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The evening light was dying slowly behind the Lord's Pavilion — gold fading into a heavy bruise of cloud. You could almost hear the sky breathe before the rain. The ground shimmered with the memory of sunlight, but the air was sharp, cold, almost metallic. It smelled of grass, sweat, and history.
Every seat in the grandstand was filled, every flag trembling in a breeze that whispered of destiny and dread. This wasn't just a match anymore. It was judgement day — for Kohli's India, for Williamson's calm empire, for the dream of being the first World Test Champions.
In the commentary box, voices warred softly against the hum of the crowd.
Gavaskar: "This is the ultimate test, Nasser — literally and emotionally. 370... if India chase this, they'll write their names into eternity."
Hussain: "They'll have to walk through fire for it, Sunny. Boult, Southee, Jamieson under a leaden sky — this is a graveyard for batting."
Kohli stood in the players' tunnel, eyes locked on the patch of light beyond. His face was carved from stone; his pulse was not. Behind him, the men were silent. Pads creaked, gloves tightened. Rohit and Gill adjusted their helmets, faces calm but hearts racing. Kohli gathered them in a huddle — brief, fierce.
"Play every ball like it's your last. No fear. No regret."
And then, like soldiers walking into dusk, they stepped out.
The sound hit them first — a roar, deep and alive. Tricolours waved in clusters, the faint murmur of "Jeetega bhai jeetega…" mixing with English chants echoing off the brick. The air carried electricity and prayer.
Rohit Sharma and Shubman Gill walked to the middle, two silhouettes under flickering floodlights. Cameras clicked. The Lord's clock ticked toward 4:00 PM. The clouds pressed lower, darker.
Isa Guha's voice rose softly through the broadcast feed:Isa: "There's a chill in the air, the lights are on — it doesn't get more dramatic than this."
Trent Boult stood at the top of his mark, the new ball gleaming white. His run-up was smooth, rhythmic, almost cruelly calm. The first delivery — full, hooping in — met Gill's hurried bat. Thwack! The ball seared past mid-on. No run. Just a heartbeat.
Second ball — late swing again, harder, deeper. Gill prodded. Missed. The seam hissed. The crowd gasped.
At the non-striker's end, Rohit adjusted his gloves and muttered, "It's jagging miles, Shubman. Watch it."
The game had teeth now.
The fourth over brought silence — that sharp, echoing kind. Southee pitched one just outside leg, Gill tried to flick, missed. The appeal was deafening. Finger up.
Gill stood frozen, bat still in hand. The replay on the big screen showed the ball brushing leg stump — umpire's call. The crowd erupted. Indian fans buried their faces.
Hussain: "Oh, that's heartbreak at Lord's! Shubman Gill goes for 12 — a seed from Southee."Gavaskar: "These are the moments that crush a young heart, but that's Test cricket for you."
Number 3.Aarav Pathak.
The youngest in the XI, eyes still learning what pressure does to men. As he stepped out, the English fans jeered faintly — polite cruelty. He ignored it, walking through the chill like through fog.
Gavaskar: "He's one of the youngest on this stage… and tonight, he faces a trial no textbook can teach."
Next over — Boult again. Seam upright, swing away. Rohit leaned forward, too far. Edge. The sound was unmistakable — the whisper of doom. Watling dove, the ball stuck.
Caught behind. Rohit gone for 16.
Boult didn't celebrate loudly; he just smiled, that slow assassin's smile. Kohli, watching from the dressing room balcony, closed his eyes, jaw tightening.
Hussain: "That's the sound of heartbreak at Lord's!"
Two down. The crowd shifted from hope to disbelief. Somewhere, the echo of Indian drums faded into silence.
Aarav took guard. His heart was a drum in his chest. He breathed once, twice. The ball gleamed. Boult steamed in.
Thud!Block.Thwack!Block.Twenty balls. Zero runs. The scoreboard unchanged, but every dot ball was a war won in silence.
Jamieson replaced Southee, taller, meaner, fresher. His first ball seamed away. Aarav's bat followed the movement, and for a fraction of a second — the edge quivered. Missed by a breath.
Kohli, now at the other end, tried to shift the pressure. Drove one through covers. Four. The Indian flags flickered alive again. But only for a moment.
Jamieson angled one fuller — Kohli poked — faint edge, gone.
The crowd gasped. Pant's gloves slapped the rail in the dressing room. Kohli walked back, eight runs and a storm on his face.
In the box, Isa Guha whispered, "You can almost feel the weight of history pressing on these men."
The score read 41 for 3. Aarav looked up at the sky. Clouds thickened; the air felt heavier. The ball kept moving, unpredictably. Every delivery had a secret.
"If I can't score, I'll survive," he whispered to himself. "If I can't dominate, I'll endure."
He left, blocked, defended. Every strike of the ball on bat echoed like a heartbeat in the silence between roars. The New Zealand slips stood close, whispering to him, taunting: "Still 0, mate? Still nothing?"
He ignored them. Just watched. Just survived.
Karthik: "He's showing character. This is what temperament looks like. It's not about runs right now — it's about defiance."
The minutes crawled. The crowd murmured like a tide. Every sound — the thud of the ball in the gloves, the rattle of the stumps after dead balls, the murmur of rain beginning — was amplified in the cold twilight.
Aarav faced seventy balls for five runs. His hands were numb, his breath clouded. He wasn't batting anymore — he was enduring.
At one point, between overs, Kohli's voice echoed from the balcony: "Stay there, Aarav! Stay bloody there!"
He nodded faintly without looking back. He would.
When the umpires finally lifted the bails, the score stood still: India 45 for 3.The drizzle had thickened into mist. The floodlights hummed like ghosts.
The crowd began to thin, slow and solemn. The Indian section was silent except for a few chants — brave but tired. The Kiwi fans clapped respectfully.
Kohli walked out to meet Aarav halfway back. Aarav's bats touched the turf as if dragging weight with them.
As they crossed the rope, Aarav turned one last time toward the pitch. The lights blurred in the drizzle. His reflection stared back from the scoreboard glass: A. Pathak — 5 (70).
He clenched his gloves tighter. "Tomorrow," he whispered, "Lord's will remember my name."
Gavaskar (softly): "This game has a cruel way of testing your patience before rewarding your courage."Hussain: "Tomorrow — the Reserve Day — could be a coronation or a collapse. But somewhere in that dressing room, there's still fire burning."
As the cameras faded out, the last frame caught Aarav walking through the long corridor of Lord's — bat tucked under his arm, water dripping from the brim of his helmet, eyes fixed ahead.
In the silence that followed, his thought echoed like a promise to the night:
"If destiny wants a hero, it will find me at Lord's tomorrow."
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The dressing room at Lord's was quiet.
Too quiet.
The sound of the crowd outside had faded into a distant hum, the echo of applause now just a ghost whispering through the old wooden corridors of the pavilion. The players sat scattered — some with heads down, others staring blankly at their pads or the floor, replaying every mistake, every false stroke, every "what if."
The scorecard still glowed on the screen in front of them:
India 45/3, chasing 370.
Stumps on Day 5.
Rishabh Pant leaned back against the bench, fidgeting with his gloves. He looked around the silent room — at Kohli, staring at the floor; at Gill, arms folded, lost in thought; at Aarav, still padded up, his shirt stained with sweat and mud. Finally, Pant broke the silence.
"Are we…" he began hesitantly, his voice low but sharp in the still air, "are we playing tomorrow for a draw? I mean… 325 runs, 90 overs… seven wickets left. Do we just… survive?"
His words hung in the air like smoke.
No one answered.
Gill shifted uncomfortably on the bench. He didn't look up, but Aarav noticed the faint sadness in his expression — a flicker of doubt, buried under a mask of calm.
Before Aarav could say anything, Ravi Shastri, sitting near the corner with arms folded and a towel draped around his neck, spoke up — his tone deep, gruff, and fiery as ever.
"Let this shit happen," he said, voice echoing through the room. "We don't play for draws. Not this team. Not here. We play to win — to dominate. If we lose, we lose swinging. But we don't play like cowards."
Heads turned toward him. Even the staff standing near the doorway straightened up.
Kohli raised his eyes — sharp, glowing under the pale dressing-room light. He stood, stretched his shoulders, and looked around the room, every step echoing against the wooden floorboards.
"We're not here to defend a story," Kohli said. "We're here to write one."
He paused, scanning the room — his gaze falling on each player one by one.
"Seven wickets. Ninety overs. Three hundred and twenty-five runs. And a bloody chance to be world champions."
His voice rose, fueled by defiance and something deeper — belief.
"Tomorrow, we go out there to win. Not because it's easy. Because that's who we are. We're India. We don't crumble. We fight. Always."
The room stirred — quiet nods, clenched fists, shifting shoulders. Energy began to pulse through the silence again.
Then Aarav stood up.
He was still wearing his pads. Sweat glistened on his temple, his eyes burning not with fatigue, but fire.
"I'm not out," he said, voice calm but cutting through the air like a blade.
"And I'm saying this now — tomorrow you'll see me as someone new. I'm not here to block for a draw. I'm here to win. Even if I have to do it alone."
He looked at each of them — Kohli, Gill, Rahane, Pant.
"Tomorrow, India will be the first World Test Champion. Mark my words."
No one spoke for a moment. The air itself seemed to vibrate.
Then Kohli smiled — that fierce, almost reckless smile of his — and clapped Aarav's shoulder hard.
"That's the spirit, champ," he said. "That's exactly the fire we need."
Around them, the tension broke — replaced by murmurs, half-laughs, the sound of gloves snapping shut and bats being tapped against the floor.
The mood was shifting.
For the first time that day, they believed again.
Later that Night
The meeting ended, but the heaviness didn't vanish entirely.
Players drifted away — some towards the showers, some toward the massage tables, some lost in their own quiet corners.
Outside, the drizzle had turned into a soft rain. Lord's looked hauntingly beautiful under the floodlights — the pitch covered, the grass shining like emerald beneath the misty glow. The sound of raindrops against the roof blended with distant cheers from the lingering crowd.
Gill stepped out first, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, head slightly down.
Aarav followed a few minutes later, tugging his hoodie tighter against the cold.
He found Gill standing near the boundary rail, staring at the empty pitch. The Lord's outfield stretched before them — endless and quiet, the kind of silence that only follows a storm.
Aarav walked up beside him. For a while, neither spoke. The wind carried faint echoes of "Indiaaa… Indiaaa…" from somewhere far away.
Finally, Aarav asked softly, "What's on your mind?"
Gill smiled faintly, eyes still on the pitch. "You really need to ask?"
Aarav waited.
Gill sighed. "I don't think I'm doing justice to the chances I'm getting," he said, his voice trembling slightly despite the calm. "Look at this match. The first final of our careers, and I've barely scored anything. Every time I walk in, it feels like I'm already carrying disappointment."
He paused, clenching his jaw.
"And then there's you — you scored a century in the first innings, took six wickets too. Everyone's talking about you. You're leading this whole comeback."
Aarav frowned slightly. "And that makes you think you're not good enough?"
Gill gave a small, humourless laugh. "Feels like it."
Aarav looked out over the pitch — the covers glistening under the lights, the grand pavilion standing tall behind them. "You know something?" he said quietly. "When I first came here, when they told me I'd play this final… I thought I didn't deserve it either. I thought I was too young, too raw as I was in place of pujji bhaiya. But cricket doesn't care about age or fear. It only listens to courage."
Gill turned toward him, listening.
"You're an amazing player, Shubman," Aarav continued. "You've got timing, patience, and the kind of composure that only the greats have. Don't sell yourself short because of one match. This is just one story in a long book. Practice more. Be patient. You have your whole career ahead."
Gill said nothing for a while. His expression softened, the weight in his eyes easing slightly. Aarav smiled faintly.
"And tomorrow," Aarav said, his tone firmer now, "I want you to be the first one to celebrate when we win this final. I mean it."
Gill's lips curled into a half-smile. "You really think we can pull it off?"
Aarav looked at the dark sky. "I don't think," he said. "I know."
The rain began to fall harder. The wind carried the smell of wet earth, the lights from the pavilion flickering through the drizzle. Both of them stood there, soaking quietly in the moment — two young men, holding the fragile weight of a billion hopes.
Somewhere inside the pavilion, the faint notes of laughter and chatter started again — the team loosening up after hours of silence. The night wasn't joyful, but it was no longer hopeless either.
Back at the team hotel, the players gathered for a late meal. The dining hall overlooked the Thames — its surface rippling under the moonlight.
Plates clinked, cutlery moved, but the talk was low, mostly whispers. Everyone was tired — drained by the weight of the day and the thought of tomorrow.
Kohli sat at one end of the long table, speaking quietly with Shastri and Ashwin. Rohit was scrolling through photos on his phone, occasionally smiling. Pant was teasing Bumrah about his batting stance.
But Aarav wasn't eating. He sat with a notebook open, jotting something down — words that only he could read.
On the page were small phrases: Patience. Precision. Fearless. Dawn.
Shastri noticed him and smiled faintly. "You planning tomorrow's press conference already?"
Aarav looked up, smirking. "Just making sure I remember what I'm fighting for."
Shastri nodded approvingly. "Good. Because tomorrow, it won't be about talent or technique. It'll be about heart."
Kohli raised his glass slightly, joining in. "And fire," he said. "Don't forget fire."
Aarav chuckled softly, then looked out the window again. The rain had stopped. The city lights shimmered on the wet streets below. Somewhere, a faint rumble of thunder rolled across the sky — distant but alive.
He closed his notebook and whispered to himself:
"Tomorrow begins with thunder."
Midnight – Aarav's Room
Sleep didn't come easy. The clock read 1:43 a.m.
Aarav lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the soft hum of London rain outside. His mind was a storm of moments — Williamson's wicket, Kohli's speech, Gill's words, the deafening silence of the dressing room earlier that evening.
He could still hear the crowd chanting.
He could still feel the vibration of Lord's under his feet when he ran in to bowl.
He turned on his side, eyes catching the faint outline of his bat leaning against the chair. He got up, walked over, and picked it up. Ran his fingers over the grip, the blade. It felt cold — alive.
He closed his eyes and imagined it — the Reserve Day morning, the roar of the crowd, the weight of the moment. The sun breaking through the clouds. Kohli's voice behind him. The sound of the ball meeting the middle of his bat.
He smiled faintly.
"This is where stories are born," he murmured. "Not in comfort. In chaos."
He stood by the window, looking out at the misty night. London slept. The city lights glimmered like scattered embers across the horizon. Somewhere beyond that darkness, Lord's waited — quiet, sacred, eternal.
And Aarav Pathak was ready.
4:30 a.m. – Pre-Dawn
The rain had stopped completely now. The air was cold, crisp, and silent.
Aarav sat near the window, still awake. A cup of coffee steamed beside him. He had barely slept, but he didn't feel tired. Only alive — charged.
He scribbled one last line in his notebook:
"If destiny wants a hero, it will find me at Lord's tomorrow."
He closed the notebook gently. The horizon outside was turning from black to blue — the first whisper of dawn brushing over London.
Down in the streets, the first buses were starting to move, the city waking slowly. Inside the Indian team hotel, alarms began to buzz one by one in different rooms.
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The sun rose over Lord's with a deceitful calm. Golden light spilled over the hallowed turf, the famous slope gleaming like polished memory. Yet beneath the glow, tension coiled — invisible but electric. The Reserve Day of the World Test Championship Final. The day cricket's fate would decide whose name it would carve into immortality.
The stands were filling slowly, flags stirring in the cool London air. The murmur of the crowd was not cheer but a whisper — a low hum of nerves and prayers. India: 45 for 3. Three wickets down, 325 still needed.
Inside the commentary box, Ian Bishop's deep, deliberate voice carried through the broadcast:
"We are at Lord's… on the Reserve Day. A rarity in Test history. And for India, this is more than a chase — this is about belief."
Kumar Sangakkara, eyes fixed on the players warming up, added softly,
"Aarav Pathak, just twenty… yesterday, he faced seventy balls for five runs. But sometimes, patience builds heroes."
At the correct time, the bell rang.Aarav Pathak and Ajinkya Rahane emerged through the Long Room — two silhouettes against the stained glass, walking into sunlight that seemed to mock their struggle. Aarav's jaw was tight. His eyes, calm but burning. Gloves pulled, helmet adjusted — no words exchanged.
In the dressing room, Virat Kohli stood by the balcony rail, pacing, muttering under his breath. Every tap of his shoe echoed louder than the crowd.
Rahane began with elegance — that soft flick through midwicket, timed with the ease of a sigh. Each run was like a heartbeat restored. Aarav, after his long vigil the previous evening, found rhythm — forward press, straight bat, and the sweetest sound of leather meeting wood. His drives through cover weren't flamboyant, but they cut the silence.
The Indian fans began to rise."Jeetega bhai jeetega, India jeetega!" — faint at first, then swelling, wave after wave.
Michael Atherton's voice trembled just slightly with admiration:
"This partnership… it's giving India a heartbeat again."
Boundaries came, but not recklessly. Aarav's half-century arrived with a clip through midwicket — fifty runs of patience and precision. He lifted the bat modestly towards gill and gave him thumbs up. The crowd roared — an applause not just for runs, but for defiance.
In the dressing room, Kohli clapped once, Ravi Shastri smiled briefly. Gill stood up and clapped and smiled and gave back the thumbs up sign. For a fleeting second, the Indian camp breathed.
Then came Neil Wagner as the change in bowling option. Short sleeves. Heavy stride. Eyes blazing. The enforcer.
His first ball — short, climbing. Rahane swayed away. The second — shorter, faster, meaner. Rahane hooked, connected, four. The next one — same plan. Same trap.
The crowd gasped as Rahane went again — glove! Straight to leg gully. Caught. Gone.
"Got him! Rahane falls right into it," Ian Bishop cried. "Wagner's persistence pays off!"
The sound died instantly. The cheer turned hollow. Aarav stood frozen mid-pitch, head tilted down, Rahane walking back without a glance. The applause faded into murmurs.
Aarav looked at the scoreboard — India 127 for 4. He pressed his bat into the turf, once, twice. And started again.
Pant's Blaze, Pant's Fall
Rishabh Pant arrived like a thunderclap. First ball — flick for four. Second — lofted over extra cover. The crowd leapt, the tricolor waved, the sound returned.
"That's Pant for you," Sangakkara smiled, "He doesn't play by the book — he rewrites it."
For ten minutes, the match was alive. Pant's laughter between overs. Aarav's steady nods. The energy shifted; the dream flickered again.
Between overs, Aarav whispered, "Play your game — but play smart. One of us has to be here till the end."
But fate didn't listen.Jamieson returned with a ball that rose wickedly off a length. Pant flashed — a sound, a gasp, a silence.Caught at slip by Taylor.
The Indian section slumped. Flags drooped. Aarav just stood there, silent.India 155 for 5.
Alone with the Weight
The light had grown brighter, crueler. Aarav, 55 not out, looked up at the balcony. Kohli and the team were silent.
Aarav heard no crowd now — just echoes: the media's doubts, whispers of "inexperience," and the heavy memory of missed chances.
He closed his eyes for a moment and whispered to himself,
"If not now, then never."
Then he set his stance again.
Each ball became a small war. A jab to defend. A leave that defied. A single punched through cover that meant survival. Jadeja joined him, silent but steady. The two batted with the rhythm of endurance.
The final ball before lunch thudded into Watling's gloves again. Aarav exhaled — slow and long — then walked off.
Lunch at Lord's
The scoreboard read: India 155 for 5. Aarav Pathak 55, Jadeja 1.**Still 215 away from history.
Ian Bishop's voice floated over the ground:
"At Lunch on the Reserve Day — India 155 for 5. Aarav Pathak unbeaten on 55. Still 215 away from destiny."
Atherton added softly,
"He's playing for more than runs — he's playing for a dream his team still believes in."
As Aarav walked toward the dressing room, the applause followed him — not wild, but deep.Kohli stood waiting by the balcony steps. As Aarav passed, Kohli gave a firm nod and a confidence pat on his back as a gesture of well done.
The cameras panned across the Lord's crowd — tense faces, hopeful hearts, flags fluttering like prayers.
And as Aarav disappeared into the tunnel, the sunlight flickered on the turf — a calm before another storm.
When the sun returns after Lunch at Lord's, so will the storm — and this time, Aarav will be its eye.
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