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October 24, 2021. Post-Match Presentation.
The roar of the Dubai International Stadium had not subsided; it had merely evolved from tension into a carnival. The Indian tricolor draped every railing, every shoulder, and every heart.
On the lush green outfield, the presentation ceremony was underway. Ian Smith, the voice of dramatic finishes, stood with the microphone, looking like he had just run a marathon himself.
Ian Smith: "I am joined by the losing captain, Babar Azam. Babar, tough one to take. You had them on the ropes at 6 for 2, then 71 for 5. Where do you think it slipped away?"
Babar Azam: (Looking dejected but gracious) "Credit to India. We bowled well in the start. Shaheen was outstanding. But the way Aarav batted... it was different class. We thought 158 was enough with our bowling attack, especially when we got the top order. But that one partnership, and especially the way he took on Haris Rauf... it changed the momentum. We will learn from this."
Ian Smith: "Thank you, Babar. Now, the winning captain, Virat Kohli. Virat, I saw you outside the dugout in the 19th over. You looked... stressed?"
Virat Kohli: (Laughing, looking relieved) "Stressed is an understatement, Ian. When Bumrah got out, I think my heart stopped for a second. But Aarav... I mean, what do you say about this guy? He came to me before that over and signaled 'calm down'. A 21-year-old telling me to calm down in a World Cup game against Pakistan! That shows his character. He is a freak. Absolute freak."
Harsha Bhogle: (Stepping in) "Aarav Pathak, Player of the Match. 98 not out off 60 balls with the combo of 2 wickets. Aarav, talk us through that last ball. Six runs needed. Imad Wasim bowling. What was the plan?"
I took the mic, still holding the stump I had uprooted. "Harsha, no plan. Just watch the ball. I knew he wouldn't bowl full because of the previous boundary. I waited for the length. Once I connected... I knew it was gone."
Harsha Bhogle: "And the no-look shot? Against Haris Rauf? That was something special."
I smirked. "Just wanted to let them know I was watching them too."
Back in the dressing room, the official broadcast cameras were off, but the BCCI social media team was live.
Suryakumar Yadav (SKY) had commandeered the microphone. He was wearing his jersey backward and sunglasses indoors.
SKY: "Hello friends, welcome to 'Chai with SKY'. Today we have a special guest. The man who eats fast bowlers for breakfast. Mr. Aarav Pathak!"
I was sitting on the massage table, trying to take off my pads, when SKY shoved the mic in my face.
SKY: "So, Aarav bhai. 152 kmph bowling. 100-meter sixes. Are you human? Or did Jadu send you?"
Before I could answer, Rishabh Pant jumped into the frame, shirtless, draping his arm around my neck.
Pant: "He is not human! Look at this!" Pant grabbed my bicep. "This is made of vibranium! He broke my hand in the Test match, now he breaks Pakistan's heart. He is a villain!"
Hardik Pandya slid into the frame from the other side, wearing a oversized gold chain.
Hardik: "Bro, forget the batting. Tell them about the gum. What flavor is it? Is it 'Magic Potion' flavor? Every time you chew, the ball goes for six."
Me: (Laughing) "It's just mint, Hardik."
SKY: "Mint? Lies! It is the gum of confidence! Okay, serious question. When Varun was running that last run... did you think he would make it?"
Me: "I thought I was going to have to kill him if he didn't."
Pant: "See! Violent! I told you!"
I snatched the mic from SKY. "Interview over! Get out!"
The camera cut as Pant tried to tackle me onto the massage table.
Outside , the scene was pandemonium. India Today reporters were trying to interview fans amidst the drumming and dancing.
Reporter: "Sir! Sir! How do you feel? India has won!"
Fan 1 (Painted in Tricolor): "Arrey mazaa aa gaya! (It was fun!) We thought we were gone! When Kohli got out, I turned off the TV! My wife turned it on again! Aarav Pathak is not a player, he is a Bahubali! Did you see that six? It went to Sharjah!"
Fan 2 (Wearing a 'Mauka Mauka' T-shirt): "Pakistan played well, really. Shaheen was scary. But we have the King! The Prince has become the King today! Give him the trophy already!"
Fan 3 (Young girl crying happy tears): "I just want to say... Aarav, marry me!"
Back in India, the news studios were in overdrive. But the most significant voice came from a calm, air-conditioned studio in Mumbai.
Sunil Gavaskar was on a live video link with a major news channel. The anchor was trying to stir the pot about the earlier criticism.
Anchor: "Sunny sir, incredible win. But I have to ask... just a week ago, legends like Kapil Dev and many in the media were saying Aarav Pathak should be dropped. They said his IPL form was terrible, that he was a liability. What do you have to say to them now?"
Sunil Gavaskar adjusted the microphone. He didn't grin; he rarely did during serious cricket talk. He leaned slightly forward, his eyes sharp with the quiet authority he's known for.
"Look," Gavaskar began, his voice calm but cutting. "I heard those comments. And frankly, I found them completely misplaced."
He paused, letting the silence travel across the studio.
"You people in the media… your memories are astonishingly short. You want to judge a player based on few T20 games in the IPL? Aarav had just finished a brutal four-Test series in England. He bowled over 100+ overs, scored hundreds. His body needed recovery. Needed recalibration."
Gavaskar lifted a finger — the classic analyst's gesture.
"He used the IPL to regain fitness. Not to chase the Orange Cap. He was preparing for the World Cup. That's what top professionals do. They build toward the moment that matters."
Anchor: "So you backed him the whole time?"
Gavaskar: "Absolutely. And let me also say this to those who questioned his place…"
He looked straight into the camera, his tone turning firmer.
"If the man doesn't light up the IPL but takes India to victory against Pakistan in a World Cup match… no one in this country has any business complaining about his franchise form. He chose country over franchise. That's character. So to the critics… watch the game a little more closely before making judgments. Tonight was a loud answer to everyone who said 'Drop Aarav.'"
Gavaskar leaned back, arms calmly folded — a veteran's version of a mic-drop.
The debate ended there. The Little Master had spoken.
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The journey from the Dubai International Stadium to the Palm Jumeirah usually takes about thirty minutes. Tonight, it felt like a voyage through a galaxy of blue flags and screaming devotion.
We boarded the team bus, exhausted but buzzing with a high that no energy drink could replicate. I took my usual window seat near the back, leaning my forehead against the cool glass. Outside, the world had gone mad.
The streets of Dubai were gridlocked. Cars were honking in a rhythmic, deafening cadence. Fans were hanging out of sunroofs, waving the Tricolor, running alongside the bus as if their lungs were made of steel.
And then, I heard it. It started as a low rumble from a group of fans near a traffic light and spread like wildfire until thousands were chanting in unison.
"Who's the finisher? - Aarav!""Who's the killer? - Aarav!""Who owns the night? - Aarav Pathak!"
The chant reverberated through the bus walls.
"Aarav! Aarav! Aarav!"
Inside the bus, Rishabh Pant started banging on the window in rhythm with the fans. Virat Kohli, sitting a few rows ahead, turned around and grinned at me.
"Hear that?" Virat shouted over the noise. "That's your new soundtrack!"
I looked out. A young boy, sitting on his father's shoulders, was holding a poster that simply read: THE PRINCE IS HERE.
I raised my hand and waved.
The roar that followed was primal. It was the sound of a nation that had found its new hero. I smiled—a tired, genuine smile—and gave them a thumbs up.
By the time we reached the hotel, the adrenaline was beginning to fade, replaced by the heavy, comforting blanket of fatigue. We danced into the lobby Pant doing Bhangra moves pulled by Arshdeep Singh.
But eventually, the party dispersed. We retreated to our rooms, the sanctuary of the bio-bubble closing around us.
I walked into my room, tossed my kit bag into the corner, and fell onto the bed. My phone, which I had ignored since the post-match presentation, was vibrating so intensely it was slowly moving across the bedside table.
I picked it up. The notifications were a blur. WhatsApp was frozen. Instagram was struggling to load.
I finally managed to open my profile.
I blinked. I rubbed my eyes and looked again.
Before the match, I had around 97 Million followers-a huge number, built over two years of IPL and international cricket. Now, the number staring back at me was surreal.
100 M.
100,000,000 Followers.
In the span of four hours, I had gained 3 million followers. The entire cricketing world, and people who didn't even watch cricket, had flocked to my page. I had crossed the milestone that only the likes of Virat Kohli and Cristiano Ronaldo inhabited.
"One hundred million," I whispered to the empty room. "That's... that's the population of a medium-sized country."
I felt a strange mix of awe and terror. The System had given me skills, and it had given me money. But this? This was influence. This was power.
I quickly tapped out a story, my hands shaking slightly. I chose a picture of me looking at the sky after the winning six.
Caption:For India. For the badge. For every single one of you screaming my name tonight. This victory belongs to us. Jai Hind. 🇮🇳 #100M #Grateful
I posted it. Within seconds, the likes counter spun so fast it looked like a slot machine.
I needed to hear a normal voice. I called home.
"Aarav!" Dad's voice cracked. "Did you see the news? They are showing your six on every channel!"
"I saw, Dad," I smiled, the tension leaving my shoulders. "Are you guys, okay?"
"We are more than okay," Mom chimed in, sounding tearful. "My phone hasn't stopped ringing. Even the Ambani called to congratulate me! Beta, you played like a tiger."
"Thanks, Ma. Go to sleep now. It's late there."
"Who can sleep?" Dad laughed. "Tonight, India is awake."
After hanging up, I freshened up and headed down the hall. I had one more stop before I could truly rest.
I knocked on Room 403.
Sachin Tendulkar opened the door. He was wearing his reading glasses and a comfortable kurta-pyjama.
"The Man of the Hour," Sachin smiled, stepping aside. "Or should I say, the Man of the Century? I saw the Instagram count."
I walked in, shaking my head. "It's crazy, Dad. I don't know how to process it."
"Don't process it yet," Sachin advised, leading me to the sofa. "Just ride the wave. But be careful. 100 million people watching means 100 million opinions when you fail. And you will fail one day."
"I know," I said. "But not today."
"No, not today," he agreed. "Today, I want to talk about your temperament. The 19th over. The dot balls against Rauf."
He leaned forward, his eyes serious.
"Most players panic after two dots in the 19th over. You... you stood up. You walked down the pitch. You reset. That shows me more than the sixes. That shows me you have the mind of a Test player in the body of a T20 beast."
"Dhoni bhai told me to control the heartbeat," I said.
"It was masterful," Sachin said. "You protected Bumrah. You calculated the risks. That is what makes a legend, Aarav. Not the shots, but the decisions."
He patted my arm. "I'm proud of you. Not just as a cricketer, but as the man you are becoming."
"Thank you, Dad."
"Now," Sachin stood up, pointing towards the balcony door where a shadow was waiting. "Go. Someone has been waiting for you."
I stepped out onto the massive balcony of the suite. The Dubai air was warm and breezy.
Shradha was standing by the railing, looking out at the ocean. She turned as she heard the door slide open.
She didn't say a word. She just opened her arms.
I walked into them, burying my face in her neck. The noise of the bus, the flash of the cameras, the 100 million followers—it all vanished.
"You did it," she whispered into my ear.
"We did it," I corrected, wrapping my arms around her waist.
"I saw the thumbs up," she pulled back, smiling, her eyes glistening. "The camera thought it was for Dad. But I knew."
"It's always for you," I said.
We sat down on the outdoor lounger. I lay back, pulling her close so her head rested on my chest. She traced patterns on my t-shirt with her finger.
"100 million followers," she mused. "That's a lot of competition."
"They are fans," I murmured, closing my eyes, feeling the exhaustion finally taking over. "You are life."
"Smooth," she chuckled. "Keep talking like that and I might actually marry you."
"I thought that was already decided?"
"I'm reviewing the application," she teased. "Today's performance earned you some bonus points."
We lay there in the silence of the 4th floor, high above the celebrating city.
"Aarav?"
"Hmm?"
"You're shaking."
"Am I?"
"Yeah. Just a little. Adrenaline crash?"
"Maybe," I said. "Or maybe I'm just realizing what happened."
"What happened?"
"I won a World Cup match against Pakistan," I whispered. "I'm 21. And I'm holding the girl of my dreams."
She kissed my cheek. "Sleep, King. You have a long tournament ahead."
And right there, under the Dubai stars, with the world screaming my name outside, I fell asleep in the only place that felt like home.
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October 31, 2021. Dubai International Stadium.
In sport, momentum is everything. We had it in buckets after the Pakistan game. We walked on air for six days. But six days is a long time in a tournament. It's enough time for the adrenaline to fade, for the muscles to cool down, and for the demons of doubt to creep back in.
It was Halloween night. And for the Indian cricket team, it turned into a horror show.
We played the same XI. Why fix what isn't broken? The strategy was the same: Attack. Dominate.
But the toss didn't go our way. Kane Williamson called it right and put us in to bat. The Dubai pitch, which had played so true the previous week, looked tired. It was tacky. It held the ball.
The innings started with a whimper, not a bang.
Trent Boult swung the new ball. Tim Southee hit the hard lengths. KL Rahul tried to impose himself early. He hit a glorious boundary, then tried to pick a length ball over square leg. He holed out to deep mid-wicket. 12 off 17 balls.
Rohit Sharma was uncharacteristically scratchy. He couldn't time the ball. The 'Hitman' was reduced to a poke-man. He tried to pull a short ball from Ish Sodhi but found the fielder. 14 off 14 balls.
Then, the heartbreaker. Virat Kohli. The King looked rusty. He couldn't find the gaps. He consumed 17 balls for just 9 runs before skying a catch off Sodhi.
India was 40/3 in 8 overs. The run rate was under 6. The dugout was silent.
I walked out at Number 4 again. But this wasn't a rescue mission like the Pakistan game; this was a salvage operation on a sinking ship.
The pitch was a nightmare. The ball stopped on you. Spinners Ish Sodhi and Mitchell Santner strangled us. They bowled slow, wide, and unpredictable.
I battled. I didn't flow; I fought. I swept Santner. I reverse-swept Sodhi. I ran doubles that should have been singles. While wickets fell around me—Pant for 12, Hardik for 23—I anchored and Surya for 0.
I reached my 50 with a slog sweep over mid-wicket. It was a lonely milestone. I finished on 53. India crawled to 139/7 in 20 overs.
In the dressing room during the break, the mood was grim. 139 was 40 runs short.
"We need wickets," Virat said, staring at the floor. "Early. Lots of them."
We needed a miracle. And for the first twenty minutes, it looked like I might provide one.
I took the new ball. Viv Richards Aura: Maximum Aggression.
Over 1: Martin Guptill was on strike. He looked to attack. I bowled a length ball that stopped on him. He chipped it. Straight to Jadeja at mid-on. Martin Guptill c Jadeja b Aarav 5.
NZ: 10/1.
The crowd roared. Hope flickered.
Over 3: Daryl Mitchell was the new man. He tried to drive. I bowled a cutter at 140kmph. Edge. Pant dived to his right. A stunner. Daryl Mitchell c Pant b Aarav 8.
New Zealand: 25/2.
I had taken two wickets in my first two overs. I roared at the crowd, trying to ignite the fire. I looked at Kane Williamson walking out. I can do this. I can defend 139.
But Kane Williamson is the iceberg to every Titanic.
Williamson didn't panic. He didn't try to hit me. He just defended. He killed the swing. He killed the pace. He killed the mood.
He partnered with Devon Conway. They didn't hit boundaries. They ran ones and twos. They waited for the spinners. When Varun Chakravarthy came on, Conway swept him. When Jadeja came on, Williamson worked him into the gaps.
The partnership grew. 30 runs. 50 runs. The required rate dropped.
I came back for my second spell in the 10th over. Conway finally fell to a mistimed shot off Aarav, but the damage was done.
Glenn Phillips walked out. And then, the floodgates opened.
Phillips and Williamson decided to end it. They targeted our pacers. Bhuvi went for runs. Bumrah went for runs. I tried a yorker to Phillips. He scooped it. I tried a bouncer. Williamson pulled it along the ground for four.
They weren't just winning; they were rushing. They knew Net Run Rate mattered.
James Neesham came in towards the end to apply the finishing touches. He hit two massive sixes.
16.2 Overs. Williamson guided a single to third man.
New Zealand Won by 8 Wickets.
The stadium was emptying before the players even shook hands. The Indian fans were leaving in droves, heads down, flags rolled up.
I stood on the pitch, looking at the scoreboard. India: 139/7.New Zealand: 140/2 (16.2 Overs).
We had been hammered. Not just beaten, but dismantled. Our Net Run Rate, which was already less, had plunged into the negative.
That number was a death sentence.
I walked back to the dressing room. There were no interviews today. No laughter. No "Chai with SKY." Just the suffocating silence of a team.
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