The stillness that follows a historic victory is often louder than the roar that accompanies it. But at Lord's Cricket Ground on that Sunday evening, the roar never truly died; it merely changed texture. It shifted from the sharp, anxious spikes of the match to a rolling, rhythmic thunder of celebration that echoed off the Victorian pavilion and spilled out into the streets of St. John's Wood.
The match was over. The scorecard—a preposterous, video-game reality of India 305/3, Pakistan 85 all out—was etched onto the giant screens, a digital monument to total dominance.
Siddanth Deva sat on the outfield grass watching the chaos around him with a serene, almost detached smile. The 100% Form Card had faded, leaving his body heavy with a pleasant, bone-deep exhaustion, but his mind was crystal clear.
Around him, the Indian team was a carnival. Yuvraj Singh was trying to wrestle Harbhajan Singh to the ground. Pragnyan Ojha was sprinting in circles with a stump in his hand, screaming at the sky. Rohit Sharma was lying flat on his back, staring up at the floodlights, laughing uncontrollably.
They were waiting. The stage was being set up on the square—a podium of white and blue, flanked by fireworks and the gleaming, silver ICC World Twenty20 trophy.
"Get up, Legend," Suresh Raina said, pulling Siddanth to his feet. "Time to get some gold."
The Presentation Ceremony
Ravi Shastri, his voice hoarse from shouting but his spirit indefatigable, stood at the podium. The presentation party, consisting of ICC dignitaries and BCCI officials, stood in a line, looking suitably impressed.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," Shastri boomed, "Please put your hands together for the runners-up, Pakistan."
The Pakistani team walked up. Younis Khan, their captain, led them with dignity, but the pain was evident. They accepted their silver medals with polite nods, the weight of the 220-run defeat heavy around their necks. They had run into a hurricane, and there was no shame in being blown away by nature.
Then, the mood shifted. The drums in the crowd beat faster.
"And now," Shastri announced, "The Champions! Team India!"
The roar was deafening. The Indian team walked up the steps, high-fiving the kids lining the red carpet.
They received their gold medals. Siddanth bowed his head as the heavy medal was placed around his neck. It felt warm against his skin. It felt real. The IPL medal was special, but this... this was for the country.
Then came the individual awards.
Shastri: "There was never any doubt about this one. For a performance that defies logic. 188 runs. A hat-trick. The Man of the Match... Siddanth Deva!"
Siddanth stepped forward again. He accepted the trophy, a crystal cricket player. The crowd chanted his name.
Shastri: "And, for scoring over 448 runs in the tournament, and taking 15 wickets... the Player of the Series... Siddanth Deva!"
Another trophy. Another cheque. Siddanth was running out of hands. He handed the Man of the Match trophy to Ojah, who held it up triumphantly.
Then, the moment arrived. The one every cricketer dreams of.
Shastri: "I call upon the captain of the Indian Team... Mahendra Singh Dhoni!"
Dhoni walked up the steps. He was calm, cool, collected. He shook hands with the ICC President. He shook hands with the sponsors. He smiled for the cameras.
He took the trophy.
It was silver, sleek, and beautiful.
Dhoni turned around. He walked towards his team, who were huddled behind a board that read "ICC WORLD T20 CHAMPIONS 2009".
As he approached the group, Dhoni didn't lift it immediately. He walked into the center of the scrum, bent his knees slightly, lowering the trophy towards the ground, teasing the moment.
The team crouched with him, a coiled spring of energy.
Dhoni waited. He looked at the cameras. He looked at his boys.
Then, with a primal shout, he exploded upwards.
He thrust the trophy into the night sky.
"YEEEEAAAHHHHH!"
The stadium detonated. Pyrotechnics fired from the roof of the stands, showering the team in gold confetti. The team jumped in unison, a single, joyous organism. Siddanth felt hands grabbing him, someone ruffling his hair, the cold touch of the trophy as it was passed around.
They posed for the official photograph behind the Champions board. Dhoni sat in the front with the trophy. Siddanth stood right behind him, his arm draped over Rohit's shoulder, the gold medal gleaming on his chest. It was the picture that would be on every newspaper front page in India the next morning.
---
After the formal photos, the team broke formation. It was time for the chaos. Players were grabbing the trophy for individual photos. Harbhajan kissed it. Yuvraj posed with it like a rockstar.
RP Singh was holding it, taking a selfie with his digital camera. He finished, looked around, and saw Siddanth standing slightly apart, watching the crowd.
"Sid!" RP called out. "Your turn. You won this for us."
He walked over and placed the trophy in Siddanth's hands.
It was heavier than he expected.
Siddanth looked at the trophy. He looked at the engraving. India.
He looked up at the stands. The Bharat Army was massed near the boundary rope at the Nursery End. They were screaming, waving flags, beating drums. They had traveled thousands of miles. They had spent their savings. They had prayed.
Siddanth made a decision.
He gestured to the official cameraman, a burly guy with a steady-cam. "Follow me," Siddanth mouthed.
He started walking towards the fans.
He walked across the lush green outfield, the trophy held loosely in one hand. As he got closer to the boundary, the noise intensified. The fans realized he was coming to them. They surged against the advertising hoardings, a wave of blue jerseys and painted faces.
Siddanth stopped about five feet from the hoardings. The cameraman was right behind him, capturing the sea of faces—men, women, children, grandparents—all united in ecstasy.
Siddanth turned his back to the fans, facing the camera, so the crowd was his backdrop.
He crouched down, placing the trophy on the grass for a split second.
He took a deep breath.
He grabbed the handles.
He let the momentum build, the roar behind him rising to a crescendo.
Then, he lifted it.
He hoisted the World Cup high above his head, arching his back, screaming at the lens.
Behind him, a thousand hands went up in unison, cheering, screaming, crying. It was a photo of pure, unadulterated connection. The Hero and his People.
He lowered the trophy and turned around to face them.
He walked right up to the hoarding.
"Thank you!" he shouted. "This is for you!"
He held the trophy out.
Hundreds of hands reached out. They didn't grab; they touched. They brushed their fingertips against the silver, as if it were a holy relic. A father lifted his young daughter up so she could touch the handle. An old man, weeping, just touched Siddanth's hand.
Siddanth shook hands. He high-fived. He let them touch the Cup.
For that moment, the barrier between player and fan vanished. They were all just Indians, celebrating a conquest.
"Sid-du! Sid-du! Sid-du!"
The chant was deafening. Siddanth smiled, tapping his heart, and slowly backed away.
"Thank you," he mouthed again.
He turned and jogged back towards the center, the trophy cradled in his arm like a football.
Pragyan Ojha was waiting for him.
"My turn, superstar," Ojha grinned.
Siddanth handed it over. "All yours, Ojhy."
---
The team began the Victory Lap.
Siddanth walked with them. Someone had draped a large Indian Tricolor over his shoulders. He held the corners, letting it billow in the wind like a cape.
They walked past the Tavern Stand, past the Grandstand, acknowledging the cheers. They were the kings of the world.
As they neared the commentary box end, a figure in a suit stepped onto the grass, microphone in hand.
It was the Little Master, Sunil Gavaskar.
He waved at Siddanth.
"Siddanth! A moment!"
Siddanth jogged over, the flag still around his shoulders.
Gavaskar, a man who rarely showed excessive emotion, was beaming. He looked at Siddanth with the pride of a grandfather.
"Many, many congratulations, Siddanth," Gavaskar said, shaking his hand warmly. "What a day for India. What a day for you."
"Thank you, sir," Siddanth said, catching his breath. "It's... it's incredible."
"Tell me," Gavaskar asked, bringing the mic close. "How are you feeling right now? You have the flag on your shoulders, you have the medals around your neck... describe the emotion."
Siddanth looked around the stadium, drinking it in.
"I'm feeling over the moon, sir. Honestly. To win a World Cup at Lord's... It's the dream of every cricketer. But to do it with this team, with these guys... It's just special. I don't think it has sunk in yet."
Gavaskar nodded. "I want to take you back to the start of the match. First over. Gautam Gambhir gets out for a duck. You are walking out to bat in a World Cup Final against Pakistan. The pressure must have been immense. What was going through your mind at that specific moment?"
Siddanth paused.
"Honestly, sir, I didn't think of Gambhir bhai's wicket much," Siddanth said, his voice steady. "In a final, things happen. If you focus on the bad things, you freeze. I just cleared my mind. I told myself to play my game. To watch the ball, not the occasion."
"I just thought... I will do my best, and let God decide my future. I believe in hard work, but I also believe in god. And I think God has seen my efforts, seen the practice, seen the journey to reach this place. And today... I think He gave me a little boost. He gave me the strength to play those shots."
Gavaskar smiled, his eyes twinkling. It was a humble, perfect answer.
"Well," Gavaskar chuckled into the mic. "All I say is, let God give you a boost like this in every game, and India will never know of a loss! If that was a 'little boost', I'd hate to see what a big one looks like!"
Siddanth laughed.
"Siddanth," Gavaskar said, wrapping up. "The whole of India is watching. Your parents are watching in Hyderabad. Any words for them?"
Siddanth looked into the camera lens. The playful glint returned to his eyes.
"Mom, Dad... I am a Champion."
He paused, grinning.
"And Mom... I am eating well. Don't worry about the diet. I'll be home for the kheer soon."
Gavaskar burst out laughing. "There you have it! A Champion who eats well! Go join your team, son. You've earned it."