two pillars of Indian cricket. The Master and the Destroyer. Walking out to the center of the Wankhede. Listen to that noise! You can't hear yourself think! This is it, folks. 275 to win. 50 overs. History awaits."
Akram: "It is the perfect opening pair, Ravi. Fire and Ice. Let's look at their tournament stats. They have been the engine room for India."
A graphic flashed on the screens worldwide:
VIRENDER SEHWAG
Matches: 8
Runs: 380
Strike Rate: 122.58
Highest: 175
The Danger Man. Starts every innings like a train on fire. If he stays for 10 overs, the game is half won.
SACHIN TENDULKAR
Matches: 8
Runs: 382
Average: 53.55
Centuries: 2
Shastri: "Look at those numbers. Sehwag strikes at 122! That is frightening. And Sachin... well, he is Sachin. He is looking for that elusive 100th hundred on his home ground. The scriptwriters couldn't have written it better. But standing in their way is a man with golden hair and a golden arm."
Lasith Malinga stood at the top of his run-up. He kissed the white Kookaburra ball. He looked menacing. His slingy action, his toe-crushing yorkers, his ability to swing the ball late—he was the final boss India had to defeat.
Sehwag took his stance. Legs wide apart. Bat tapping gently behind his foot. Backlift high. He looked at Malinga. He didn't see a threat; he saw a ball to be hit.
The umpire, Aleem Dar, called "Play."
Malinga started his run-up. A short, stuttering hustle that gathered pace. The crowd's roar reached a crescendo.
Shastri: "Malinga steaming in. Sehwag on strike. The first ball of the World Cup Final chase..."
Malinga reached the crease. The arm came over in that low, slingy trajectory.
Ball 0.1: Malinga to Sehwag
It was a length ball, swinging away slightly outside off stump. Sehwag, usually so eager to feel bat on ball, watched it closely. He didn't move his feet much—he never did. He just pushed his hands at it, guiding it defensively towards cover.
Dot Ball.
A collective sigh went through the stadium, followed immediately by renewed chanting. "Jeetega Bhai Jeetega! India Jeetega!"
Akram: "Good start. Good start from Malinga. He found his line immediately. No room for Sehwag to free his arms. Sehwag just having a look. He knows the new ball will swing under these lights."
Sehwag walked down the pitch, tapping it with his bat. He looked at Sachin at the non-striker's end. Sachin didn't say anything. He just nodded, his eyes focused on the pitch, visualizing the bounce.
Sehwag returned to his crease. He marked his guard again. Middle stump. He twirled his bat.
Malinga walked back to his mark. He ran his hand through his dyed curls. He looked at Sangakkara behind the stumps, who moved a slip fielder slightly finer. The trap was being set.
Malinga turned. He didn't look at the crowd. He looked at Sehwag's toes.
Shastri: "Here we go again. Malinga. Second ball."
The run-up was faster this time. Malinga hit the crease hard.
Ball 0.2: Malinga to Sehwag
This one was different. It wasn't the outswinger. It was the inswinger. The ball started outside off stump but jagged back in sharply off the seam. It was fast—145 kmph.
Sehwag tried to play across the line. He tried to flick it to the leg side, his favorite shot to get underway. But his head fell over slightly. He missed the line.
THUD.
The sound of leather hitting the pad echoed through the stump mic like a gunshot. It hit him on the knee roll, dead in front of middle stump.
Lasith Malinga turned around and screamed.
Kumar Sangakkara screamed.
The slip cordon screamed.
"HOWZATTTTTTT!"
It wasn't a question. It was a demand. Malinga was pleading with his eyes, his arms raised high in the air.
The umpire, Aleem Dar, usually the calmest man on the field, took a second. He processed the line. He processed the height.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, his right hand came up.
The index finger pointed to the sky.
OUT.
Shastri (Screaming): "GONE! HE'S GIVEN HIM! Aleem Dar raises the finger! Malinga strikes on the second ball! Virender Sehwag is trapped right in front! Unbelievable scenes at the Wankhede! India loses their biggest match-winner for a duck!"
The stadium went from 100 decibels to zero in a split second. The silence was absolute. It was a vacuum. Thirty-five thousand people stood frozen, their mouths open, their flags limp.
In the VIP box, Vikram Deva gripped the railing so hard his knuckles turned white. Sesikala covered her eyes.
In the dressing room, MS Dhoni stopped chewing his gum.
On Marine Drive, the dancing stopped.
But on the pitch, Virender Sehwag wasn't walking.
He looked at the umpire. He looked down at his legs.
Sehwag didn't wait. He turned to the umpire and made the 'T' sign with his hands.
DRS REVIEW.
Akram: "He's reviewed it! Sehwag challenges the call immediately! This is massive. If this stays out, India is in deep trouble. If it's overturned, the roof will come off this place. The entire World Cup might hinge on this technology right now."
Shastri: "The crowd is holding its breath. Look at the faces in the stands. People are praying. This is the drama of cricket! Second ball of the innings!"
The giant screen in the stadium flickered. The logo for the Third Umpire appeared.
THIRD UMPIRE (Voice over PA):"I have a review for LBW. Aleem, I am checking the front foot first."
The replay showed Malinga's foot landing. It was close to the line, but legal.
"Fair delivery," the Third Umpire confirmed.
Shastri: "Okay, legal ball. Now, did he hit it?"
THIRD UMPIRE:"Can we have UltraEdge, please?"
The screen showed the waveform. The ball passed the bat. A flat line. No spike.
"No bat involved. I am moving to Ball Tracking."
This was it. The moment of truth.
The graphic for Hawk-Eye began to load on the giant screen. A spinning cricket ball graphic appeared, building the suspense.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
You could almost hear the heartbeat of the nation syncing with the graphic.
In the Studio:
Gavaskar leaned forward, his eyes glued to the monitor. "Height is the issue here. Sehwag is not a tall man, but he was struck on the knee roll. Was it straightening enough to hit the stumps? Or was it sliding down leg?"
On the Field:
Malinga stood with his hands on his hips, confident. Sehwag leaned on his bat, chewing gum, looking up at the screen with the nonchalance of a gambler waiting for the dice to stop rolling.
Millions of families held hands. In the tea stalls, the glasses were put down.
The screen flashed.
BALL TRACKING LOADING...
The blue path of the ball appeared.
It pitched: IN LINE. (A groan from the crowd).
It impact: IN LINE. (A louder groan).
The ball projected forward towards the stumps. It straightened. It kept going.
It hit the stumps.
Wickets Hitting: UMPIRE'S CALL.
The crowd screamed—a mix of confusion and hope. Umpire's Call meant the on-field decision stood.
THIRD UMPIRE:"Aleem, the ball is clipping the leg stump. It is Umpire's Call. You can stay with your original decision."
The giant screen flashed the red word: OUT.
Shastri: "IT'S OUT! IT REMAINS OUT! The review fails! Sehwag has to go! India 0 for 1! The crowd is stunned! Silence descends on Mumbai! Lasith Malinga has ripped the heart out of the Indian batting lineup in the first over!"
Sehwag looked at the screen. He nodded once, tucked his bat under his arm, and began the long, lonely walk back to the pavilion. The most dangerous batsman in the world was gone for a duck in the World Cup Final.
The score read 0/1. The target was 275. And the pressure had just reached boiling point.
---
The moment the red letters OUT solidified on the mega-screen, a seismic wave of despair rolled through the North Stand.
Rahul, a 21-year-old engineering student, dropped his half-eaten vada pav. It hit the concrete floor with a wet thud, ignored. He stood paralyzed, his hands clutching his head, his fingers digging into his scalp.
"No," he whispered, his voice cracking. "No No NO Noooo."
Next to him, his friend Sanjay, whose face was painted as the Indian tricolor, slumped into his plastic seat as if his strings had been cut. "It's over," Sanjay muttered, tears instantly welling up in his eyes, cutting tracks through the green paint on his cheek. "It's 2003 all over again. We are cursed."
A few rows back, a group of college girls who had been screaming "We love you Viru!" just moments ago were now clinging to each other in a huddle of blue jerseys. One of them, Priya, was shaking her head violently. "Don't say that! Sachin is still there! Deva is still there! Don't be a traitor!" she yelled at a man behind her who had already started rolling up his flag.
The silence in the stadium was weirdly textured. It wasn't empty; it was heavy. You could hear the rustle of 35,000 people shifting their weight, the collective intake of breath, the sound of hope leaving the building.
---
Miles away at the Shivaji Park screening, the reaction was more volatile. Ten thousand people had gathered on the dusty ground, eyes glued to a projector screen the size of a billboard. When the umpire's finger went up, the cheering stopped so abruptly it felt like a car crash.
A vendor selling chai froze mid-pour, hot tea spilling over his hand. He didn't flinch. He just stared at the pixelated image of Sehwag walking back.
"Arre yaar!" a man shouted, throwing his plastic cup on the ground. "First ball he blocks, second ball he goes! What is this drama? My heart can't take this!"
A young boy, sitting on his father's shoulders to get a better view, tugged at his dad's hair. "Papa, why isn't he hitting it? Why is he walking away? Tell him to go back!"
The father, a daily wage laborer who had taken the day off, lowered the boy to the ground, his face ashen. "He can't go back, beta. When the finger goes up, the king has to leave."
---
In the upscale 'Blue Frog' lounge in Lower Parel, the mood shifted from a rave party to a wake. The manager, who had boldly promised free shots for every Indian six, watched as patrons slammed their glasses down on the tables.
"Turn it off," a man in a business suit grumbled, loosening his tie as if it were strangling him. "I can't watch another final loss. I can't do it."
"Keep it on, you coward!" a woman at the next table snapped, her eyes blazing. "It's one wicket! We have ten left!"
At a crowded local bar in Andheri, the 'superstitious guy'—every bar has one—immediately stood up. "I knew it! I was sitting with my legs crossed. I uncrossed them for a second to get peanuts, and he got out. It's my fault." He frantically crossed his legs again, squeezing his eyes shut, praying for a miracle that had already passed.
---
The reaction in the VVIP box was a study in human psychology under pressure.
Aamir Khan, still wearing his lucky unwashed blue t-shirt, looked physically ill. He clutched the fabric of the shirt near his heart, muttering something under his breath. His perfectionist mind was racing—was the shirt not lucky enough? Did I jinx it by talking about it? He sank lower into his bucket seat, biting his thumbnail.
Rajinikanth, the man who defied physics on screen, looked helpless against the physics of swing bowling. He adjusted his sunglasses, his stoic face betraying a flicker of deep concern. He leaned over to Shah Rukh Khan, who was pacing the small floor space of the box like a caged tiger.
"Relax, Shah Rukh," Rajini said softly. "The movie has just started. The hero always takes a hit in the first reel."
SRK ran a hand through his hair, his chaotic energy filling the small space. "I know, sir, I know. But Sehwag... he sets the tone! The tone is gone! Now the pressure is on the kid. It's all on the kid now."
Kapil Dev, sitting a few rows back, didn't panic. He had been 17 for 5 in a World Cup match before. He sat with his arms crossed, a calm, almost predatory look in his eyes. "Good ball," he murmured to Sunil Gavaskar. "Late swing. Can't do much. Now we see what the new generation is made of."
But the most poignant reaction came from the corner of the box where the Deva family sat.
When the finger went up, Vikram Deva stopped breathing for a moment. He knew the batting order. He knew who was next.
"He's coming," Vikram whispered, his voice trembling. "He's coming out now. At 0 for 1. In a final."
Sesikala gripped her prayer beads so tight the string threatened to snap. "He is too young for this pressure, Vikram. The ball is moving. Malinga is breathing fire. Why couldn't Sehwag play for ten overs?"
Arjun, standing behind them, put a steady hand on Vikram's shoulder. "Uncle, this is exactly what he wants. He doesn't want an easy platform. He wants the fire."
"He's just a boy," Sesikala cried softly.
"No, Aunty," Arjun said, his eyes fixed on the players' tunnel. "Not anymore."
---
Back on the field, Sehwag looked at the screen one last time. The confirmation of his dismissal was a jagged red pill to swallow. He nodded once to the umpire, accepting his fate. He tucked his bat under his arm—the same bat that had destroyed attacks around the world—and began the long, lonely trudge back to the pavilion.
The cheers that usually accompanied his exit were missing. There was only a low, mournful murmur. He crossed the boundary rope, his head bowed, the weight of the duck heavy on his shoulders.
The score read 0/1. The target was 275.
And in the shadows of the dressing room, Siddanth Deva stood up. He tightened his gloves. He adjusted his helmet. He didn't look at the replay of Sehwag's wicket. He looked at the field.
The pressure had just reached boiling point. The safety net was gone. The Devil was being called to the altar.
---
The walk from the dressing room to the pitch at the Wankhede Stadium is not long, but for a batsman walking out at 0 for 1 in a World Cup Final, it is a journey through a canyon of pressure.
Virender Sehwag was walking back. His head was bowed, his job unfinished. The crowd was still reeling, a low murmur of shock rippling through the stands like a cold wind.
From the shadows of the pavilion, Siddanth Deva emerged.
He adjusted his gloves, pulling the velcro tight. He tapped his helmet. He walked out into the light.
They met near the thirty-yard circle. The Destroyer leaving, the Devil arriving.
Sehwag looked up. His eyes were shadowed by the grill of his helmet, but the message was clear. He didn't say a word. He just nodded—a sharp, upward jerk of the chin. It's on you now.
Deva met his gaze. He didn't smile. He returned the nod—firm, decisive. I got this.
It was a passing of the torch that lasted less than a second, but the cameras captured it in high definition, flashing it to a billion screens.
Up in the commentary box, Ravi Shastri's voice shifted from despair to a low, rumbling hype.
Shastri: "One champion goes, and look who walks out. The man of the moment. The man who rewrote the history books just 48 hours ago in Mohali. Siddanth Deva. He is walking into a cauldron here. 0 for 1. The ball is swinging. Malinga is breathing fire. But if there is anyone in this Indian lineup who has the audacity to look Malinga in the eye right now, it is this young man."
Akram: "He has the swagger, Ravi. Look at the walk. Chest out. Bat tucked under the arm. He isn't shrinking from the occasion. He is embracing it. The crowd knows it too. Listen to them."
The crowd had indeed shifted gears. The grief over Sehwag was instantly replaced by a desperate, frantic hope. The chant started in the North Stand and swept across the stadium like a wildfire.
"DE-VA! DE-VA! DE-VA!"
It was a war cry. They were summoning their new gladiator.
Deva reached the crease. He marked his guard—leg stump. He scratched the turf with his spikes, claiming his territory.
He looked up to see Lasith Malinga walking back to his mark, his golden curls bouncing, his face set in a predator's snarl.
But before Deva could take his stance, Sachin Tendulkar walked down the pitch.
The Master looked calm, but his eyes were intense. He tapped the pitch with his bat, smoothing out a non-existent rough patch. He beckoned Deva closer.
Deva walked up to him. "Paaji?"
Sachin leaned in, his voice low, audible only to Deva over the roar of the crowd. "Sid, listen to me. The ball is doing a lot. Malinga is getting it to tail in late. Don't go for the big shots early. No helicopter shots, no switch hits. Not yet."
Deva gripped his bat handle tighter. His adrenaline was screaming at him to smash the first ball into the Arabian Sea. "But Paaji, if I attack him—"
"No," Sachin cut him off, his tone sharp. "We need a partnership. We need to calm this storm. Play in the 'V'. Watch the ball till it hits the bat. Just stay with me for ten overs. Can you do that?"
Deva looked at the legend. He saw the wisdom of twenty years in those eyes. He swallowed his aggression.
"Ok, Paaji," Deva nodded. "No risks. Just cricket."
"Just cricket," Sachin confirmed, tapping Deva's glove. "Let's build."
Deva took his stance. He crouched low, his high backlift visible.
Ball 0.3: Malinga to Deva
Malinga steamed in, sensing blood. He fired a 145kmph yorker aimed at the toes.
Deva didn't try to flick it. He didn't try to drive. He jammed his bat down, digging it out with a dead bat. The ball rolled to mid-on.
DOT BALL.
Ball 0.4: Malinga to Deva
Outswinger. Wide of off stump. Tempting.
Deva shouldered arms. He watched the ball all the way into Sangakkara's gloves.
DOT BALL.
Commentary (Gavaskar): "Excellent. That is maturity. He scored 263 runs smashing everything, but today he knows the value of his wicket. He is leaving the ball well. That is the sign of a great player."
For the next four overs, the Wankhede witnessed a masterclass in classical batting. The fireworks were put away; the chisels came out.
Sachin Tendulkar, on his home ground, looked sublime. In the 3rd over, Nuwan Kulasekara pitched one slightly full. Sachin didn't hit it hard; he just leaned into it. The straight drive—the most beautiful shot in cricket—sent the ball racing past the bowler, bisecting mid-off and mid-on.
FOUR.
The crowd erupted. It was a shot that calmed a nation.
Deva, at the other end, was fighting his instincts. Every time the ball was short, his muscles twitched to pull. Every time it was full, he wanted to loft. But he remembered the command: No risks.
In the 4th over, Malinga strayed onto his pads. Deva simply turned his wrists, glancing it fine to the boundary.
FOUR.
Score after 5 overs: India 24/1.
The run rate was under 5, below the required rate, but the ship had been steadied. The panic of the first over had subsided into a tense rhythm.
In the VIP box, Vikram Deva finally exhaled.
"He is listening," Vikram said to Arjun. "He is playing sensibly."
Arjun checked the analytics on his phone. "His heart rate must be through the roof, Uncle. But he's controlling it. He's playing at 10% of his power capacity."
"That's all we need right now," Vikram said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Just stay there. If these two bat till the 20th over, we win."
On the field, the chemistry was palpable. Sachin and Deva were running hard. They converted singles into twos, putting pressure on the Sri Lankan fielders.
Over 6: Kulasekara to Deva
5.2 Kulasekara to Deva
Short and wide. Deva rocked back. He punched it through the covers. It was a shot of pure timing. It raced across the lush outfield.
FOUR.
5.3 Kulasekara to Deva
Single to deep point.
1 RUN.
5.4 Kulasekara to Sachin
Sachin guided the ball to third man with soft hands.
1 RUN.
They were cruising. The score moved to 31/1. The partnership was worth 31 runs. The ghosts of the first over were fading. The crowd was finding its voice again, chanting along with the rhythm of the singles.
In the commentary box, Ian Chappell sounded optimistic.
Chappell: "This is ominous for Sri Lanka. The young gun and the old master. They look comfortable. The ball has stopped swinging as much. If Sangakkara doesn't get a wicket soon, the game could start to drift away."
Shastri: "Sachin looks in the mood, Ian. He's moving his feet beautifully. 18 runs off 13 balls. He means business."
The 6th over ended with India at 31/1. The required rate had crept up slightly to 5.6, but with wickets in hand, it was negligible.
Sachin walked to Deva at the end of the over.
"Good playing, Sid," Sachin said, adjusting his helmet. "Keep doing this. Don't get carried away."
"I'm seeing it big, Paaji," Deva said, tapping the pitch. "The bounce is true."
"Focus," Sachin said. "One ball at a time."
Lasith Malinga stood at the top of his run-up for the 7th over. He looked tired but determined. He wiped the ball.
Over 7: Malinga to Tendulkar
The stadium was buzzing. The fans were doing the Mexican wave. The tension had released just enough for joy to creep back in.
Ball 6.1: Malinga to Tendulkar
Malinga ran in. The crowd roared his run-up, a strange tradition of respect and fear.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Sachin tapped his bat. He looked ready. He looked immortal.
Malinga delivered. It wasn't a yorker. It wasn't a bouncer.
It was a good length delivery, outside off stump, shaping away. Ideally, it was a ball to leave.
But Sachin saw a scoring opportunity. He saw the gap through the covers. He saw the boundary that would take him into the 20s.
He leaned forward. He drove.
It wasn't a reckless shot. It was the same shot that had brought him thousands of runs. But this time, the ball moved a fraction late. It held its line just a millimeter more than he anticipated.
The bat came down. The ball kissed the outside edge.
Snick.
The sound was faint, but in the sudden quiet of the impact, it sounded like glass breaking.
The ball flew low and fast to the right of the wicketkeeper. Kumar Sangakkara didn't have to dive. He just moved his gloves to the right.
Thwack.
The ball lodged in the webbing of the keeper's gloves.
Sangakkara went up. "YEAAAH!"
Malinga went up.
The umpire didn't need to think. He raised the finger.
OUT.
Shastri (Voice cracking): "Edged... and taken! Sangakkara makes no mistake! The Master is gone! The Wankhede is stunned into silence! Malinga gets the big fish! Sachin Tendulkar falls for 18! India 31 for 2!"
If the silence after Sehwag's wicket was a vacuum, the silence after Sachin's wicket was a funeral.
Thirty-five thousand people stopped breathing.
The Mexican wave froze mid-air. The vuvuzelas died in throats. The flags dropped.
For three seconds, there was no sound in the stadium except the joyous screams of the Sri Lankan players huddling around Malinga.
Sachin stood there for a moment. He looked at his bat. He looked at the spot where the ball had pitched. He looked at the umpire.
Then, he tucked his bat under his arm.
He began to walk.
It was a slow walk. A heavy walk. He knew. Everyone knew. This was it. There would be no second innings. There would be no next World Cup. The dream of scoring the 100th hundred in the final was dead.
As he walked past Deva, he didn't look up. He was in his own world of pain. Deva watched him go, feeling a cold pit open in his stomach. The shield was gone. The mentor was gone.
A young boy in the front row burst into tears, burying his face in his father's chest. "He didn't get the hundred, Papa. He didn't get it."
The father didn't answer. He was staring blankly at the field, a tear rolling down his own cheek.
Sunil Gavaskar took off his glasses. He looked devastated. "The dreams of a nation... just edged away. 18 runs. He looked so good. But cricket is a cruel game."
Sharmaji turned off the gas stove. He didn't serve the tea. He just sat on the plastic stool, holding his head in his hands. "Khatam. Sab khatam. (Finished. It's all finished)."
Aamir Khan sat down, putting his head between his knees. Rajinikanth took a deep breath, looking up at the sky.
Vikram Deva looked at the scoreboard.
INDIA: 31/2
TENDULKAR: 18 (14)
TARGET: 275
He looked at his son, standing alone at the non-striker's end.
"It's not finished," Vikram whispered fiercely, breaking the silence of the box. "Siddanth is still there."
But the stadium didn't believe it yet. The silence stretched on, a heavy, suffocating blanket that covered the city of Mumbai. The God had fallen. And now, the Devil was left alone in hell.