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[FLASHBACK: The Previous Afternoon & Morning Session]
To understand why Virat Kohli was screaming from the balcony, and why Mohammed Shami was swinging his bat like a medieval mace, you have to understand what happened after I walked back to the pavilion.
The scorecard will tell you I was dismissed for 75. It will tell you there was a collapse till Shami and Bumrah saved it. But the scorecard is a liar. It doesn't record the noise. It doesn't record the venom.
As I sat on the balcony, icing my shoulder, the atmosphere at Lord's shifted. The English team, frustrated by our resistance and the dwindling lead, decided to stop playing cricket. They decided to start a war.
They looked at our lower middle order—Rishabh Pant, Ravindra Jadeja, Axar Patel, and the tail—and they didn't see batsmen. They saw targets.
Joe Root took the spinners off. He tossed the ball to Mark Wood. "Hurt them," his body language screamed.
Rishabh Pant was at the crease. The crowd was buzzing, sensing the shift in tactics.
Mark Wood stood at the top of his mark. He wasn't running in to hit the stumps; he was running in to hit the man.
Wood turned, eyes wild, slapping his thigh. "Come on, lads!" Wood screamed mid-run, his voice carrying over the wind. "He's fucking hopping! One more on the badge, boys!"
He hit the crease hard. 151.2 kmph (94 mph).
It was a rib-high lifter, climbing viciously from a length. Pant, usually so balanced, was forced to sway violently. He took his bottom hand off, but the ball was too quick. It thudded into his midriff, staggering him.
The entire slip cordon erupted in a predator's roar.
Jos Buttler walked halfway up the pitch, peeling his gloves off for emphasis, staring Pant down. "That's it, Panty! Keep dancing, mate! We've got all day for this! No nowhere to hide out here!"
Jimmy Anderson, standing at second slip with his hands on his knees, delivered his line deadpan, but loud enough for the stump mic and Pant to hear. "He's seeing them like beach balls, isn't he? Poor lad's never faced 150 clicks in his life. IPL doesn't prepare you for this, does it?"
Pant didn't say a word. He just adjusted his abdominal guard and tapped the pitch.
Wood had the ball again. He stared at Pant like the wicketkeeper owed him money. "Right," Wood sneered. "One on the lid this time. Let's see that fancy helmet of yours earn its money."
He steamed in. 152 kmph. A thunderbolt aimed right between the eyes.
Pant didn't duck. Instinct took over. He swiveled, playing that trademark, unbalanced hook shot. It wasn't controlled. It flew off the top edge, soaring high over the slip cordon.
Buttler leaped, but it was too high. It sailed for six.
Ollie Robinson at third slip began a sarcastic slow-clap. "Shot, Rishabh! Keep swinging, mate. You're only making 120 here, tops. Keep giving us catches."
They got him eventually. The barrage wore him down, and he nicked a wide one. Jadeja followed.
The Brutality
Then came Axar Patel.
Axar had replaced the injured Ishant Sharma in the XI. He was a spinner, a capable bat, but he wasn't a tail-ender used to this level of hostility.
The volume in the stadium doubled. The Barmy Army smelled blood.
Jos Buttler greeted him with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Evening, Axar! Still bowling 120 kmph arm-balls, are we? Fancy a bat while the sun's out? Or should we call the physio already?"
Mark Wood was already marking his run, laughing maniacally. "Don't worry, Axar, I'll keep it on a length for you. Don't want you reaching, do we?"
Axar took his guard, looking nervous. He tapped the crease.
Wood ran in. He didn't bowl length. 151.5 kmph.
It was a bouncer directed straight at the helmet grille. Axar tried to pull out of the shot, but the ball followed him.
CLANG.
The sound was sickening. A sharp, metallic ring that echoed around the historic ground. Axar reeled back, his helmet knocked sideways, clutching his jaw.
The entire slip cordon, in unison: "Ooooooooh!"
They didn't rush to check on him immediately. They stood there, letting the fear settle.
Jimmy Anderson, soft, almost paternal, but dripping with condescension: "Eyes okay, Axar? Just nod if you can still see, mate. No shame in walking off."
Joe Root, standing at first slip, calm but venomous: "Boys, boys… remember, we're trying to get him out, not send him to hospital. Yet."
Axar shook it off, brave as a lion, but he was rattled. The psychological blow had landed. He fell shortly after, cleaned up by a yorker he was too slow to see because he was expecting another bouncer.
We were 8 wickets down. The lead was around 220s.
Mohammed Shami walked in at No. 9.
Shami is a quiet man. He keeps to himself. But he has the pride of a fast bowler.
Jos Buttler walked all the way to Mark Wood at the top of his mark, putting a hand on his shoulder, whispering loud enough for the close fielders—and Shami—to hear. "Woody, he hooked you in the first innings. Remember? Embarrassing, that. A number nine hooking the fastest bowler in England. Time to remind him who's the quick here."
Wood nodded, his face red with exertion and rage.
He steamed in. 153.2 kmph (95.2 mph).
It was short. Head-high. A ball designed to take a head off.
Shami didn't back away. He didn't close his eyes. He saw the red blur. He planted his front foot and swiveled.
CRACK.
It was a clean hook. It came right off the middle of the bat. The ball flew flat and hard over square leg, crashing into the stands for SIX.
Lord's was stunned into silence for half a second. Then the Indian dressing room exploded in disbelief.
Mark Wood stood with his hands on his hips, laughing in pure, unadulterated rage. "Are you actually fucking kidding me?!"
Jonny Bairstow chirped from silly mid-off, trying to salvage the intimidation. "That's fine, lads. Keep feeding him. He'll get bored eventually and hole out. It's a lucky shot."
Ollie Robinson walked past Shami on the way to his mark for the next over. "Enjoying yourself, are we? Cute little tail-ender with a hook shot. Won't last long, sunshine."
Shami didn't say a word. He just adjusted his gloves and looked at the scoreboard.
Then came the moment everyone had been waiting for. Jasprit Bumrah strode in at No. 10.
This was personal. In the previous match, Bumrah had unleashed a barrage of bouncers at Anderson. The English team had not forgotten. They had been stewing on it for days.
Jos Buttler started immediately, clapping his gloves. "Oh, here he is! The big bad Bumrah! Come to bowl bouncers at Jimmy, have we? Let's see how you like eating a few. Table's turned now, isn't it?"
Jimmy Anderson was smiling sweetly from second slip. It was the smile of a man who knew his enforcer was about to deliver retribution. "Jasprit, my friend… if one of these hits you on the helmet, I'm going to be very upset. truly. I still owe you a few from yesterday. Don't go getting knocked out before I get a ball."
Mark Wood ran in again. He didn't bowl at the stumps. 150 kmph.
Angled in at the throat. A rib-breaker.
Bumrah didn't have the technique to hook. He didn't have the technique to defend. So he just stood there. He swayed slightly, but the ball tailed in.
THUD.
It took him flush on the shoulder blade. A blow that would have floored a normal man. Bumrah didn't flinch. He didn't rub it. He stood tall, staring down the pitch.
Mark Wood, genuinely furious now: "You're not even wearing an arm guard, you mad bastard?! You want a broken arm?"
Buttler laughed, but the laugh had an edge now. A hint of nervousness. "Lads… I think we might have woken something up."
And they had.
Somewhere behind the bowler's arm, up on the balcony, Virat Kohli stood at the railing. His arms were folded across his chest. His sunglasses hid his eyes, but Aarav knew they were burning holes through the England huddle. He wasn't cheering. He was seething.
The sledging hadn't stopped. Robinson was still chirping. Anderson was still smiling.
But for the first time all afternoon, it was starting to sound a little hollow.
Bumrah exchanged a look with Shami. A look that said, 'They want a fight? Okay.'
The storm was coming the other way now.
[END FLASHBACK]
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The Declaration had been made. The target was 302. But as the Indian team walked out of the dressing room and down the stairs of the Pavilion, nobody was doing the math. Nobody was calculating required run rates.
The air around the team wasn't just charged; it was toxic. It was heavy with a dark, brooding anger that had been marinating overnight, fueled by every short ball Mark Wood had bowled at our tail, and every smirk Jos Buttler had thrown our way.
We didn't walk onto the field, we invaded it.
Virat Kohli stopped us just before we crossed the boundary rope.
The circle formed. It was tight. Suffocating.
Virat stood in the center. His eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses, but the veins in his neck were popping. He didn't shout.
"Agar koi mujhe hasta hua dikha na... to samajh lena!" (If I see anyone laughing... just understand what happens.)
He looked at Pant, then at Siraj, then at me.
"If I see anyone laughing, if I see anyone being friendly with them... you answer to me. I don't care if we get them out or not. I don't care if we win or draw. But for these sixty overs... we make them feel it."
He pointed a finger at the pitch.
"We make these sixty overs feel like hell. They wanted to hurt us? They wanted to target heads? Fine. Now we show them what pain looks like. I want noise. I want aggression. And I want fear in their eyes."
"Yes, Captain!" the team roared, a guttural sound that startled the security guards nearby.
The adrenaline wasn't flowing; it was crashing through us like a tidal wave. We sprinted onto the field, not with the joy of playing cricket, but with the intent of settling a score.
High above the hostility, in the climate-controlled sanctuary of the Media Centre, the mood was equally combative, though wrapped in the veneer of professional broadcasting.
Shaun Pollock: "Hello and welcome back to what promises to be an absolute cracker of a final session here at Lord's. The equation is simple on paper: England needs 302 runs to win; India needs 10 wickets. We have 60 overs left in the day. But looking at the body language of Virat Kohli and his men as they storm the field... I think the equation is far more emotional than mathematical."
Nasser Hussain: "Well, Shaun, you can see the aggression. You can feel it up here. But I have to say, listening to some of the chatter... Kohli saying 'make it hell' out there... it's not exactly what you want to hear in a Gentleman's game, is it? It's Test cricket, not a street fight."
Sunil Gavaskar: "Gentleman's game? Nasser, with all due respect, the game stopped being gentle yesterday afternoon when your bowlers were targeting the heads of our tail-enders. When Bumrah was hit, when Shami was targeted... was that the Gentleman's game? Or was that bullying?"
Nasser Hussain: "That was different, Sunny. England needed wickets. The short ball is a legitimate tactic against the tail. It's part of the game. It wasn't malicious; it was aggressive cricket."
Sunil Gavaskar: "Aggressive cricket when England does it, but 'not a gentleman's game' when India responds? No, no. This is the New India. They don't turn the other cheek. If you slap them, they will punch you back. You reap what you sow, Nasser. The England team poked the sleeping Lion, and now the Lion is awake."
Shaun Pollock: (Sensing the tension rising) "Right, well, the tactical battle is certainly heating up along with the verbal one. Let's look at the middle. Virat Kohli and Aarav Pathak are having a very animated conversation. Aarav has the new ball in hand. India has found a gem here, haven't they? A proper fast-bowling all-rounder. The holy grail they've been searching for since Kapil Dev."
Sunil Gavaskar: "I agree completely, Shaun. We have Hardik Pandya, who is a wonderful talent, but his body hasn't allowed him to play Test cricket consistently. Aarav plays all three formats. And the best thing? He is a proper all-format player. He could bat at number three and score a century at Lord's for fun, as we saw in the first innings, and then come out and clock 140-145 kmph consistently. It's like he's moving in a park for a stroll."
Nasser Hussain: "He is a talent, no doubt. A fantastic find."
Sunil Gavaskar: "I would go a step further. Currently, looking at form and impact, he is the best all-rounder in the world across all three formats."
Nasser Hussain: (Interjecting sharply) "Whoa, steady on, Sunny. We shouldn't say things like that lightly. Let's not forget Ben Stokes is still playing cricket. When it comes to Test cricket, Stokes is in a league of his own. He wins matches single-handedly with bat and ball. Aarav is young; he's played 14-15 Tests."
Sunil Gavaskar: "Stokes is a great player, Nasser. I am not denying that. But look at the numbers recently. Look at the calmness Aarav is showing. And if we are talking about pure impact... in terms of consistency with the ball or bat, Stokes doesn't even come close to Ravindra Jadeja, let alone Aarav's current form. Aarav is bowling opening spells. Stokes is a fourth seamer. There is a difference."
Nasser Hussain: "Well, we can debate rankings all day, but the proof is in the pudding. Let's see what the 'Prince' can do now with a target to defend."
Shaun Pollock: "Gentlemen, the field is set. The openers, Rory Burns and Dom Sibley, are at the crease. The atmosphere is electric. Let's get down to the action."
On the field, the noise was deafening. But inside the 22 yards, it was intimate and violent.
I stood at the top of my mark, polishing the new Dukes ball on my trousers. The red leather shone menacingly.
Virat walked up to me. He didn't look at the batsmen. He looked right into my eyes.
"Aarav," he said, his voice low but cutting through the noise. "You are the fastest bowler in this team currently. You have the wind behind you."
He paused, glancing at Rory Burns, who was marking his guard.
"I don't know if you get the wicket or not in this over. I don't care about the wicket right now. But I need him to feel the pain. I need him to feel exactly what Bumrah felt. I need him to feel what Axar felt when his helmet rattled."
I stopped polishing the ball. I looked at Virat. His eyes were devoid of mercy.
"Got it, Captain," I replied, a cold resolve settling in my stomach. "Whole England team... they will feel it."
Virat slapped my back—hard. "Go. Kill."
I turned to my mark.
The crowd sensed it. The Indian contingent in the stands, usually joyous, was now baying for blood. As I began my run-up, a chant started. A rhythmic, gladiatorial sound.
"HO... HOOO... HOOOOOO!"
It grew louder with every stride I took.
The Thunderbolt
[Aarav POV]
The world narrowed down to a tunnel. At the end of it stood Rory Burns, tapping his bat, looking at his feet.
He thinks this is just another new ball spell. He thinks I'm going to search for the outswinger.
I gripped the ball. Not the seam-up grip for swing. I held it cross-seam, fingers dug in wide. The effort ball. The heavy ball.
I hit the crease. My front foot slammed down, transmitting the energy through my ankles, up my spine, and into my shoulder. I didn't release the ball; I fired it.
It left my hand at 149.4 kmph.
It didn't pitch full. It pitched short of a length, angling sharply into the left-hander's body.
Rory Burns was expecting the regulation away-swinger. He was on the front foot, ready to leave.
By the time he realized the length, it was too late. By the time he realized the line, the ball was already at his neck.
He tried to sway. He tried to jerk his head back. But 149 kmph is faster than human reaction time when you are unprepared.
The ball bypassed the bat. It bypassed the shoulder.
CRACK!
It wasn't the dull thud of the body. It was the sharp, terrifying crack of plastic and carbon fiber.
The ball slammed flush into the side of Rory Burns' helmet, just above the ear guard.
The impact was so violent that the helmet didn't just rattle; the strap snapped. The helmet flew off his head, spinning in the air, and landed near the stumps.
Burns crumpled. He dropped his bat and fell to his knees, clutching his head.
The stadium went silent.
I didn't stop. I didn't slow down. I carried my momentum through the follow-through.
I saw him fall.
And I turned around.
I didn't walk up to him. I didn't ask, "Are you okay, mate?" I didn't show a flicker of concern.
I walked back to my mark, brushing my hair back, my face a mask of stone.
That's for Axar.
[End POV]
The silence lasted only a second before the slip cordon erupted—not in cheers, but in aggression.
Virat Kohli ran from first slip. He stopped a few feet away from Burns, who was looking dazed.
Virat looked at him. He saw Burns' eyes were open. He saw he was conscious.
That was enough humanity for today.
Virat turned around, looked at me walking back to my mark, and punched the air.
"TAKE HIM OUT!" Virat screamed, pointing at the batsman on the ground. "GET HIM OUT OF HERE!"
Sunil Gavaskar (Comms): "Oh my goodness! What a ball! That is serious pace! The speed gun says 149.4 kmph. Just the sheer pace of it, and it has knocked the helmet right off Rory Burns' head! And look at the reaction from the bowler! Not a word! Not a glance! He has just turned his back!"
Nasser Hussain (Comms): "This is ugly. I'm sorry, but this is ugly scenes. You have a man down on the ground, hit on the head, and the Indian captain is screaming 'Take him out'? The bowler isn't even checking on him? Where is the empathy? Where is the spirit of cricket?"
Sunil Gavaskar (Comms): "Nasser, where was the empathy when Bumrah was hit? Did Anderson check on him? Did Wood stop laughing? No. They laughed. They mocked. This is high-performance sport. Burns is being checked by the physio now. But make no mistake, the psychological blow has been landed."
On the ground, the England physio sprinted out. Burns was shaken. He looked groggy. He took the concussion test.
While the physio shone a light in Burns' eyes, the Indian team didn't huddle quietly. We stood in a semi-circle, hands on hips, staring at them.
I stood at the top of my mark, spinning the ball in my hand.
Burns stood up. He nodded to the physio. He put on a new helmet.
The crowd roared—a mix of relief and anticipation.
But Burns wasn't the same. I could see it in his eyes. The feet were heavy. The doubt had crept in.
I ran in for the next ball.
Ball 0.2: Another bouncer. 148 kmph. Burns swayed away awkwardly, almost falling over.
Ball 0.3: Full. Swinging in. Burns, expecting the bouncer, was stuck on the back foot. The ball rapped him on the pads. "HOWZAT!"
Umpire shook his head. Going down leg. But the setup was complete.
Ball 0.4: Back of a length. Seaming away. Burns poked at it nervously. Hard hands. Fearful hands. Edge.
It flew low to the right of second slip. Rohit Sharma dived.
But it fell just short.
"ARRRGH!" Virat screamed, kicking the turf.
Shaun Pollock (Comms): "The intensity is suffocating. Every ball is an event. Burns is looking like a cat on a hot tin roof. He doesn't know whether to go forward or back. Aarav Pathak is breathing fire."
The over ended. A maiden. A brutal, violent maiden.
I walked past Burns to get my cap from the umpire. I stopped for a split second.
"Get ready," I whispered, just loud enough for him to hear. "It's going to be a long evening."
Burns didn't look at me. He just stared at the pitch.
We had them. The fear was there. Now, we just had to execute.
Sixty overs of hell had just begun.
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The siege of London was well underway.
From the Nursery End, Jasprit Bumrah was bowling with a hostility that bordered on personal animosity. He wasn't just hitting the deck; he was pounding it, trying to extract life from the soil through sheer willpower. Every ball angled in at the ribs or jagged away past the outside edge.
But from the Pavilion End, it wasn't just hostility. It was terror.
I was in a trance. The fatigue of the batting innings, the soreness of yesterday—it had all evaporated, burned away by the white-hot fire of adrenaline.
Aarav's figures read like a glitch in the matrix: 6 Overs. 6 Maidens. 0 Runs. 0 Wickets.
Aarav hadn't conceded a single run. He hadn't bowled a single ball under 145 kmph.
The scoreboard pressure was mounting. It was the 12th Over. England was crawling at 11/0, effectively unable to get bat on ball. The crowd was hushed, the usual buzz of Lord's replaced by a tense, breathless silence. They knew they were witnessing something rare.
Virat walked up to me as I retrieved my cap.
"One more," Aarav said, breathless, sweat dripping from his beard. "One last burst before we switch you out. Give me everything."
"I have enough for the whole day, Skip," I replied, my voice flat.
"Just get me one," he slapped my chest. "Break the door down."
Over 13. Ball 1.
Dom Sibley was on strike. He looked like a man trying to defuse a bomb with trembling hands. He had survived 30 balls for just a handful of runs. He knew I was coming for his head or his toes.
I stood at the top of my mark. I didn't look at the crowd. I didn't look at the umpire. I stared at the off-stump.
I began the run-up. The rhythm was hypnotic. Thud. Thud. Thud.
I hit the delivery stride, arching my back like a catapult.
152.0 kmph.
It was the fastest ball of the day. A left-arm missile that pitched short of a length and reared up violently. Sibley didn't have time to think. He jerked his head back, eyes widening in panic.
The ball hissed past his helmet grille, missing the badge by a millimeter. It kept rising. Rishabh Pant had to leap like a goalkeeper to collect it high above his head.
The crowd gasped. The Indian slip cordon groaned in unison. "Ohhhhhh!"
Shaun Pollock (Comms): "Goodness me! That has taken off like a jet plane! 152 clicks on the gun. Sibley is a tall man, but that was smelling his nose. That is the fourth time today the bounce has saved an England batsman from Aarav. He is bending his back and then some."
I walked back, wiping the sweat from my brow. Sibley stepped out of the crease, tapping the pitch, trying to calm his racing heart. He looked at his partner, Rory Burns, but found no comfort there.
Ball 2.
I reached the mark. I turned.
He expects the bouncer now. He's sitting on the back foot.
I ran in. Same speed. Same aggression.
But the release was different. I let it go a fraction of a second later.
150.7 kmph.
It wasn't a bouncer. It was a yorker. A heat-seeking, inswinging, toe-crushing yorker.
Sibley was late. He was fatally late. His bat was still coming down from the backlift when the ball arrived.
It swerved in the air, a blur of red, and crashed into the base of the off-stump.
CRACK.
The stump didn't just tip over; it was uprooted, somersaulting out of the ground.
"YEAHHHHHHHHH!"
I didn't run. I just stood there, arms wide, screaming at the sky, letting the rage pour out.
But Virat... Virat was gone. He was sprinting towards the cover region, veins popping, screaming in pure ecstasy, punching the air as if he were fighting an invisible demon. The rest of the team swarmed me. Siraj jumped on my back. Pant was shouting unintelligible things.
Dom Sibley b Aarav 11England: 11/1
Nasser Hussain: "Well, that is too good. Absolute pace. You cannot play that. But I have to say, the reaction... look at Kohli running away, screaming. It's a bit much, isn't it? You've got the wicket. Act like you've been there before."
Sunil Gavaskar: "Oh, come on, Nasser! Where is this 'too much' coming from? When Anderson snarled at our tail-enders yesterday, it was 'passion'. When Broad kicked the turf, it was 'intensity'. Now India celebrates a wicket that breaks a deadlock, and it's 'too much'?"
Nasser Hussain: "It's the anger, Sunny. It's not joy. It's pure anger. Look at Aarav. He hasn't even smiled. He looks like he wants to hurt someone."
Sunil Gavaskar: "He wants to win, Nasser. He wants to win. That is the face of a winner the face of world test champion which India is. England poked them. England made it personal. Now, don't complain when the fire burns you. That delivery was 150.7 kmph. That is world-class skill, fueled by world-class passion."
Shaun Pollock: "Gentlemen, the debate will rage on, but out in the middle, Haseeb Hameed is walking out. And I don't think he cares about the celebration. He cares about survival."
Haseeb Hameed walked to the crease. The 'Baby Boycott', as they used to call him. He was making a comeback after years in the wilderness.
His first innings had lasted one ball - a golden duck, bowled by me.
Now, he was facing a hat-trick of sorts—a King Pair (two golden ducks in a match).
He marked his guard. His hands were shaking slightly. He looked at the scoreboard. Target: 302. It felt a million miles away.
He looked at me. He saw a bowler who had just clocked 151 and 150 back-to-back. He saw the fielders crowding him—three slips, a gully, a short leg.
Internal Monologue (Aarav): He is terrified of the pace. He thinks I'm going to blast him out again. He is tensed up, ready to jab at anything fast.
I walked back to my mark. I polished the ball on my trousers, staring at him.
I turned.
Ball 3.
I ran in. I put every ounce of effort into the run-up. The approach was identical. The arm speed looked identical.
Hameed braced himself. He planted his front foot early, hands rigid, ready to block the 150 kmph thunderbolt.
I rolled my fingers over the ball. An off-cutter.
125 kmph.
It floated. It hung in the air, mocking him.
Hameed's eyes widened. He realized too late. He had already committed to the shot. He tried to check his drive, to hold the bat back, but the momentum was against him.
He ended up spooning a gentle drive back up the pitch, to the right of the bowler.
It wasn't a simple catch. I was in my follow-through, my momentum taking me down the left side.
I saw the ball looping.
Dive.
I threw my body to the right, fully horizontal, airborne.
My right hand shot out.
Thwack.
The ball stuck.
I hit the ground hard, rolling over, clutching the red cherry in my right fist.
"CATCH IT!" Pant screamed, late.
I stood up, holding the ball aloft.
Haseeb Hameed c & b Aarav 0 (1)England: 11/2
Another Golden Duck. A King Pair for Hameed. A nightmare return.
The Indian team went berserk. Virat grabbed my head with both hands, shaking me violently. "YOU GENIUS! YOU ABSOLUTE GENIUS!"
I looked at Hameed. He was standing there, bat tucked under his arm, looking at the ground. He looked broken.
I didn't scream this time. I just nodded at him. A cruel, cold nod.
Shaun Pollock (Comms): "Unbelievable! Absolutely unbelievable! He has deceived him completely! Hameed was waiting for the express train, and he got the slow carriage! The change of pace was masterful. 150 to 125. And the athleticism to take that catch! India is all over England like a rash!"
Sunil Gavaskar (Comms): "That is the golden arm! The golden arm of the Prince! England is 11 for 2. They need 291 more. But right now, they look like they wouldn't score 291 in a month against this bowling attack!"
The crowd was stunned. The "Target 302" on the big screen suddenly looked like a mountain that touched the stratosphere.
We had them. The opening burst had ripped the heart out of their chase. Now, we just had to finish the job.
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The umpire raised his finger, signaling the end of the hour.
Drinks.
The timing couldn't have been more perfect. We had just ripped the heart out of the English top order. Two wickets in the space of three balls. The scoreboard read 11/2, and the target of 302 looked like a mathematical impossibility against this level of hostility.
As the drinks cart rattled onto the field, pushed by Ishan Kishan and Suryakumar Yadav, the adrenaline that had been holding us in a state of hyper-focus began to ebb slightly, replaced by a warm, glowing euphoria.
We converged in the side of the pitch. It wasn't the tight, angry huddle of the start of the innings. This was a gathering of wolves who had just tasted blood.
Virat Kohli was the first to reach me. He didn't say anything at first; he just grabbed my face with both hands, his eyes wide and manic, shaking me.
"That slower ball!" he finally shouted, his voice cracking. "That was filth! Absolute filth! Did you see Hameed's face? He thought his life was ending!"
I couldn't help but grin, the sweat stinging my eyes. "He was waiting for the thunderbolt, Skip. I just gave him a gentle breeze."
Rohit Sharma jogged over from the slip cordon. He looked at the big screen which was showing the replay of Sibley's stumps cartwheeling.
"Bhai, kya daal raha hai tu aaj?" (Brother, what are you bowling today?) Rohit laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. "You've turned into the Rajdhani Express! Non-stop service to the pavilion!"
Virat whipped around, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. "Rajdhani? No, Rohit. Rajdhani has stops. It slows down at stations."
He pointed a finger at me.
"This is the Bullet Train. High speed, zero stops. Direct from Mumbai to London!"
The circle erupted in laughter. It was a strange sound—loud, raucous laughter echoing around Lord's in the middle of a tense Test match. The English batsmen, Burns (who was still nursing a bruised ego and probably a headache) and the incoming Joe Root, stood at a distance, watching us. They must have wondered what was so funny. They probably thought we were laughing at them.
In a way, we were.
As the laughter subsided, Rishabh Pant walked into the center of the huddle. He wasn't laughing. He was grimacing.
He threw his keeping gloves onto the grass with a dramatic thud.
"Physio!" Pant shouted towards the dugout. "Physio, jaldi aao!" (Come fast!)
The smile wiped off Virat's face instantly. "What happened? Are you hurt?"
I felt a sudden pang of anxiety. Pant was crucial. If he was injured, we were in trouble.
Nitin Patel, the team physio, came sprinting onto the ground, bag bouncing on his shoulder. "What is it, Rishabh? Hamstring? Groin?"
Pant shook his head, looking like a man who had been forced to catch cannonballs. He held out his hands.
"Look at this!" Pant complained, his voice rising in that distinct, high-pitched Delhi accent.
He peeled off his inner gloves.
The team leaned in. Pant's palms were not flesh-colored anymore. They were a deep, angry crimson. The webbing between his thumb and index finger looked swollen, throbbing with blood.
"My hands are on fire!" Pant whined, looking directly at me with betrayal in his eyes. "You man! What the hell are you throwing?"
He turned to Virat. "Bhaiya, tell him to bowl at the stumps, not at my hands! Every ball is wobbling! One goes this way, one goes that way, and all of them are coming at 150 clicks! It feels like catching bricks!"
He blew on his palms, trying to cool them down.
"I think he is trying to injure me, not these Englandies!" Pant declared, pointing an accusatory finger at me. "He wants to kill the keeper so he can bowl without anyone stopping him!"
There was a beat of silence as we looked at Pant's red, throbbing hands.
Then, we all burst out laughing again.
"Oh, stop crying, Spidey," I grinned, taking a bottle of water from Ishan. "That's the sound of victory. Or in your case, the feeling of victory."
"Victory feels like burning!" Pant retorted, letting the physio spray cooling spray on his palms. "Next over, you keep. I will bowl."
"You bowl 150, I'll keep," I countered.
"I can bowl 150!" Pant argued, wincing as he flexed his fingers. "150... centimeters per hour."
Even the physio cracked a smile as he taped up Pant's fingers.
"Just survive 45 more overs, Rishabh," Rohit said, patting Pant's helmet. "After the match, we'll get you a new pair of hands. Amazon delivery."
"Make sure they are steel hands," Pant grumbled, pulling his gloves back on. "Because this guy is not a human. He is a machine."
It was a lighthearted moment, a brief interlude of comedy in a drama of high stakes. But as I looked around the huddle—at the smiling faces of Bumrah, Shami, Siraj, and Virat—I realized something.
This wasn't just banter. This was confidence.
Yesterday, we were anxious. Yesterday, we were hurt. Today, we were joking about the speed of our bowling while the opposition was terrified.
I looked over at the English balcony. Joe Root was walking down the stairs, his face pale, his bat tucked tight under his arm. He wasn't laughing. The Barmy Army wasn't singing.
The fear had shifted.
"Right," Virat said, clapping his hands, the smile vanishing as quickly as it appeared. The mask of the aggressor slid back into place. "Fun is over. Rishabh, tape it up. Aarav, drink your water."
He stepped into the center, pulling us tight again.
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