Inside the Indian dressing room, the air was stale, thick with the smell of Deep Heat spray and despair.
Virender Sehwag sat in the corner. He had removed his pads and helmet, his jersey soaked with the sweat of a brief, frantic stay at the crease. He was staring at the television screen, his eyes glassy. For the last twenty minutes, he had been bargaining with fate—if I had just left it... if I had played straight...
But the red 'OUT' on the replay was final. He had cycled through anger, denial, and was now settling into a hollow acceptance. He grabbed a water bottle, crushed the plastic in his hand, and tossed it into the bin.
The door creaked open.
The sound of spikes on the tiled floor was heavy, dragging.
Sachin Tendulkar walked in.
He didn't look at anyone. He didn't look at the support staff who offered him water. He walked straight to the bench beside Sehwag and sat down.
He didn't take off his pads. He didn't unstrap his gloves. He simply took off his helmet and placed it gently on the floor beside him, next to Sehwag's.
For a long minute, neither of them spoke. The two greatest openers India had ever produced, reduced to spectators in the most important hour of their lives.
Sachin stared at the TV screen, watching the replays of his own dismissal. His face was unreadable, a mask of stone, but his hands were clenched so tight the knuckles were white.
"It moved late," Sachin whispered, his voice hoarse. It wasn't an excuse; it was an analysis.
Sehwag nodded, staring at the floor. "Mine came back in. I missed it."
"We left them with too much to do, Viru," Sachin said softly.
"The kid is there," Sehwag muttered, looking at the screen where Deva was standing at the non-striker's end. "And Cheeku is going out."
They both looked up at the screen. The dressing room was silent, save for the hum of the air conditioning and the distant, muffled roar of the stadium reacting to the next batsman. The Gods were out. The mortals were left to fight.
On the Field:
Virat Kohli walked out of the tunnel.
Usually, when Kohli walked out, there was a buzz—an anticipation of aggression. But today, he walked into a vacuum. The stadium was still processing the grief of Sachin's wicket. It wasn't a hostile silence; it was a shell-shocked silence. It felt like walking into a funeral home.
Kohli felt small. He felt the weight of the silence pressing against his chest. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. 31 for 2. Malinga on a hat-trick of legends. He gripped his bat handle, his palms sweating inside his gloves.
He reached the square. He didn't look at the Sri Lankan fielders who were high-fiving and chirping. He looked down at the pitch.
Siddanth Deva walked down from the non-striker's end. He didn't run; he strode. He met Kohli halfway.
Deva grabbed Kohli's shoulder, shaking him slightly. "Cheeku. Look at me."
Kohli looked up. Deva's eyes were clear, burning with a cold intensity that cut through the panic.
"Remember the night of the 2007 T20 World Cup?" Deva asked, his voice steady amidst the chaos. "We promised each other. We said, 'We will play the 2011 Final together. We will finish it.'"
Kohli blinked, the memory flashing back to what they had talked about in the nets.
"Well, this is it," Deva said, gesturing to the silent stands. "This is what we were preparing for since we were kids. This is the moment."
Kohli took a deep breath, the panic receding slightly.
"We are here. Just breathe. The crowd is in shock. Let them be in shock. Don't look at the scoreboard. I don't care if you take 6 balls to get one run. I don't care if you block for an hour. Just stay. Stay with me. I will take care of the runs. You just protect that wicket. Can you do that?"
Kohli looked at Deva. He saw the belief. He nodded, a fierce determination setting in his jaw. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Good," Deva said, tapping Kohli's chest with his gloved fist. "Let's play."
The next hour was not a highlight reel. It was a war of attrition.
Kohli took guard. Malinga ran in. Kohli defended. Solidly. The bat came down straight.
Dot. Dot. Dot.
The crowd was restless, but the two young men in the middle were in a bubble. They stopped looking for boundaries. They started looking for inches.
Deva, the man who had scored 264 runs just two days ago, transformed his game entirely. He became a wall.
Over 10: Kulasekara to Deva
Good length outside off. Deva leaned forward, high elbow, and pushed it to mid-off.
"Yes! Quick!" Deva shouted.
They sprinted. A risky single. Kohli dived. Safe.
They turned 1s into 2s. They ran like their lives depended on it, pushing the Sri Lankan fielders, testing their arms.
Over 15: Thisara Perera into the attack
Perera bowled short. Deva didn't pull. He rolled his wrists, keeping the ball down to deep square leg.
1 Run.
Kohli faced Perera. Full ball. Kohli drove to mid-on. The fielder fumbled slightly.
"TWO! TWO! TWO!" Deva screamed from the non-striker's end.
Kohli turned blindly, trusting the call. They made it back easily.
It was textbook cricket. No helicopter shots. No switch hits. Just straight bats, soft hands, and aggressive running.
The scoreboard ticked over slowly.
40/2... 50/2... 60/2...
The silence in the stadium began to lift. The fans realized that the collapse had stopped. The panic was being replaced by a grudging respect for the grind.
In the Commentary Box:
Gavaskar: "This is brilliant. This is what you call temperament. Deva is playing against his nature. He wants to hit, but he is curbing his instincts for the team. And Kohli is feeding off that calmness. They are rebuilding the innings brick by brick."
Shastri: "50 runs partnership comes up! It has taken 65 balls, but it is worth gold. They have weathered the storm. The ball is getting older, the dew is starting to take effect."
Over 19: Suraj Randiv to Deva
Deva was on 48. He had faced 66 balls. It was a slow innings by his standards, but perhaps his most important.
Randiv tossed it up. Deva didn't smash it. He stepped out, reached the pitch of the ball, and gently drove it past the bowler to long-off.
He jogged the single.
49... 50.
Commentary (Bhogle): "And that is a half-century for Siddanth Deva. It won't make the highlight reels like his 264, but this is an innings of pure character. 50 off 68 balls. He walked in at 0 for 1, saw Sachin fall, and stood tall."
Deva raised his bat towards the dressing room where the Indian players were watching. He raised it to the crowd, acknowledging their support.
His face was covered in sweat and grime. He looked tired, but focused.
Kohli walked up to him and punched his gloves. "Great knock, Sid. Now let's make it big."
Deva put his helmet back on. "Job's not done, Cheeku. We need a hundred more."
The score was 82/2. The target was still a distant 275. But the bleeding had stopped. The Devil and the Prince had stabilized the heart of India.
---
While the Wankhede Stadium outside was a cauldron of shifting noise—oscillating between anxious silence and roared relief—the interior of the Indian dressing room had transformed into a temple of suffocating stillness.
The air conditioning hummed a low, monotonous drone, fighting the humidity of the Mumbai night, but the air inside felt heavy, thick with the smell of sweat, leather, and unsaid prayers.
In the corner of the room, on a cushioned bench that had become the most important piece of furniture in the country, sat two men.
Sachin Tendulkar and Virender Sehwag.
To the casual observer, they looked like two exhausted athletes resting after a brief stint in the middle. But to anyone who understood the deep, terrifying neuroses of cricket, they were engaged in a spiritual warfare.
Sachin hadn't moved. Not an inch.
He was still fully padded up. The blue pads, stained with the dust of the pitch he had just left, were strapped tight to his legs. His arm guard was still on. His chest guard was still on. He hadn't even loosened the velcro straps of his gloves, which sat on his lap like the hands of a resting idol.
Beside him sat Virender Sehwag, having removed his protective gear. He was slumped, his legs stretched out, his eyes glued to the television where Siddanth Deva and Virat Kohli were currently knocking a single around.
Sehwag shifted his weight. The bench was hard. His lower back, stiff from the fielding innings, twinged. He placed his hands on his knees, preparing to stand up to grab a bottle of energy drink from the cooler three meters away.
He lifted his glutes two inches off the bench.
"Viru."
The voice was soft, but it carried the authority of a commandment. Sachin didn't turn his head. He didn't blink. He just spoke.
"Don't. Move."
Sehwag froze mid-rise. He looked at Sachin. The Master's eyes were still fixed on TV.
"Paaji," Sehwag whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "I'm just getting water. My throat is dry."
"I don't care if you are dehydrated," Sachin said, his voice flat and terrifyingly calm. "I don't care if you are hungry. Since we sat in this exact position, Deva and Cheeku haven't played a false shot. We are not moving."
Sehwag looked at the cooler. It was so close. He looked at Sachin. He looked at the TV screen. Deva played a beautiful straight drive for four.
Sehwag slowly, carefully, lowered himself back onto the bench. He folded his hands in his lap.
"Okay, Paaji," Sehwag murmured. "I'll be a statue."
At Sachin's front was his kit bag—his "coffin."
Usually, a cricketer's kit bag is a mess of gloves, grips, and tape. But Sachin's bag was organized with the precision of a surgical theater. And tonight, the lid was propped open, revealing the source of his strength.
It wasn't just bats. It was a shrine.
Taped to the inside of the lid were pictures. There was a small, laminated photo of Sathya Sai Baba, his spiritual guru. Beside it was a picture of Lord Ganesha, the remover of obstacles.
But below the gods were the mortals who made him a god.
A photograph of his wife, Anjali, smiling. A picture of a young Arjun and Sara. And tucked into the mesh pocket were two pieces of paper, creased and worn from being touched thousands of times.
They were handwritten letters from his children. "Good luck, Papa. Bring it home."
Sachin stared at the contents of the bag. He wasn't praying for himself anymore. That ship had sailed at 6.1 overs. He was praying for the transfer of luck. He was channeling every ounce of his karma, every century he had scored, every blessing he had received, and directing it towards the two young men out in the middle.
Let them play, he thought, his internal monologue a desperate mantra. Take my runs. Take my luck. Just let them stay.
He felt a twitch in his leg. A cramp. He ignored it. He didn't rub it. He didn't stretch. To move was to break the spell. To move was to invite Malinga to bowl a yorker.
While the seniors were frozen in superstition inside the room, the next generation was clustered at the gateway to the arena.
The short flight of concrete stairs leading from the dressing room to the dugout had become the vantage point for the "bench strength."
Suresh Raina, Piyush Chawla, and Ravichandran Ashwin sat on the steps, their chins resting on their knees, looking out through the grill of the tunnel like prisoners watching a jailbreak.
They were close enough to hear the roar of the crowd in stereo, but secluded enough to whisper their fears.
Raina, wearing his team bib, was chewing his fingernails. He had chewed them down to the quick.
"He's playing late," Raina whispered, analyzing Deva's technique. "Did you see that defensive push? He waited for the ball. He's not rushing."
Ashwin, the thinker, the analyst, was shaking his head, his eyes darting between the scoreboard and the field. "The required rate is creeping up, guys. It's 5.8 now. If they don't hit a boundary in the next two overs, the pressure transfer will happen."
"Chup kar, Ash (Shut up, Ash)," Piyush Chawla hissed, clutching a towel. "Don't talk about rates. Talk about wickets. If we have wickets in hand, we can burst whenever we want."
"Look at Cheeku," Raina pointed out. "He's nervous. I can tell. He's gripping the bat too hard. You see his forearms flexing? He needs to relax."
On the field, Virat Kohli defended a ball back to the bowler and took a deep breath, puffing out his cheeks.
"Deva is talking to him," Ashwin observed. "Look. Mid-pitch."
They watched as Deva walked up to Kohli, tapped his chest, and said something that made Kohli nod.
"What do you think he said?" Chawla asked.
"Probably told him that if he gets out, he'll kill him," Raina joked weakly, though nobody laughed.
The tension on the stairs was different from the dressing room. Inside, it was spiritual. Here, it was technical. They were dissecting every field change Sangakkara made.
"Slip is moving wider," Ashwin noted. "They want the drive. They are tempting Deva to drive on the up."
"Don't do it, Sid," Raina muttered under his breath, his hands gripping the railing. "Don't fall for it. Leave it."
Deva left the ball.
"Good boy," Raina exhaled. "Good boy."
Back inside, thirty minutes had passed. Sehwag was in agony. His bladder was full, his back was seizing up, and the tension was giving him a headache.
"Paaji," Sehwag tried again, whispering. "Just for a second. I'll run and come back. Same spot. I promise."
Sachin turned to him. The look in his eyes was intense enough to melt steel.
"Viru," Sachin said. "In 2003, I got out in the final. I sat in the dressing room and watched us lose. I watched the dream die. I am not watching it die again. If you move, and a wicket falls, you will not forgive yourself. And I will not forgive you."
Sehwag swallowed hard. He knew Sachin wasn't joking. The man who was usually the prankster, the gentle giant of the team, was currently in a state of trance-like rigidity.
"Fine," Sehwag said. "I'll pee in my pants if I have to."
Sachin didn't smile. He turned his gaze back to the floor. "Whatever it takes."
Outside, a roar erupted.
Both men flinched. They didn't look at the TV immediately. They waited for the commentary.
Shastri (on TV):"Glorious! Absolutely glorious! Kohli leans into it, clips it through mid-wicket! That relieves the pressure!"
Sachin exhaled. A long, shuddering breath.
"See?" Sachin whispered. "You stayed. He hit a four."
Sehwag nodded, resigned to his fate. "You are magic, Paaji. You are actual magic."
There was something mystical about the connection between the dressing room and the pitch.
Every time Deva defended, Sachin's grip on his bat handle (which he was still holding) tightened. Every time Kohli ran a quick single, the youngsters on the stairs leaned forward in unison.
They were playing the match by proxy.
Ashwin, usually a man of science and logic, found himself crossing his fingers. "I don't believe in superstitions," he muttered to Chawla. "But I'm not uncrossing these fingers until the 40th over."
"I'm wearing my left pad on my right leg," Chawla confessed. "I put it on wrong by mistake during the break, and then we started scoring. I'm not changing it."
Raina looked at them. "I'm just praying. To everyone. Hanumanji, Jesus, Allah. Anyone who is listening."
On the screen, Deva reached his 40s. The partnership crossed 60. The ship was stabilizing.
Inside the room, Sachin shifted his gaze to the photo of his children in the kit bag.
Arjun, Sara, he thought. This is for you. I couldn't do it. But my boys are doing it. Just hold on.
Sehwag watched Deva play a late cut. "He reminds me of you, Paaji," Sehwag said suddenly.
Sachin blinked. "What?"
"The way he waits," Sehwag said. "He has so much time. He plays 200 strike rate usually, but today... today he is playing like a monk. He learned that from you."
Sachin looked at the screen. He saw Deva tap the pitch, adjust his helmet, and focus. He saw the discipline.
"He is better than me," Sachin said softly.
Sehwag looked at him, shocked. "Don't say that."
"He is," Sachin insisted. "At his age? With this pressure? I was a boy. He is a man. He is carrying us, Viru."
The statue strategy was working. The crossed fingers were working. The prayers on the stairs were working.
Sachin Tendulkar, the God of Cricket, sat in his sweaty pads, watching his legacy being secured by the next generation, refusing to move a muscle, offering his stillness as a sacrifice to the cricketing gods.
Virender Sehwag sat beside him, thirsty, cramping, and desperate to move, but staying put out of love and fear.
And on the stairs, the three youngsters watched with wide eyes as Siddanth Deva and Virat Kohli turned a potential disaster into a platform for victory.
The silence in the dressing room was no longer terrifying. It was focused. It was the silence of a prayer being answered, run by single run.
---
The scoreboard read 82/2. The 20th over had just concluded. Siddanth Deva, having reached his half-century with the patience of a monk, stood at the non-striker's end. He took off his helmet, wiped his forehead with his sleeve, and drank from the water bottle Kohli handed him.
As he screwed the cap back on, something changed in his eyes. The glassy, focused stare of the consolidator vanished. The sharp, predatory glint of the destroyer returned.
He walked down the pitch to Kohli.
"Cheeku," Deva said, his voice dropping an octave. "The ball has stopped swinging. The dew is biting. The ball is like a bar of soap."
Kohli, breathing hard, nodded. "Yeah. It's sliding on nicely."
"I'm done waiting," Deva said, tapping his bat on the pitch. "Murali is coming back. I'm not letting him settle. I'm going to break the line."
Kohli looked at him, a grin spreading across his face. "Go for it. I'll hold the fort."
Over 21: Muttiah Muralitharan to Deva
The greatest spinner in history, playing his final match, trotted in. He had loop, he had drift, and he had 800 Test wickets. He bowled a flighted doosra, tempting Deva to drive.
Ball 21.1: Deva didn't drive. He danced.
He skipped three yards down the track, meeting the ball on the full. He didn't just loft it; he dissected the field. He hit it inside-out over extra cover—the most difficult shot in the book against a spinner turning it away.
CRACK.
The sound was distinct. It wasn't the polite knock of the last hour. It was violence.
Commentary (Ravi Shastri): "Oh, hello! Where did that come from? He has just caressed the magician over the ropes! Inside out, against the turn! That is the Siddanth Deva we know! He has decided it is time to shift gears!"
SIX.
The crowd, lulled into a rhythmic stupor by the singles, woke up instantly. The roar was sudden and sharp.
Ball 21.2: Murali adjusted. He fired it in flatter on the pads.
Deva was waiting. He dropped to one knee and swept it violently behind square. It was hit so hard the deep square leg fielder didn't even move.
FOUR.
Ball 21.3: Murali dragged the length back.
Deva rocked back and punched it through the covers. The timing was exquisite.
FOUR.
14 runs off the first three balls. The pressure valve had been blown off.
Sangakkara ran to the bowler. He looked worried. The stranglehold they had applied for twenty overs was evaporating in minutes.
But Deva was in a trance. The "zone" he had found in Mohali had returned. He wasn't playing the bowler; he was playing the field.
Over 24: Suraj Randiv to Deva
Randiv, the tall off-spinner, tried to bounce Deva out with a faster one.
Deva saw the length early. He didn't pull. He tennis-swatted it straight back past the bowler. It was a shot of pure arrogance.
Commentary (Sunil Gavaskar): "That is a slap! He has slapped that down the ground! The power in those forearms... my goodness. He is making the Wankhede look small. The run rate has jumped from 5.5 to 6.2 in a blink of an eye!"
Aamir Khan finally let go of his t-shirt. He jumped up, high-fiving his wife. "He's back! The monster is back!"
Vikram Deva, who had been sitting like a statue, allowed himself a smile. He nudged Arjun. "He's seeing it like a football now."
"Server load is peaking again, Uncle," Arjun laughed, checking his phone. "Every time he hits a four, Twitter crashes."
Outside the Stadium:
At the Shivaji Park screening, the mood had shifted from anxiety to delirium. A group of drummers started a beat. People were dancing on top of cars.
"Murali who? Malinga who?" a fan screamed into a TV camera. "We have the Devil!"
Deva was now batting on 78 off 80 balls. He had caught up. The strike rate was climbing. He was hitting the ball to all parts—sweeps, drives, cuts, and pulls. He was manipulating the field like a puppeteer.
While Deva was dismantling the bowling, Virat Kohli was playing the innings of his life. It wasn't flashy. It was gritty. It was mature.
He was the glue. He rotated the strike, giving Deva the hitting end. He ran hard, turning Deva's defensive pushes into tight singles.
Over 28: Nuwan Kulasekara to Kohli
Kohli was on 49. He had faced 61 balls.
Kulasekara bowled a length ball on the hips.
Kohli flicked it beautifully to deep mid-wicket. He called for two immediately.
"DO! DO! (TWO! TWO!)"
He sprinted the first one hard. He turned. He dived into the crease at the striker's end.
51 runs.
Kohli stood up. His jersey was soaked. He took off his helmet.
And then, he roared.
It was a guttural, primal scream. He punched the air. He pointed his bat to the dressing room. He pointed his bat to the crowd. He kissed the crest on his helmet.
Commentary (Harsha Bhogle): "And that is a well-deserved half-century for Virat Kohli! Cometh the hour, cometh the young man! He walked in at 31 for 2 with the weight of the world on his shoulders, and he has delivered a gem. Look at that passion! That is the fire of new India!"
Deva walked up to him and hugged him. "Brilliant, Cheeku. Brilliant. Now let's finish this."
India 140/2.
Over 29: Tillakaratne Dilshan to Kohli
Dilshan, the part-time off-spinner, came on to break the rhythm. He wasn't a big turner of the ball, but he was clever.
Ball 28.3: Dilshan bowled a slower, looping delivery. It drifted in slightly.
Kohli, perhaps a bit relaxed after his milestone, saw a scoring opportunity. He wanted to work it to the on-side for a single.
He closed the face of the bat a fraction too early.
The ball gripped the surface—just a tiny bit. It stopped on him.
Instead of going to mid-wicket, the ball popped up off the leading edge.
It flew straight back to the bowler.
Dilshan didn't have to move. He dived forward slightly, fingers pointing down, and plucked the ball inches off the turf.
Dilshan jumped up, throwing the ball in the air.
Commentary (Shastri): "OH, HE'S GONE! Against the run of play! Dilshan gets the breakthrough! Kohli tries to work it away but closes the face too early! A brilliant catch off his own bowling! A soft dismissal! Is there a twist in this tale?"
The Wankhede went mute again.
Kohli stood there, frozen. He looked at his bat. He looked at the pitch. He looked at Deva.
Deva looked back, his face unreadable, but his shoulders slumped slightly.
Kohli shook his head, cursing himself under his breath. He tucked his bat under his arm and began the walk back. The crowd applauded him—a warm, grateful applause—but the fear had returned.
Score: 143/3.
Target: 275.
Runs needed: 132 from 129 balls.
The game was balanced on a knife-edge. One more wicket, and the collapse could return.
---
MS Dhoni walked out.
He wasn't wearing his keeping pads. He was wearing batting pads. He had his helmet on.
He walked past Yuvraj. He patted Yuvraj on the shoulder.
"I'm going," Dhoni said calmly.
Yuvraj looked surprised. "You? But I'm slated at 5."
"Murali is bowling," Dhoni said, adjusting his gloves. "I play him in the nets at Chennai every day. I know his doosra. Let me handle him. You save your energy for the end."
It was a gamble. Dhoni hadn't scored runs all tournament. He was out of form. Yuvraj was in the form of his life. To promote himself in a World Cup Final was either madness or genius.
Dhoni walked to the stairs. He looked at the young players sitting there. He nodded.
Kohli crossed the boundary rope. The crowd clapped, but their eyes were glued to the tunnel. Who was coming out?
The giant screen flashed the name.
MS DHONI.
A ripple of shock went through the stadium.
Dhoni? Not Yuvraj?
But then, the shock turned into something else. Trust.
As Mahendra Singh Dhoni walked down the stairs, twirling his bat in that distinctive, helicopter-wrist motion, the sound began.
It started low, a rumble from the Garware Pavilion.
Then it spread to the North Stand.
"DHO-NI... DHO-NI..."
"DHO-NI... DHO-NI..."
"DHO-NI... DHO-NI..."
By the time he crossed the boundary rope, the Wankhede was shaking.
Commentary (Nasser Hussain): "And look at this! A surprise! The Captain promotes himself! MS Dhoni walks out ahead of the man in form, Yuvraj Singh. He is backing himself. He wants to take responsibility. Cometh the hour, cometh the captain!"
Commentary (Gavaskar): "This is a massive call. If he fails, the critics will tear him apart. But if he pulls this off... it is masterstroke. He wants to keep the left-right combination with Deva? No, wait, Deva is right-handed. He just wants to take charge."
Dhoni walked to the crease. He looked at the sky. He looked at the field.
He met Deva in the middle.
Deva looked at his captain. "Skipper? I thought Yuvi paaji was coming."
Dhoni punched Deva's glove. His face was devoid of pressure. He looked like he was about to play a gully cricket match on a Sunday afternoon.
"Yuvi is tired," Dhoni said calmly. "And Murali is on. I'll take Murali. You take the pacers. We run hard. Okay?"
Deva smiled. The calmness of the man was infectious. "Okay, Skipper."
Dhoni took his guard. Two slips in place. Muralitharan, his IPL teammate, smiling at him.
The crowd roared. The game was on. The Captain and the Devil were at the crease. 132 runs to win. A World Cup to bring home.