The Boeing 777, chartered specially for the Champions, banked over the Arabian Sea. Below, the city of Mumbai shimmered like a vast, electric circuit board, its veins of traffic pulsing with a frenetic energy that defied the hour. It was 8:00 AM, and the city was waiting.
Inside the cabin, the "Fasten Seatbelt" sign chimed, but nobody sat down.
The pilot's voice crackled over the PA system. He didn't sound like a captain; he sounded like a fanboy.
"Ladies and gentlemen, World Champions. Welcome home. If you look out of your windows on the left... well, I don't think Mumbai has gone to work today. They are all waiting for you."
Siddanth Deva leaned across Rohit Sharma to look out the window.
His breath hitched.
The approach to Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj International Airport wasn't just a runway; it was a canyon of humanity. The roads leading to the terminal were gridlocked. Even from 2,000 feet, he could see the blue specks. Thousands of them.
"Look at that," Rohit whispered, pressing his forehead against the glass. "That's my city. That's my home."
"They're going to eat us alive," Siddanth murmured, half-joking, half-terrified.
The plane touched down.
The doors opened.
The noise hit them before the humidity did. It was a roar—a deep, guttural vibration that shook the airbridge.
MS Dhoni, holding the trophy, stepped out first.
The roar turned into a sonic boom.
"IN-DI-A! IN-DI-A!"
Siddanth walked out behind Yuvraj. The flashbulbs were blinding. He waved, and the section of the crowd visible through the terminal glass went hysterical. He saw a massive banner:
"WELCOME HOME, DEVIL!"
He smiled. The moniker had traveled fast.
It took them two hours to clear immigration—not because of paperwork, but because every officer, cleaner, and baggage handler wanted a photo.
"Look at that," Suresh Raina whispered, pressing his face against the glass.
Beyond the perimeter fence, thousands of people were gathered. Flags, flares, drums. Even from inside the pressurized cabin, the vibration of the crowd was palpable.
MS Dhoni stood up. He retrieved the silver trophy wrapped in a protective cloth. He unwrapped it. It gleamed under the lights.
"Ready?" he asked, looking back at his team.
"Ready," the chorus replied.
The door opened. The humid, salty air of Mumbai rushed in, carrying with it a roar that sounded like a jet engine taking off.
Dhoni stepped out. He held the trophy aloft.
The roar intensified. It wasn't just noise; it was a physical force. Flashbulbs popped in a blinding stroboscopic wave.
Behind him, Siddanth Deva stepped out, shielding his eyes not from the sun, but from the sheer intensity of the reception. He wore his team polo, the gold medal around his neck, and a smile that he couldn't scrub off if he tried.
They boarded the luxury bus waiting on the tarmac. The drive to the Taj Lands End hotel, usually a twenty-minute affair at this hour, took two hours.
Every flyover, every junction, every street corner was lined with fans. People were standing on car roofs, hanging out of auto-rickshaws, waving tricolors. They banged on the side of the bus, chanting names.
"MA-HI! MA-HI!"
"DEV-A! DEV-A!"
"YU-VI! YU-VI!"
Siddanth sat by the window, waving until his arm ached. He looked at Jadeja, who was filming everything on a handycam, his eyes wide with wonder.
"This is insane," Jadeja yelled over the noise. "This is actually insane."
"Welcome to India, Jaddu," Siddanth laughed. "This is what we play for."
---
The next morning, the team gathered in the Grand Ballroom of the Taj. The adrenaline of the arrival had been replaced by the pleasant fatigue of victory. They were dressed in formal team blazers.
The BCCI President, Shashank Manohar, stood at the podium. Beside him was the Secretary, N. Srinivasan.
The atmosphere was celebratory, but with that specific, focused energy that comes when large sums of money are about to be discussed.
"Gentlemen," Mr. Manohar began, "You have not just won a cup; you have lifted the spirits of a nation. You gave us joy."
He paused for applause.
"As a token of our appreciation, the BCCI is pleased to announce a cash reward."
"For every member of the playing squad, a reward of 50 Lakh Rupees and support staff a reward of 20 Lakh Rupees."
The room erupted. In 2009, 50 Lakhs was a significant sum. For the younger players like Jadeja and Ojha, it was life-changing.
Yuvraj Singh whistled loudly. "Dinner is on everyone tonight!"
"However," Mr. Manohar continued, raising a hand. "There was one performance that stood out. A performance that the world is calling 'The Miracle of Lord's'. For scoring 188 runs in the final, for taking a hat-trick to seal the win, and for being the Player of the Series..."
He looked directly at Siddanth.
"The BCCI is awarding a special bonus of 1 Crore Rupees to Siddanth Deva."
The team went berserk.
Rohit Sharma grabbed Siddanth by the shoulders and shook him. "One crore! You a crorepathi!!"
Harbhajan Singh started chanting, "Treat! Treat! Treat!"
Siddanth walked up to the podium to accept the symbolic giant cheque. He shook hands with the President.
To the room, he just smiled humbly. "Thank you, sir. I'll... I'll try not to spend it all in one place."
"Spend it on batting coaching!" Yuvraj heckled from the back. "You only scored 188! Aim for 200 next time!"
---
The afternoon sun was blazing, but Mumbai didn't care.
The team boarded the open-top BEST bus outside the NCPA (National Centre for the Performing Arts). The bus was painted in India blue, with CHAMPIONS OF THE WORLD emblazoned on the side.
As the bus turned onto Marine Drive, the "Queen's Necklace," the newcomers gasped.
It wasn't a road anymore. It was a river of humanity.
From Nariman Point to Girgaum Chowpatty, the entire stretch was packed. A sea of blue jerseys, tricolors, and faces. There were people hanging from trees, people on the terraces of the Art Deco buildings, people perched on billboards.
The bus moved at a snail's pace.
Harbhajan Singh, never one to miss a party, had somehow acquired a megaphone.
"MUMBAI!" he screamed into it. "ARE YOU READY?"
The answering roar was so loud it vibrated the floorboards of the bus.
Bhajji started dancing. He pulled Gary Kirsten, the calm, composed South African coach, into the center.
"Dance, Gary! Dance!" Bhajji yelled.
Kirsten, blushing furiously, did a little awkward shuffle. The crowd loved it.
As the bus passed the Intercontinental Hotel, the fans were close enough to throw things. Flowers, caps, letters.
A particularly enthusiastic fan wound up and threw a massive, heavy marigold garland.
He was aiming for MS Dhoni, who was standing at the front railing, waving.
Dhoni, displaying his legendary reflexes, ducked instinctively to avoid a flying cap.
The garland sailed over him and landed with a wet thwack around the neck of Suresh Raina, who was standing behind him, drinking water.
Raina spluttered, water going everywhere, suddenly looking like a groom at a wedding.
"Congratulations, Suresh!" Yuvraj shouted, grabbing the microphone. "When is the honeymoon?"
Raina ripped the garland off, laughing. "I'm already married to this team, Yuvi-pa! Leave me alone!"
At the back of the bus, Siddanth and Rohit were waving to the fans.
A young boy in the crowd, sitting on his father's shoulders, threw a yellow tennis ball towards the bus. He put his whole heart into the throw.
The ball arched through the air.
Siddanth, leaning casually against the railing, didn't even look. His Reflexes kicked in. He snatched the ball out of the air one-handed, inches from Rohit's face.
The section of the crowd that saw it cheered wildly.
Siddanth grinned. He pulled a marker from his pocket, signed the ball, and tossed it back. It landed perfectly in the boy's hands.
"Show off," Rohit muttered.
"It's called fielding, Ro," Siddanth teased. "You should try it."
"Oh yeah?" Rohit grabbed a wristband he was wearing. "Watch this."
He tried to throw it to a girl who was screaming his name. He aimed. He threw.
But the sea breeze off the Arabian Sea was strong. The light wristband caught the wind, did a U-turn mid-air, and blew right back into the bus, landing on Zaheer Khan's head.
Zaheer picked it up. "Nice throw, Rohit. You almost hit the Arabian Sea. In the wrong direction."
Siddanth burst out laughing. "Strong arm, Hitman. Very strong."
---
Rajdeep Sardesai, who was on the bus with a camera crew, managed to corner MS Dhoni near the front. The noise was deafening, so they had to shout.
Rajdeep: "MS! Look at this! Have you ever seen anything like this?"
Dhoni looked out at the ocean of people. He took off his sunglasses. His eyes were crinkled with a genuine, overwhelming emotion.
"It's... it's unbelievable, Rajdeep. We expected a welcome, but this? This is something else."
Rajdeep: "You've won in South Africa. You've won in England. But bringing the cup home to Mumbai... how does it compare?"
"Mumbai never sleeps," Dhoni said, a smile playing on his lips. "But today... I think they woke up the whole world. You play for this. You play for the people who save money to buy a ticket, who stand in the sun for hours just to wave at us. This trophy isn't ours. It's theirs."
Rajdeep: "The team looks so united. The youngsters—Siddanth, Rohit, Raina, Jadeja—they've stepped up."
"That's the key," Dhoni nodded. "The new generation. They are fearless. You saw Siddanth in the final. You saw Rohit in the league stages. They don't carry the baggage of the past. They just see the ball and hit it. My job is just to let them play. When you have guys like that, captaincy becomes easy."
Rajdeep: "Enjoy the moment, Captain. You've earned it."
---
The bus finally crawled into the Wankhede Stadium. The stands were full. 30,000 people had been waiting for hours just to see the bus enter the ground.
As the team disembarked and walked a lap of honor, the song Chak De! India blasted from the speakers.
Siddanth walked with the flag draped over his shoulders again. He felt the vibration of the ground.
He looked at the faces in the crowd.
They were just happy.
And he had helped do that.
He stopped near the North Stand. He saw a teenage boy waving a poster. The poster was a hand-drawn picture of Siddanth doing the salute.
Siddanth walked over. He took off his India cap—the one he had worn during the final.
He tossed it to the teenager.
The teenager caught it, pressing it to his chest, and shouting his name.
Siddanth turned back to the team.
He walked towards the podium where the rest of the team was gathering for the final felicitation.
He looked at the sky. The sun was setting, turning the Mumbai smog into a hazy, golden halo.
This is just the beginning, he thought. 2011 is coming home too.
He jogged to catch up with Rohit, who was struggling to open a bottle of champagne.
"Here," Siddanth laughed, taking the bottle and popping it effortlessly.
"Show off," Rohit grinned.
"Champion," Siddanth corrected.
They raised a toast to the city of dreams. The Blue Storm had come home.