The news studios of India were no longer just reporting sports; they were hosting a national festival. The graphic on the screen, bold and flashing in tricolor, read:
"INDIA'S NEW HOPE: U-19 WORLD CUP FINALISTS!"
A news anchor, her face flushed with genuine excitement, leaned towards the camera. Behind her, a split-screen showed two young men: Virat Kohli, roaring with primal fury after a century, and Siddanth Deva, calm, composed, raising his bat with a professional, almost serene grace.
"Good evening, India! If you thought Indian cricket was in crisis, think again! Tonight, in Kuala Lumpur, eleven young men didn't just win a semi-final; they announced a revolution!"
The screen cut to highlights of the match. New Zealand's daunting 242. India's horrifying collapse to 35 for 4. The anchor's voice dropped to a dramatic whisper.
"Thirty-five for four. The dream seemed over. The ghosts of the senior team's World Cup disaster were haunting us again. But then..."
The footage shifted. It showed Kohli, bristling with aggressive energy, smashing a cover drive. Then it showed Siddanth, cool as ice, playing that unbelievable, physics-defying scoop shot for six.
"Enter the Captain, Virat Kohli, and the 'Hyderabad Hurricane,' Siddanth Deva! A partnership for the ages! Not 50 runs, not 100 runs, but a mammoth, match-winning 213-run stand!"
She paused for effect, letting the magnitude of the number sink in.
"Kohli, with a fiery 129 not out, was the irresistible force. But Siddanth Deva, with an unbeaten 84, was the immovable object. He didn't just support his captain; he matched him shot for shot! We are hearing reports of a new kind of cricket being played by this young man—shots that don't even have names yet!"
The screen now showed a map of India, with little celebratory graphics popping up in Delhi, Mumbai, Bangalore, and Hyderabad.
"From the streets of Delhi, where Virat Kohli's family is distributing sweets, to the lanes of Hyderabad, where Siddanth Deva's parents are hosting an impromptu neighborhood party, the entire nation is celebrating these young lions. They face South Africa in the final this Sunday. Can they bring the Cup home? If tonight was any indication, India, get ready to believe again!"
In Hyderabad, the Deva household was hosting a party.
The small living room was overflowing. It seemed like half the colony had squeezed in. Some uncles hadn't watched a cricket match since 1983, aunts who didn't know a googly from a gulab jamun but knew that "our Siddu" was a hero, and a horde of neighborhood kids who were currently re-enacting Siddanth's scoop shot in the narrow hallway with a plastic bat and a tennis ball.
Vikram Deva was a man transformed. The stern lawyer was gone, replaced by a beaming, boisterous father who was personally ensuring that every single guest had a plate full of biryani and a glass full of Thums Up.
"Did you see the scoop, Sharma ji?" Vikram roared to his neighbor, a retired bank manager. "He went down on one knee! Like he was proposing! And then... whoosh! Over the keeper's head! Six runs! Have you ever seen Tendulkar play that shot? No! Only my Siddu!"
Sesikala was in the kitchen, a happy, tearful blur of activity. She was churning out mountains of mirchi bajji, her face glowing with pride every time someone shouted her son's name from the living room. She didn't understand the technicalities of "strike rates" or "required run rates," but she understood the look on her husband's face. She understood that her son had done something magnificent.
Then, the door burst open, and a new wave of energy entered the room.
"WHERE IS HE? WHERE IS THE FATHER OF THE LEGEND?"
It was Arjun, flanked by three other boys from Siddanth's old school team—Ravi, Sameer, and a tall, lanky boy named Karthik. They were all wearing hastily-bought blue India jerseys, some with 'DEVA' written on the back in marker pen.
Vikram laughed, a huge, booming sound, and embraced Arjun. "Arjun! You saw it? You saw him?"
"Saw him? Uncle, we lived it!" Arjun yelled, his voice hoarse from hours of screaming. He pushed his way into the center of the room, grabbing the TV remote (which was currently showing a replay of the match on a sports channel).
"Okay, listen up, everyone!" Arjun announced, taking charge like a professor at a lecture. He paused the TV on a freeze-frame of Siddanth playing the reverse-sweep.
"You see this?" Arjun pointed at the screen. "This is not just a shot. This is... this is genius! The bowler, see his hand? He's bowling an off-spinner. Normal batsmen, they block this. Maybe, if they are brave, they sweep it to the leg side."
He looked around the room, ensuring he had everyone's rapt attention.
"But Siddu? No. He changes his grip! See? He becomes a left-hander! In one second! And he hits it over the other side! The bowler is confused! The captain is crying! This is what we call... innovation!"
The uncles nodded sagely, pretending they understood every word. "Innovation," one murmured. "Very good, very good."
Sameer, the boy who had cried when India lost in 2003, was now grinning from ear to ear. "And the partnership with Kohli! Uncle, when they were 35 for 4, I thought... I thought it was 2003 all over again. I almost turned the TV off."
"Never!" Vikram declared, slamming a fist into his palm. "Never turn off the TV when Siddu is batting! He is a fighter! He doesn't know how to give up!"
"Exactly!" Arjun agreed. "Kohli was angry. You could see it. He wanted to smash everything. But Siddu... he was calm. He was the ice to Kohli's fire. He kept him grounded. They... they complete each other, Uncle. It's the perfect partnership."
Sesikala emerged from the kitchen with a fresh batch of bajjis. "Arjun, beta, eat."
Arjun laughed, grabbing a hot bajji. "Aunty, your son is making us all fat with happiness today! But listen, we have a plan."
The room quieted down. A plan from Arjun usually meant something big.
"The final is on Sunday," Arjun said, his eyes shining. "South Africa. They are tough. But we beat them in the group stage."
"Yes, yes," Vikram nodded. "Siddu scored 60 runs that day. And took 3 wickets."
"Exactly. But this is the final. The pressure will be double. We can't just watch this at home. It's too small. We need... energy. We need a stadium atmosphere!"
Vikram looked around his overflowing living room. "It is a bit crowded..."
"I've already spoken to the Colony Association president," Arjun said, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "We're booking the community hall. We're getting a projector. A big screen. Not just for us. For the whole colony! We will watch Siddanth bring the World Cup home... together!"
A cheer went up that rattled the windows. Vikram looked at his wife, his eyes misty. A whole community hall, just to watch their son.
"Yes," Vikram said, his voice thick with emotion. "Yes! We will do it! I will pay for the projector! I will pay for the food! Everyone is invited!"
The room erupted again. It was a perfect moment, a moment of pure, shared community joy, all sparked by one boy thousands of miles away.
Meanwhile, across India, similar scenes were playing out.
In Delhi, the Kohli household was a fortress under siege by the media. Virat's mother, Saroj, was graciously handing out boxes of laddoos to reporters while his brother, Vikas, was giving breathless interviews about Virat's childhood aggression.
"He always hated losing!" Vikas told a reporter, puffing out his chest. "Even in gully cricket, if he got out, he would take his bat and go home! That anger... you saw it today! He channeled it! And, Siddanth... he is good for Virat. He calms him down. They are a good team."
In Jamnagar, Ravindra Jadeja's modest home was quiet, but filled with a deep, simmering pride. His father, Anirudhsinh, a watchman, sat with his fellow guards, listening to the commentary on a small transistor radio.
"Did you hear, Anirudh?" one of them asked. "Your Ravi took two wickets. He bowled well."
"He always bowls well," Anirudhsinh said simply, a small, proud smile on his weathered face. "He is a Rajput. He knows how to fight."
In Uttar Pradesh, Tanmay Srivastava's family was already planning a pooja for the final. In Bangalore, Manish Pandey's friends were plastered around a TV in a college canteen, cheering every time his face appeared on the screen during the highlights.
It was a nation united by hope, a hope rekindled by eleven young men who played with a fire that the senior team had seemingly lost.
Back in Hyderabad, late that night, after the last guest had left and the house was finally quiet, Vikram and Sesikala sat in the living room amidst the debris of the party.
"Can you believe it, Sesi?" Vikram asked quietly, looking at the now-silent TV. "Our Siddu. In a World Cup final."
Sesikala smiled, tired but happy. "I always knew he was special, Vikram. But this... this is something else. Did you see how the other boys looked at him? Even that captain boy, Kohli. They respect him."
"They respect him because he is a leader," Vikram said. "He doesn't need to be the captain to lead. He leads with his bat and ball. He leads with his calmness."
He picked up the phone. It was late, but he knew Siddanth would be awake. He always was after a big match.
He dialed.
"Hello?" Siddanth's voice was tired, but clear.
"Finalist," Vikram said, letting the word roll off his tongue like a fine wine.
He could hear Siddanth's soft chuckle on the other end. "Hi, Nanna. You watched?"
"We watched? The whole colony watched! Arjun is organizing a big screening for the final. You have become a hero, Siddu."
"Just doing my job, Nanna. Virat was incredible today."
"You were both incredible," Vikram insisted. "That partnership... it was like watching two masters, not two boys. Are you nervous? For Sunday?"
There was a pause on the other end. A long, thoughtful silence.
"No, Nanna," Siddanth finally said. And Vikram could hear the absolute, unwavering certainty in his son's voice. It wasn't the bravado of a teenager. It was the cold assurance of a man who knew the future.
"We've beaten them once. We know how they play. They're good, but we're better. We're going to win this. I promise you."
"We will be watching, my son," Vikram whispered. "Bringing the whole world with us."
"Tell Amma I'm eating properly," Siddanth added, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"I will. Sleep well, Siddu. You have a World Cup to win."
Vikram hung up the phone. He looked at Sesikala, who was already dozing off in her chair. He gently woke her and led her to bed.
Sunday was coming. And for the first time in a long time, Vikram Deva didn't just hope for a victory. He believed in it. Because his son had promised. And Siddanth Deva, it seemed, did not break his promises.