Give some suggestions on what you want in this fan fic
Also leave some reviews
-----
The 17th of February, 2008. A Sunday.
In the Deva household in Hyderabad, this wasn't just a Sunday; it was a day of worship. The television was the altar.
Vikram Deva sat in his usual armchair, a cup of Sesikala's strong filter coffee cooling forgotten on the side table. He wore his "lucky" shirt, a faded blue linen number that had seen better decades, but which he swore carried a specific cosmic resonance.
Sesikala sat on the sofa, her hands clutching a small silver idol of Lord Ganesha. She wasn't watching the screen directly; she was watching it through the gaps in her fingers, a habit born of a mother's unbearable anxiety.
On the screen, thousands of miles away in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, the sun was beating down on the Kinrara Academy Oval. It was India U-19 vs. Papua New Guinea U-19.
"They're batting well, Sesi," Vikram murmured, his eyes never leaving the screen. "Tanmay and Goswami have set a good platform."
"Is... is our boy playing today? I didn't see the lineup," Sesikala asked, her voice small.
"Of course he's playing! But he's batting at number seven today. They want to give the other boys a chance. PNG... they are not a strong team."
Sesikala nodded, not really understanding the nuances of batting orders, only knowing that her son was far away, playing a game that the world seemed to be watching.
The Indian innings progressed. It was a professional, almost clinical dismantling of the inexperienced PNG bowling attack. Goswami scored a 40 before getting out. Tanmay Srivastava, the rock, was still there, anchoring the innings.
The overs ticked down. 40 overs gone. 45 overs gone.
India was 245 for 5.
"Five overs left," Vikram muttered, leaning forward. "They need a finisher. They need..."
On the screen, a young man walked out from the pavilion. He wore the blue jersey with 'INDIA' emblazoned across the chest and no 6 on the back.
He adjusted his helmet, and the camera zoomed in on his eyes—calm, focused, unblinking.
"There he is!" Vikram roared, slapping his knee. "Sesi! Look! It's Siddu!"
Sesikala uncovered her eyes. There he was. Her son. He looked so serious.
"He looks thin," she fretted immediately. "Are they feeding him properly in Malaysia?"
Vikram chuckled. "He's an athlete, Sesi. You know he's been a fitness freak since he was a kid. Now watch. Watch what he does."
Siddanth Deva, 17 years old (officially), took his guard. He had five overs. 30 balls.
He didn't need 30.
The first ball he faced was a decent length delivery from the PNG medium-pacer. Most batsmen would have just pushed it for a single to get off the mark.
Siddanth didn't just push it. He glided.
He stepped out, not with a jump, but with a smooth, predatory slide. He met the ball on the full and, with a mere flick of his wrists, he lofted it over extra-cover.
It wasn't a violently hit shot. It was pure timing. It sailed, high and graceful, landing softly beyond the boundary rope.
SIX.
"Oh my god," Vikram breathed. "Did you see that, Sesi? That's... that's not normal."
Sesikala just stared, her mouth slightly open. "He hit it so... easily."
The next few minutes were a blur of blue and white. Siddanth didn't just bat; he put on a clinical show.
He faced 10 balls in total.
Ball 1: Six over extra cover.
Ball 2: Four, a delicate reverse-sweep that left the PNG wicketkeeper completely baffled.
Ball 3: Two runs, turned to deep mid-wicket with lightning speed.
Ball 4: Six, a monstrous pull shot off a short ball that disappeared out of the ground.
Ball 5: Single, giving the strike back to Srivastava to complete his century.
...
Ball 10: The final ball of the innings. A perfect yorker. Siddanth, anticipating it, shuffled across his stumps and scooped it over fine leg for four.
He finished 30 not out off 10 balls. A strike rate of 300.
India finished on 290 for 5.
In Hyderabad, Vikram Deva was beaming so hard his face hurt. "Thirty runs! In ten balls! Sesi, do you know what that strike rate is? It's... It's unheard of at this level!"
Sesikala smiled, a genuine, proud, relieved smile. Her boy had done well. He hadn't gotten out.
"He plays so beautifully, Vikram," she said softly. "Like... like he's dancing."
Vikram looked at his wife, surprised by the accuracy of her observation. "Yes," he said, his voice thick with pride. "He is. He's dancing with them."
The innings break was an agonizing wait for Vikram. He paced the small living room, replaying every one of Siddanth's ten balls in his head. Sesikala used the time to make fresh tea and offer a quick prayer of thanks to Ganesha.
"They will bowl now," Vikram announced as the players walked back onto the field. "Siddu will bowl first change, I think. Maybe second."
But Virat Kohli, the captain, had other ideas. He tossed the new white ball to Siddanth.
"Opening the bowling!" Vikram gasped. "He's trusting him with the new ball! Sesi, come quick!"
Siddanth stood at the top of his mark. The Malaysian heat was intense, shimmering off the pitch. He looked calm. Collected.
He began his run-up. It was that long, rhythmic, accelerating approach that Vikram knew so well.
The first ball was a 145kph outswinger. It was too good for the PNG opener. It beat the bat by a whisker.
"Ooh!" Vikram groaned, mimicking the slip cordon on TV.
The second ball was identical. 145kph. Outswing. The batsman poked at it nervously.
The third ball. Siddanth didn't change his action. He didn't change his speed. But he changed his grip. It was the wobble-seam.
The ball pitched on the same spot, but instead of swinging away, it nipped back in sharply.
The batsman, expecting another outswinger, shouldered arms.
CRACK.
The ball smashed into the off-stump, sending it cart wheeling out of the ground.
WICKET 1.
Vikram leapt out of his chair, a roar escaping him that startled the neighbors. "YES! CLEAN BOWLED! A BEAUTY!"
Sesikala clapped her hands, her eyes shining. "He got one! He got one!"
Siddanth didn't celebrate wildly. He just raised a fist, high-fived Kohli, and walked back to his mark. It was the cool, professional demeanor of a man who expected this.
His spell was a massacre.
Over 3, Ball 4: A searing 148kph yorker. The PNG number 3 didn't even get his bat down. Plumb LBW. WICKET 2.
Over 5, Ball 1: A perfectly disguised 110kph slower ball. The batsman was through his shot early, spooning a simple catch to mid-off. WICKET 3.
Over 7, Ball 6: A ferocious bouncer. The batsman fended it off his gloves, straight to gully. WICKET 4.
He was unplayable. He was bowling with pace, with guile, with absolute control.
The PNG team was crumbling. They were 40 for 6. Siddanth had taken four of them.
Kohli took him off after 7 overs.
"He's done enough," Vikram said, sitting back down, exhausted from cheering. "Save him for the bigger matches."
But PNG showed a little fight in the tail. A small partnership developed. Kohli, ruthless, brought Siddanth back for one more burst to finish it.
First ball of his new spell. He went round the wicket. He bowled a vicious, reverse-swinging yorker that crashed into the base of the leg stump.
WICKET 5.
A five-wicket haul in a World Cup match.
Siddanth had a satisfied smile on his face.
On the TV screen, the graphics flashed: SIDDANTH DEVA: 5 for 18 (8.1 overs).
In Hyderabad, the Deva household was silent for a moment, soaking it in.
Then, Vikram turned to Sesikala. His eyes were wet.
"Five wickets, Sesi. And thirty runs. In a World Cup match."
Sesikala looked at the screen, at her son's calm, smiling face as his teammates hugged him. She didn't see the statistics. She didn't see the strike rates or the bowling averages.
She just saw her little boy, the one who used to break her windows with a tennis ball, standing tall on the world stage.
"He looks happy, Vikram," she whispered, wiping a tear from her own cheek. "He looks truly happy."
Vikram nodded, unable to speak for a moment. He reached out and took his wife's hand.
They sat there, hand in hand, watching their son conquer the world, one ball at a time. It was, Vikram thought, the best Sunday of his entire life.
---
Final Poll between
1. Rahul Dravid
2. Jacques Kallis