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The aftermath of Nottingham was a strange cocktail of moral victory and lingering frustration. We had cornered the English lions in their own den, only for the skies to open up and grant them a reprieve. But cricket, much like life, rarely pauses for "what-ifs."
The caravan had to move on. Destination: London. The Home of Cricket. Lord's.
But before we could even pack our kit bags, the grueling nature of a five-match Test series reared its ugly head.
It happened during the optional practice session on the morning of our departure. The nets were damp, the air chilly. Ishant Sharma, the veteran workhorse of our attack, pulled up mid-delivery. He grabbed his side, grimacing. A side strain—the fast bowler's curse.
An hour later, Shardul Thakur, our "Lord" and partnership-breaker, felt a twinge in his hamstring while doing sprint drills.
The mood in the physio room was somber. Two key pacers down.
"They're out for Lord's," the physio confirmed, shaking his head. "Need at least a week to recover."
Virat and Ravi Shastri didn't panic. This was the new Team India—resilient, deep, and ready. The management convened a quick meeting in the hotel lobby. The decision was swift. With the Lord's pitch historically offering something for everyone, and the overhead conditions promising swing, we needed balance. But we also needed batting depth.
Axar Patel was given the nod. The left-arm spinner who could bat like a top-order player was in.
The team sheet for the Second Test was finalized before we even boarded the train:
Playing XI for Lord's:
Rohit Sharma
K.L. Rahul
Aarav Pathak
Virat Kohli (c)
Ajinkya Rahane
Rishabh Pant (wk)
Ravindra Jadeja
Axar Patel
Md. Shami
Jasprit Bumrah
Md. Siraj
It was a bold lineup. Four pacers, two spin-bowling all-rounders, and a batting lineup packed with firepower.
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Moving two national cricket teams, their support staff, families, and kit bags is a logistical nightmare. Usually, it involves chartered flights and strict security protocols. But for this leg of the tour, the ECB had arranged something special.
A private, chartered train.
It was an inter-city express, reserved exclusively for the Indian and English squads. We were leaving Nottingham station, heading straight to London. The journey was slated for roughly two hours and forty minutes.
As I hauled my kit bag onto the train, the atmosphere was surprisingly light. The tension of Day 5's washout had evaporated, replaced by the excitement of a road trip—or rather, a rail trip.
We occupied the first three coaches; England took the rear three. The middle coach was a buffet car, a neutral zone of sorts.
"Shotgun the window seat!" Rishabh Pant yelled, practically diving into a four-seater table configuration.
I laughed, sliding in opposite him. Shubman Gill and Washington Sundar (who was travelling as a reserve) joined us, instantly creating a chaos quadrant.
"This feels like a school trip," I remarked, watching the English countryside begin to blur past the window. "Except the school principal is Ravi Shastri and he's wearing sunglasses indoors."
"Bhai, look at the vibe!" Shubman pointed down the aisle.
The speaker system, usually reserved for announcements about the next station, had been hijacked. Someone—probably Mayank or Pant—had connected a Bluetooth speaker. The distinct beat of a Punjabi pop song began to thump through the carriage.
"Oh ho! Oh ho! Bhangda time!" Virat bhai shouted from the front of the carriage.
The captain was in full holiday mode. He was standing in the aisle, doing a bhangra step with pristine rhythm. Rohit Sharma, sitting with Ritika bhabhi, was clapping along, his signature lazy elegance even present in the way he enjoyed the music.
"Capture this! Capture this!"
Suryakumar Yadav (SKY) was prowling the aisle with a GoPro on a selfie stick. "Welcome to the India Express, guys! Look at this! We have the skipper dancing, we have Pant eating chips already... say hi to the vlog, Aarav!"
He shoved the camera in my face.
I grinned, throwing up a peace sign. "London calling, SKY! We're coming for the fortress!"
"That's the spirit!" SKY zoomed in on my face before panning over to Siraj, who was trying to teach Shami a reel trend involving hand gestures that Shami clearly didn't understand.
For the first hour, it was pure mayhem. We weren't international cricketers carrying the burden of a billion hopes, we were just a bunch of guys in our twenties enjoying the ride. We sang along to Bollywood chartbusters, debated which Avenger was the strongest (I maintained it was Doctor Strange; Pant argued for Hulk solely based on 'Smash'), and raided the snack cart.
It was a moment of bonding that you don't get in five-star hotels where everyone retreats to their rooms. Here, trapped in a metal tube hurtling at 100 miles per hour, we were a family.
Around an hour and twenty minutes into the journey, just as the train was passing through the green fields of Leicestershire, the door at the end of our carriage slid open.
The music was turned down slightly.
It was the English contingent. Jos Buttler led the way, holding a cup of coffee, followed by Joe Root, Moeen Ali, Mark Wood, and Sam Curran.
For a second, there was a pause. These were the men we had been staring down aggressively just few hours ago. The men who had sledged us, and whom we had sledged back.
"Room for a few stragglers?" Joe Root asked, a polite, quintessentially British smile on his face.
"Come in, come in!" Virat waved them over, shifting his seat to make space.
What followed was surreal. The barriers of competition dissolved.
Sam Curran, looking like he should be in school rather than playing Test cricket, squeezed into the seat next to me.
"You alright, mate?" Curran asked. "That scoop shot yesterday... nearly took Jos's head off."
"He's still got a stiff neck from looking up," Jos Buttler quipped, leaning on the back of our seat. "Warn me next time, yeah? I'm getting too old for acrobatics."
I laughed. "No promises, Jos. Instinct took over."
"Instinct," Mark Wood snorted, mimicking a horse riding action for some reason. "If I bowled a 90mph yorker and someone scooped me, I'd retire. Straight to the commentary box."
The conversation flowed effortlessly. And the most refreshing part? Not a single word about cricket strategy.
We didn't talk about the slope at Lord's. We didn't talk about swing mechanics or batting averages.
"So, London," Rishabh Pant asked, his mouth half-full of a sandwich. "Where is the best place for a food? Proper spicy one?"
"Spicy Food?" Moeen Ali raised an eyebrow. "Rishabh, you're in England. We do Fish and Chips. But if you want spice, I'll text you a place in Brick Lane. Best curry houses in the world. Better than Delhi, dare I say."
"Oye! Blasphemy!" Virat shouted from across the aisle. "Nothing is better than Delhi butter chicken. Don't start a war here, Mo."
Everyone burst out laughing.
I found myself chatting with Joe Root about gaming.
"You play COD?" Root asked, looking genuinely interested.
"Warzone mostly," I replied. "Hardik is the squad leader usually. He just runs in and dies, and then screams for a revive."
"Sounds like Ben Stokes," Root chuckled. "He plays like he bats. All or nothing. We should get a cross-team lobby going. England vs India, Verdansk map."
"Done," I said. "But I'm warning you, Shami bhai is a sniper camper. You won't see him coming."
It was just... young people. Just athletes who shared a unique, high-pressure lifestyle, finding common ground in the mundane. Mark Wood was telling a hilarious story about his dog, while Rohit and Buttler were discussing the merits of different baby strollers (dad talk).
For forty minutes, we weren't enemies. We were colleagues. It was a reminder that while the battle on the field was fierce, the respect off it was genuine.
The pastoral greens eventually gave way to the grey concrete and brick of Greater London. The train slowed, navigating the complex web of tracks leading into the capital.
"Right, back to business," Joe Root said, checking his watch as the announcement for the station arrival chimed. "Thanks for the hospitality, guys. See you at the Toss."
"See you, Joe," Virat nodded, the captain's mask slowly sliding back into place.
The English players returned to their carriage to gather their gear. The music in our carriage was turned off. The laughter died down a little. The focus was returning. We were entering the war zone again.
The train pulled into the station, a private platform, thankfully, but word had clearly gotten out.
As we stepped off the train, the cool London air hit us. It was busier, louder than Nottingham. We grabbed our bags and headed for the exit.
Despite the private exit, a crowd had gathered behind the barricades. Paparazzi cameras flashed like strobe lights, blindingly bright even in the daylight.
"Virat! Virat! King Kohli!"
The chant was deafening. It was the standard soundtrack to our lives. Virat waved, his sunglasses on, walking with that confident stride that screamed authority.
But then, threaded through the chants for the King, I heard something else.
"Aarav! Aarav bhai!" "Pathak! The Scoop! Sign this!"
I paused, surprised. A group of teenagers, draped in Indian flags, were thrusting a bat over the barricade.
I looked at the security officer, who gave a curt nod. I walked over.
"Oh my god, he's coming!" one of the girls screamed.
"Great innings yesterday, Aarav!" a boy shouted, holding out a marker. "You scared Jimmy!"
I smiled, signing the bat and a few jerseys. "Thanks, guys. Keep cheering for us at Lord's."
"We will! Breach the fortress!" they yelled.
I looked back. Virat was waiting by the bus, watching me. He wasn't annoyed; he was smiling. He gave me a small nod, a gesture of 'Get used to it.'
It was a strange feeling. I had always been the fan on the other side of the barricade in my previous life. Now, I was the one holding the marker. The validation felt good, but it also felt like a weight. They expected miracles now.
The bus ride to the hotel took another forty minutes through the London traffic. We were staying at a hotel near Regent's Park, just a stone's throw from Lord's Cricket Ground.
By the time we checked in, the adrenaline of the travel had faded, replaced by travel fatigue. The total journey had taken about three and a half hours, but the mental shift from "Nottingham mode" to "London mode" made it feel longer.
We gathered in the team room for a quick briefing.
Ravi Shastri stood at the front, a whiteboard behind him.
"Right, gentlemen," his booming voice commanded attention. "We are in London. We are 0-0. We have three days."
He wrote the schedule on the board:
Day 1 (Tomorrow): Net Session at Lord's Nursery Ground. 10:00 AM - 2:00 PM. Focus on batting against the swinging ball.
Day 2: Fielding drills and tactical meeting.
Day 3: Rest day / Media duties / Optional light training.
"Today," Shastri continued, capping the marker. "Do what you want. Sleep. Get a massage. Go for a walk. But don't think about cricket. From tomorrow, we lock in. Lord's is not just a ground; it's an occasion. Don't let the occasion get to you. We play the ball, not the history."
I went up to my room, which I was sharing with Shubman. I threw my bag on the bed and walked to the window.
Below, the city of London buzzed. Somewhere out there, a few miles away, sat the Lord's Cricket Ground.
I pulled out my phone. I had a text from Shradha.
Shradha: Saw the news about the rain. Frustrating! But heard you guys are in London now. Dad said the slope at Lord's is tricky especially the game Anderson bring there.
I smiled. Even when she was being the supportive girlfriend, the daughter of Sachin Tendulkar couldn't help but pass on technical advice.
Aarav: Tell the Master Blaster I'll be careful. And tell him to watch the TV on Thursday. I plan on putting my name on that board again.
Shradha: Cocky. I like it. Good luck, my King of Cricket. ❤️
I put the phone down and lay back on the bed, closing my eyes. The train ride, the banter with Root, the fans at the station—it was all noise.
Now, there was only the silence before the storm.
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The next two days were a blur of intensity. The Lord's Nursery Ground, tucked behind the main stadium, became a battlefield. The ball was doing things—jagging off the seam, hooping in the air. It was a paradise for bowlers and a torture chamber for batters.
But I loved it.
I spent hours in the nets, facing Bumrah and Shami until my gloves were soaked with sweat and my forearms throbbed from the impact of the heavy Duke ball. Ravi Shastri watched from the sidelines, his sunglasses reflecting the grey London sky, occasionally shouting, "Watch the hands! Soft hands!"
By the time the third day rolled around—the designated Media Day—my body felt primed. My mind, however, was about to play a different game.
The Media Centre at Lord's is not like any other. It's a futuristic, alien-looking pod suspended high above the ground, offering a panoramic view of the hallowed turf. Walking into it feels less like entering a press room and more like stepping onto the bridge of a starship.
Virat and Ravi Shastri had just finished their segment. I watched from the wings as Virat, looking sharp in his training kit, deflected a question about the pitch with his usual aggressive diplomacy.
"We play on 22 yards, not the weather report," Virat said, standing up.
As they walked off, Ravi signaled to me. "You're up, young man. Don't let them eat you alive."
"I'm not on the menu, Ravi bhai," I grinned. "They are."
Shastri let out a booming laugh, slapping my back. "That's the spirit. Let's go."
The room was packed. Journalists from the Daily Mail, The Guardian, Sky Sports, and a host of Indian channels were crammed into the sleek white room. The air conditioner hummed, competing with the low murmur of anticipation. This was my first solo interaction with the English press—a beast known for devouring young touring players.
I walked up to the dais and took the seat Virat Bhai had just vacated.
I adjusted the microphone, leaned back comfortably, and scanned the room. I didn't look down. I didn't fidget. I looked them in the eye.
"Hello guys!" I said, flashing a bright smile. "How are you all? Weather holding up for you?"
A few chuckles rippled through the room. The tension broke slightly.
The media manager pointed to a man in the front row, a senior correspondent from Sky Sports.
Reporter (Sky Sports): "Aarav, welcome to Lord's. It's the Home of Cricket, the most historic venue in the game. You're young, just starting your journey here in whites. Do you feel the weight of the history? Do you feel the pressure playing at a venue like this?"
It was the standard opener. They wanted the 'humbled youngster' narrative.
I laughed, a genuine, confident sound that echoed in the quiet room.
"Pressure?" I leaned into the mic. "If my memory serves me right, the last time I was here, I was wearing the white jersey for the World Test Championship Final against New Zealand. I believe I scored centuries in both innings—actually, the second one was a double hundred, 203 not out. And I think I picked up about eight wickets in that match too."
I paused, letting the stats hang in the air like a heavy bouncer.
"So, to answer your question... me being nervous is out of the equation. I have happy memories here. I treat this ground like a friend. I'm very much confident and, frankly, ready for one more hundred from my side."
The room went silent for a second, then pens started scribbling furiously. No generic humility. Just cold, hard facts.
Reporter (Daily Mail): "Right, well... past performance is one thing, but conditions change. Jimmy Anderson is a different beast with the red Duke ball under grey skies. We saw on Day 1 at Trent Bridge he found your edge. Several legends of the game—Sachin, Ponting, Lara—have struggled to hit him here when he's in rhythm. What makes you think you can?"
A classic trap. Respect the elder, admit the struggle.
I smirked. "Well, you answered your own question. They were Legends. They had a reputation to protect, a burden to carry. Currently, I am not a Legend. I'm just Aarav."
I shrugged nonchalantly.
"If I can't hit him, I won't become a Legend, right? So...., the plan is simple: I hit him, I score runs, I become a Legend. It's a simple calculation."
Laughter erupted in the room. Even the stiff-lipped English journalists cracked a smile. It was cocky, yes, but it was delivered with such disarming simplicity that it was hard to hate.
Reporter (The Guardian): "You are a true all-rounder, Aarav. But at this level, it's hard to maintain both disciplines. What do you work on the most in the nets? Your bowling, or your batting to hold the number three spot?"
I put on a serious face. "I work most on my fielding."
The reporter blinked. "Fielding?"
"Absolutely," I nodded solemnly. "Because if I drop a catch off Bumrah's bowling, he will kill me. And if I miss a run out due to my loos fielding Virat bhaiya would kill me. So, fielding is a matter of survival."
The room burst into laughter again. Ravi Shastri, sitting next to me, was shaking with silent mirth, hiding his grin behind his hand.
"But on a serious note," I continued, my tone shifting seamlessly. "I don't see them as two different things. I am a cricketer. My job is to impact the game. If the team needs me to bowl 20 overs, I bowl. If they need me to bat for two days, I bat. I can't leave one behind to move forward with the other. Balance isn't a choice for me; it's a requirement."
Reporter (Wisden Cricket): "Aarav, your rise has been meteoric. During the Border-Gavaskar Trophy, Legends like Ian Bishop and Ricky Ponting started calling you 'The Prince' of cricket. It's a title that has stuck. What are your thoughts on that label?"
I paused. This was the ego question. Too much pride, and I look arrogant. Too much humility, and I look weak.
"Titles are dangerous things," I mused, tapping the table. "But coming from legends like Ricky and Ian... it's a huge honor. I won't deny that."
I looked directly at the camera lens.
"In cricket, we have a hierarchy. We have the God—Sachin sir. We have the King—Virat bhai. If the cricketing world thinks I fit as the Prince who stands beside them to conquer the world, then I will happily wear that crown."
I leaned back, a glint in my eye.
"But remember, every Prince eventually wants to build an empire worthy of the Kings who came before him. We are here to rule the cricketing world, not just participate in it. So, God, King, Prince... as long as the flag flying high is the Indian Tricolour, the titles don't matter."
Ravi Shastri let out a low whistle. Diplomatic, yet utterly ambitious.
Reporter (Times of India): "Aarav, just a quick one on the team composition. You playing at number three means Cheteshwar Pujara is sitting out. Many fans feel this is unfair to a legend of Test cricket. Are you effectively replacing him permanently?"
The atmosphere tightened. The controversy question.
"Now you guys want headlines, don't you?" I laughed, shaking my head. "You want 'Aarav says Pujara is finished.' I'm not giving you that."
Before I could continue, Ravi Shastri leaned forward, his heavy voice taking command of the room.
"Let me take that," Shastri rumbled. "Look, let's be clear. Cheteshwar Pujara is a warrior. He has done things for this country that people forget too easily. He is absolutely not 'out of the loop.' He is a vital part of our scheme of things."
Shastri gestured to me.
"But we have a young gun here who is firing and provide us proper bowling of Bumrah's level and bat like a proper top order batsman and It's about workload management, it's about conditions, and it's about giving young blood the exposure they need while the seniors are still around to guide them. Aarav is playing because he demands a spot with his performance, not because we are discarding anyone. It's a healthy headache to have."
Reporter (BBC Test Match Special): "Final question, Aarav. Lord's. The Slope. The history. Thursday morning. What is the promise to the fans?"
I stood up, preparing to leave. I looked at Ravi, then back at the reporter.
"Entertain," I said simply. "We are not here to play boring draws. We are here to win. And I promise you, whether you support England or India, you won't want to take your eyes off the screen."
I nodded to the room. "Cheers, guys."
As we walked out of the futuristic pod and back towards the dressing rooms, Ravi Shastri threw an arm around my shoulder.
"You handled that well," he grunted. "Bit cheeky with the 'Legend' comment, but I liked it. Shows you've got fire."
"Only fire melts iron, Ravi bhai," I replied, looking at the lush green outfield of Lord's below us.
"Good," Shastri patted my shoulder hard. "Keep that fire burning. You're going to need it on Thursday."
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