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The R. Premadasa Stadium was not merely a cricket ground tonight; it was a coliseum screaming for blood. Under the scorching floodlights that cut through the humid Colombo night like divine judgment, the stands had transformed into a cauldron of chaos. Sri Lankan flags unfurled like battle banners, drums pounded out primal rhythms, and vuvuzelas shrieked in a blue-and-yellow maelstrom.
The sea of supporters shimmered like molten gold, sixteen thousand voices coalescing into a single, living beast that chanted in waves crashing against the iron railings.
"Lanka! Lanka! Lanka!"
And right in the center of the storm, Aarav Pathak rolled the white Kookaburra ball in his palm.
His jersey clung to his back, heavy with sweat and the weight of a nation. His heartbeat thudded against his ribs, syncing painfully with the chants rattling the metal stands. The scoreboard loomed over him, accusatory and unforgiving: SL 206/5 — Need 7 off 6.
Charith Asalanka stood on 59*, Dasun Shanaka on 43*. Both men were etched in fire, beasts unchained, possessing the hunger of wolves who had caught the scent of the kill.
Shikhar Dhawan, captain for the series, jogged up from mid-off. He placed a firm palm on Aarav's shoulder, his eyes locking onto the youngster's.
"Bas ek over, Pathak," Dhawan said, his voice cutting through the din. "Just one. Play with your heart."
Aarav nodded once—sharp, determined. For a split second, his mind flashed to Mumbai, imagining Shradha watching this on a screen, her hands clasped, breath held, praying to gods she didn't usually bother with.
He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the thick, electric air. This wasn't just cricket. This was legacy. This was the forge where careers were either tempered into steel or shattered like glass.
He set his field with clinical precision. Long-on back. Long-off back. Deep midwicket patrolling the fence. Fine leg and point brought inside the circle. It was attacking. It was risky. It was a gamble.
High above in the commentary box, Gautam Gambhir leaned into his microphone, his voice a low, intense whisper. "Dhawan and Aarav are going for the win. Not the tie. This is gutsy captaincy. They could've played it safe… but no… they want wickets."
"Seven needed off six," Tannay Tiwari added, his voice rising with the tension. "And the man who destroyed the Lankan bowlers with the bat will bowl the final over. Poetry, or pressure? It depends on how you see it."
Ball 1
The crowd roared the moment Asalanka took strike, a sound so loud it vibrated in Aarav's teeth.
Aarav started his run. Smooth. Controlled. Deadly.
He hit a good length, angling the ball in sharply. Asalanka, eyes wide with adrenaline, swung hard—a massive heave across the line intended to send the ball into orbit.
Thud.
The ball struck the pad.
The howl erupted—a primal symphony. Aarav's arms speared skyward, Ishan Kishan leaped behind the stumps like a flame, and Dhawan became a conductor of chaos. The entire Indian cordon formed a wall of appeals, their voices crashing against the umpire's impassive throne.
The finger went up.
LBW.
Pin. Drop. Silence.
For a heartbeat, you could hear a wrapper fall in the stands. The roar was severed at the neck.
"LBW! GIVEN! OH, WHAT A RIPPER!" Aakash Chopra's voice cracked, electric and alive. "Asalanka, Lanka's colossus, unmade in a heartbeat! Aarav Pathak breathes fire into the fray—that's not a ball; that's a guillotine!"
Asalanka froze, a statue of shattered dreams. Disbelief etched his brow like acid as he drilled the pitch with his gaze, looking for betrayal, before glancing at Shanaka's steady eyes—a silent handover of the fallen sword. Shoulders heavy as Atlas, he trudged off, the crowd's embers flickering to ash in his wake.
Aarav didn't run wild. He just clenched his fist, iron-tight, eyes ablaze with the forge's glow. His aura thickened; the fielders straightened imperceptibly, spines steeling.
Ball 2 & 3
Wanindu Hasaranga walked in—the Lankan trump card. The stadium regained its pulse. "HASARANGA! HASARANGA!"
Aarav watched him with a calm predator's gaze.
Second ball. A slower delivery, dipping wickedly. Hasaranga lunged, trying to nudge it, but only managed a thick bottom edge. The ball trickled to the off side. One run.
Third ball. Aarav against the Captain, Dasun Shanaka.
Aarav sprinted in. Length ball. A slow off-cutter. Shanaka swung—huge—but he was way too early. The ball bounced harmlessly, and Ishan collected it clean.
Dot ball.
The pressure tightened around the stadium like a noose. "Every dot ball now is gold-plated," Chopra murmured.
Ball 4
Aarav took a deep breath. The field remained unchanged. He came in slightly wide of the crease, changing the angle.
Length ball. Seaming in.
Shanaka tried to pull, to force the issue. But the ball skidded, cramping him for room. It brushed the pad, deflected, and then—
CRASH!
The sound of timber shattering cut through the humid air.
OUT! BOWLED!
Aarav roared, a beast unleashed, his veins popping as he punched the air. Dhawan slapped his back, screaming, "YEAAAH! PATHAKKK!"
"BOWLED HIM!" The commentary box exploded. "AARAV PATHAK IS THE MAN OF THE HOUR! The danger man is gone! This game has turned on its HEAD!"
Shanaka stared at the ruined stumps as if they had personally betrayed him. The crowd deflated, the reality sinking like a stone in the stomach. India had clawed their way back from the abyss.
Ball 5
Chamika Karunaratne walked in. Sri Lanka: 208/7. They needed 5 runs off 2 balls.
Aarav wiped sweat from his brow. "One ball at a time," Dhawan whispered. "Nothing else."
Aarav delivered a good length ball that kept low. Karunaratne swung hard and missed. Ishan Kishan collected and shied at the stumps in a panic—but missed. The batsmen scrambled through for a bye.
Sri Lanka needed 4 off 1. Wanindu Hasaranga would face the final ball.
Ball 6 — The Final Ball
The crowd found its voice again, a desperate, pleading chant. "HASARANGA! HASARANGA!"
Aarav walked back to his mark slowly. He closed his eyes. He inhaled the chaos, exhaled the doubt. He thought of his father. His mother. And then… Shradha. Her voice whispered in the quiet center of his heart: Play for love, not for noise.
Four needed. One swing to end it.
Hasaranga backed away, creating room, telegraphing the smash. Aarav saw it. At the very last moment, he switched his grip.
Slower ball. Full. Wide.
Hasaranga went BIG. His bat carved through the air with terrifying speed—
MISS!
The ball sailed safely into Kishan's gloves.
INDIA WIN.
Dhawan sprinted toward Aarav, arms wide. Hardik lifted him off the ground. Bhuvi punched the air. The commentary box was in pandemonium.
"WHAT A FINISH! WHAT A TURNAROUND!" Aakash screamed. "AARAV PATHAK HAS DEFENDED SEVEN RUNS IN THE FINAL OVER! THIS IS SPECIAL! THIS IS GOLD!"
Aarav knelt on the turf, chest heaving, heart racing, surrounded by the blue jerseys of his brothers.
The floodlights of R. Premadasa Stadium hummed like restless giants two nights later. The weather felt the same, but something inside the Indian dressing room was different. Heavy. Tight.
Aarav sat lacing his pads, his mind quieter than usual. Only forty-eight hours ago, he was the hero of Colombo. But cricket, as always, was waiting to remind him of its most ancient lesson: You're only as good as your next ball.
2nd T20I
India batted first. Aarav came in earlier than expected as wickets tumbled. The pitch was tackier today, a sticky surface where the ball refused to come on to the bat. He mistimed his first pull. He edged a late cut. He dug out yorkers that threatened his toes.
He scraped his way to 29 off 19. Not bad. Not good. Not him.
With the ball, the story was worse. Aarav ran in, hoping for the rhythm of the first match, but his fingers betrayed him. The seam wobbled. The length missed.
4 overs. 0 wickets. 33 runs.
Every boundary felt like a punch to the ribs. Sri Lanka chased the total down with 4 wickets and 2 balls to spare. The stadium erupted in a storm of blue and yellow joy.
Aarav walked off last. His footsteps were slow, heavy. Every inch of the ground that had celebrated him yesterday now felt colder.
"Cricket gives. Cricket takes," he whispered to the night air. "Tomorrow, I give back."
The Decider
3rd T20I
Grey clouds rolled in before the toss like an ominous curtain. First a drizzle, then sheets of rain. Puddles sparkled under the floodlights, mocking the players. After an agonizing wait, the umpires made the call: 10 overs per side.
A shootout. A brawl. A night where calculation meant nothing and instinct meant everything.
India Bats First
Ruturaj and Dhawan walked out, swinging hard in the light drizzle. They connected sometimes, missed often. 30/0 in 3 overs—a decent start until Hasaranga spun a web of drift that crashed into Dhawan's timber.
Aarav Pathak marched in.
He didn't wait to settle. He couldn't.
First ball: whipped through midwicket. Crack. Second ball: lofted over extra cover. Beautiful. Third ball: ramped over the keeper. Audacious.
Fire. Heart. Instinct. He raced to 32 from 15 balls, a cameo of pure aggression, until Chameera bent his back and hurled a sharp bouncer. Aarav swung, edged, and was caught.
He walked back to silence. India finished with 92/5. Competitive, but in a ten-over game, no score is truly safe.
The Chase
Sri Lanka started too strong. Boundaries flowed, edges flew, fumbles cost runs. Aarav bowled with venom this time—the ball gripping and biting the pitch. He took two wickets, including a sharp googly that cut through Rajapaksa.
But at the other end, cricket showed its cruelty.
Sandeep Warrier. Debutant. Bright hopes, big heart.
He ran in nervously for his over. The ball slipped. The length missed. The lines blurred under the pressure.
28 runs in one over.
The stadium exploded. Drums, flags, war cries. It was a massacre. Dhawan held his head in his hands. Aarav closed his eyes, wanting to go to the kid and tell him it was okay, but the match was slipping away like water through fingers.
Sri Lanka needed 12 off 12. Then 5 off 6. They finished it with 2 balls to spare.
Sri Lanka 93/6 — Win the Match. Win the Series 2–1.
The Lankan dugout stormed the field. The stadium drowned in celebration. India stood in the dim glow of defeat.
Inside the dressing room, the silence was deafening. The debutants stared at their shoes, afraid to look up. Dhawan sat still, rubbing his beard. Chahal leaned back, sighing at the ceiling.
Aarav put a towel over his head. Sweat and rain mingled on his face. He didn't feel shame. Just a resolve hard enough to cut steel.
Finally, Coach Ravi Shastri walked in. His voice boomed, filling the small room.
"Boys… this is cricket. Five debutants. New combinations. A rain-hit decider. We fought. We lost. No shame in that." He looked directly at Warrier, who was blinking back tears. "No shame in your over either, son. Learn. Grow."
Then he turned to Aarav.
"You held the innings. You took wickets. We all have bad days. Even you."
Aarav nodded slowly. He stood up, tossing the towel aside.
"Next series," he said quietly, his voice steady. "We fix this."
Dhawan smiled faintly. Hardik clapped him on the back. The young debutants looked up at him—not with expectation, but with belief.
Aarav Pathak wasn't just the team's star anymore. Tonight, in defeat, he was becoming its backbone.
And cricket, in its ancient voice, whispered around him: Every fall shapes the rise.
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Author's Note: - 2000+ Words
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