While the match unfolded in the physical world, the virtual world was experiencing a meltdown.
[Match Start: 0.0 Overs]
@CricketCrazyRavi: Toss lost. History says bat first to win finals. Malinga looks scary. Deva looks calm. Let's go India! 🇮🇳 #CWC2011 #IndVsSL
[0.2 Overs - Sehwag Wicket]
@ViruLover99: NO. NO. NO. NO.
@TechieRahul: TV off. Going to sleep. It's 2003 all over again. Why God, why? 💔
@Trendulkar: Sehwag out for a duck. The silence in my colony is louder than a bomb blast. #Shocked
[6.1 Overs - Sachin Wicket]
@GodOfCricketFan: I am crying. Literally crying. The 100th hundred dream is dead. 😭
@RajiniSir: Silence at Wankhede. Even the sea has stopped roaring.
@CricketStats: India 31/2. Sachin and Sehwag gone. This is the worst start possible. It's all on the kids now. #Panic
[15.0 Overs - The Partnership]
@Nareshcoder: Keep calm. The code is compiling. Deva is just loading assets. Wait for the execution phase. #Deva #Believe
@CheekuFan: Look at Virat! Leaving balls like Dravid. Deva blocking like Kallis. Who are these people? I love them! #Maturity
[21.1 Overs - Deva's Six off Murali]
@BollywoodBabe: OMGGG! That shot! Inside out six! The Devil is awake! My heart just skipped a beat! 😍🔥 #Deva
@VirenderSehwag_Parody: Finally someone hitting the ball! I was getting bored inside the dressing room! Maar Deva Maar!
@CricInfo: 50 for Deva. And now he shifts gears. 14 runs off the over. The sleeping giant has woken up.
[28.0 Overs - Kohli's 50]
@KingKohliFC: THAT ROAR! That is the future superstar of India right there! 50 in a World Cup Final under this pressure? Take a bow, Cheeku! 🦁
@DesiMemer: Pakistan bowlers watching Deva and Kohli bat right now: "Bhai, humse toh accha hi khel rahe hain." (Brother, they are playing better than us). 😂
[29.0 Overs - Kohli Wicket]
@CricketWallah: Oh no. Soft dismissal. Kohli gone. Heartbreak. He played so well. 💔
@GambhirFan: Why did he play that shot? Just rotate strike! Now pressure back on us. 143/3. Who is next? Yuvi?
[29.1 Overs - Dhoni Entry]
@MahiWay: WAIT. IS THAT DHONI? PADS ON? HEADS UP? THE CAPTAIN IS COMING OUT! 🚁
@YuvrajSinghFan: Why not Yuvi? He was having a good tournament. This is risky MS. If you get out cheap, they will burn your effigies.
@HarshaBhogle: MS Dhoni promotes himself. Cometh the hour, cometh the man. He wants to face Murali. This is leadership. Or madness. We will find out soon. #CaptainCool
---
Ball 29.4: Deva didn't lunge. He waited. He watched the rotation of the ball. As it dipped, he unleashed a fierce square drive.
Crack.
The ball raced through point. No fielder moved.
FOUR.
Commentary (Sunil Gavaskar): "Placement! Absolute precision! He waited for the ball to do its bit and then just punched it through the gap. You can't set a field for that. The sweeper cover didn't even move."
The crowd let out a collective roar of relief, the tension releasing slightly.
Ball 29.5: Murali adjusted, darting it in at the pads.
Deva used the pace. He dropped to one knee and paddled it fine.
FOUR.
Commentary (Ravi Shastri): "And again! He is playing with the field! Fine leg is up inside the circle, and Deva knows exactly where the gap is. Two boundaries in the over to welcome the Captain. The pressure is right back on Murali!"
Two boundaries in the over. The message was sent. The wicket of Kohli had not slowed the Devil down; it had merely sharpened his focus.
Sangakkara, sensing that spin was becoming ineffective against Deva's footwork, brought back his strike weapon. Lasith Malinga.
The crowd quieted. Malinga had removed Sehwag and Sachin. He was the Grim Reaper of the Indian top order.
Deva was on 86. He stood at the striker's end, tapping his bat. He looked at Malinga. He didn't see the golden hair or the slingy action.
Over 34: Malinga to Deva
33.1: Malinga started with a searing yorker. 145kmph.
Deva dug it out.
Dot.
33.2: Malinga tried the slower ball. The deceptive off-cutter that dipped.
Deva picked it from the hand. He waited an eternity. He waited until the ball was almost past him, then opened the face of the bat.
He guided it past the diving backward point fielder. the outfield was lightning fast due to the dew.
FOUR.
Commentary (Nasser Hussain): "Oh, that is cheeky! That is so clever! He waited, waited, and waited some more. Just opened the face at the last millisecond. Malinga is shaking his head; he bowled a good ball and it still went for four."
33.3: Malinga grunted. He ran in harder. He banged it in short—a bouncer directed at the head.
It was a challenge. Hook me if you dare.
Deva didn't hook. He swiveled. He rolled his wrists over the ball, playing a controlled pull shot along the carpet. It bisected deep square leg and fine leg with surgical precision.
FOUR.
Commentary (Sourav Ganguly): "This is masterful! He is taking on the best death bowler in the world and picking him apart like he's playing in the nets! He rolled his wrists perfectly to keep it down. Two boundaries in the over already. Malinga is under huge pressure here!"
The stadium was now shaking. The chanting had begun, a rhythmic DE-VA, DE-VA that synced with the thumping of plastic bottles against seats.
33.4: Malinga went full and wide, trying to stay away from the hitting arc.
Deva drove. A classic, textbook cover drive that Sachin Tendulkar would have been proud of.
FOUR.
Commentary (Shastri): "Make that three! A hat-trick of boundaries! He is destroying Malinga! That sounded like a gunshot! The crowd is going bonkers! This is a counter-attack of the highest quality!"
Three boundaries in an over off Lasith Malinga in a World Cup Final. The stadium was vibrating. The required run rate dropped below 6.
Deva moved to 98.
The giant screen flashed the milestone approaching. DEVA ON 98.
Usually, this is where batsmen stutter. This is where the 'Nervous 90s' kick in—the hands get tight, the feet get heavy, the mind starts thinking about the century instead of the ball.
Dhoni walked down the pitch. "Sid. Just a single. Don't do anything stupid."
Deva looked at his captain through the grill of his helmet. His eyes were calm. Terrifyingly calm.
"I'm not doing anything stupid, Skipper," Deva said. "I'm just playing the ball."
Over 37: Thisara Perera to Deva
Perera ran in. He bowled a length ball on middle stump.
Deva could have nudged it for a single. He could have taken the safe option to reach 99.
Instead, he cleared his front leg. He saw the mid-on fielder was inside the circle.
He lofted it.
It wasn't a slog. It was a punch. A straight lofted drive that sailed over the fielder's head. It wasn't hit with anger; it was hit with disdain.
The ball bounced once.
It bounced twice.
It hit the ropes.
FOUR.
Deva moves to 102.
The moment the ball left the bat, the crowd rose as one. The noise swelled as the ball crossed the rope, culminating in an explosion of sound that could probably be heard from space.
Commentary (Ravi Shastri): "HUNDRED FOR SIDDANTH DEVA! Cometh the hour, cometh the champion! In a World Cup Final! Following up his 263 with a century under the most extreme pressure imaginable! He has carried the hopes of a billion people on his young shoulders and delivered them to the doorstep of victory!"
Deva didn't run. He stood mid-pitch.
He didn't take off his helmet. He didn't scream. He didn't jump.
He turned his body towards the Indian dressing room. He knew exactly where they were sitting. He knew Sachin and Sehwag were frozen on that bench, paralyzed by superstition and prayer.
Deva raised his left hand, palm open, facing downwards.
He pushed the air down. Once. Twice. Three times. and then points to himself, and then he does it again.
Calm down. I am here.
It was a gesture of supreme confidence. It was a message to the panic-stricken fans, to the nervous teammates, and to the legends hiding in the dressing room. Relax. The Devil is in control.
---
Inside the dressing room, the spell broke.
Sachin Tendulkar, who had not moved a single muscle since the 7th over, let out a breath that sounded like a sob. The tension that had held his body rigid for nearly two hours dissolved in an instant. He didn't cheer. He simply slumped forward, burying his face in his gloved hands. His shoulders shook. The God of Cricket, the man who had seen everything, was weeping.
"He did it, Viru," Sachin whispered, his voice trembling and muffled by his palms. "The boy actually did it."
Virender Sehwag, sitting beside him, finally dared to move. He stretched his cramping legs, wincing, but a wide, disbelieving grin split his face. He looked at the TV screen where Deva was doing the 'Calma' gesture.
"Look at him, Paaji," Sehwag laughed, wiping a tear from his own eye. "He's telling us to chill. He's telling the God of Cricket to relax. The audacity of this kid! If I did that to you in 2003, you would have slapped me!"
Near the door, Yuvraj Singh, who had been coughing into a towel, stood up. He threw the towel into the bin. The pain in his chest, the bloody coughs, the fear of the unknown illness—for a moment, it all vanished. He pumped his fist, his eyes blazing. "That's my boy! That's the fighter!"
On the stairs, the 'Bench Syndicate'—Raina, Ashwin, and Chawla—were going berserk. Raina was jumping up and down, hugging Ashwin so hard that the spinner lost his balance.
"Did you see that?" Raina screamed. "The Calm gesture! He just invented a new celebration! He owns this ground! He owns this city!"
The Golden Cage (The VIP Box):
High above, in the air-conditioned luxury of the President's Box, the veneer of high society cracked.
Vikram Deva, the stoic father who had held his emotions in check for twenty years, finally broke. He collapsed into his bucket seat, covering his face with his trembling hands.
"Vikram!" Sesikala cried, hugging him. She was standing, blowing kisses to the tiny figure in the middle of the pitch, tears ruining her makeup. "Look at him! Look at our son!"
But Vikram couldn't look. The pride was too intense; it was a physical ache in his chest. "He is not ours anymore, Sesi," he choked out. "He belongs to them now."
A few rows ahead, Aamir Khan, the superstar, was jumping on his chair like a child. He grabbed his wife, Kiran, pointing at his lucky blue t-shirt. "It worked! I told you! The unwashed shirt worked! I am never washing this! I am framing this with the sweat!"
Rajinikanth, usually the epitome of cool. He shook his head in slow, reverent wonder. He turned to Shah Rukh Khan. "I play heroes who can fight a hundred men, Shah Rukh. But that boy... he is fighting a billion expectations. That is a real hero."
SRK was leaning over the railing, whistling with two fingers in his mouth, the King of Bollywood bowing to the new Prince of Mumbai. "Calm huh! I love it! I am stealing that for my next movie!"
The Cauldron (Inside the Stadium):
If the dressing room was relief, the stadium was ecstasy.
The sound was no longer noise; it was a physical force. It vibrated in the teeth, in the bones. Strangers were hugging strangers. A man in the North Stand lifted his young daughter onto his shoulders, pointing at Deva. "See him? Remember him. Tell your children you saw him."
The 'Calma' gesture had an immediate, hypnotic effect. As Deva pushed his hands down, thousands of fans in the stands mimicked him. A sea of hands pushing down the air. It was a cult forming in real-time.
The Tsunami (Outside the Stadium):
Outside, on the streets of Mumbai, the city had stopped.
At the massive screening at Shivaji Park, the moment Deva hit the boundary, a dust cloud rose from the ground as ten thousand people jumped simultaneously. The tremors were likely registered on seismographs.
Traffic on Marine Drive had ceased to exist. Cars were abandoned in the middle of the road. People stood on the roofs of taxis, waving flags. A BEST bus driver honked his horn in a rhythmic beat, and the crowd danced around the bus.
In a small bar in Colaba, the owner, an old Parsi man, walked to the counter and rang a brass bell. "Drinks are free!" he announced, his voice cracking. "Whatever is left in the bottle, finish it! Today, we drink to the Devil!"
The police, usually strict about crowd control, had given up. A constable near Churchgate station was seen high-fiving a group of college students, his lathi tucked under his arm, a wide grin on his face. "Let them dance," he told his superior on the walkie-talkie. "Who can stop this tide?"
The Digital Pulse:
At the NEXUS headquarters in Hyderabad, the celebration was more technical but equally manic.
"Server load just spiked by 600%!" the Lead Engineer shouted, laughing hysterically. "Twitter is down! Facebook is lagging! Deva just broke the internet!"
"We need a 'Calma' emoji on Flash Messenger right now!" the Product Manager yelled, grabbing a marker and scribbling on a whiteboard. "Get the design team on it! I want it live before the match ends!"
---
@HarshaBhogle: I have run out of superlatives. 263 in a Semi-Final. 100 in a Final. Siddanth Deva has not just knocked on the door of greatness; he has kicked it down and occupied the throne. The Calm gesture... iconic. 🇮🇳🏏 #IndVsSL #WorldCupFinal
@SrBachchan: The Angry Young Man is back! But he is calm! The silence of the ocean before the tsunami. Deva... you are the pride of India. Jai Hind! 🇮🇳
@ShaneWarne: The swagger on this kid! 😮 20 years old and telling the Wankhede to calm down? I love it! Malinga looks rattled. Game over? #Deva #Calma
@Trendulkar: Sachin is God. Deva is the Devil. The transition is complete. My tears have dried, now I am just screaming! 🙌
@ShoaibAkhtarPk: Ok, I admit it. He is special. To do this against Malinga in a chase? Respect from Pakistan. The boy is a warrior. 🇵🇰🤝🇮🇳
@CricVizAnalytics: STAT ALERT: Siddanth Deva becomes the first player in history to score a double century in a semi-final and a century in a final in the same World Cup. Alien. 👽
@iamsrk: "Calm down!" I am definitely using that! What a performer! He is the true Badshah of Wankhede tonight! ❤️
@GullyCricketBoy: Malinga's hair has gone straight after that over. Deva bhai, have some mercy! 😂 #DevavsMalinga
@PiersMorgan: Right, I might have to start watching cricket again. Who is this Deva chap? He plays like he owns the place. Astonishing hitting.
@NexusOfficial: We apologize for the downtime on Flash Messenger. Our servers couldn't handle the Calma. We are scaling up! 📉📈 #DevaEffect
---
Back on the field, the center of the storm was the calmest place on earth.
MS Dhoni walked up to Deva. He didn't hug him. He didn't scream. He just put a heavy, gloved hand on Deva's helmet and patted it twice.
"Well played," Dhoni said, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Now finish it."
Deva nodded. He tapped his bat on the pitch. The celebration was over. The job remained.
MS Dhoni walked up to Deva. He didn't hug him wildly. He just put a heavy gloved hand on Deva's helmet and patted it twice.
"Well played," Dhoni said, a small smile playing on his lips. "Now finish it."
Deva nodded. He tapped his bat on the pitch. The celebration was over. The job remained.
India: 180/3.
Target: 275.
Runs Needed: 95 off 78 balls.
With Deva on 102* and Dhoni settling in, the equation had shifted from "Panic" to "Cruise Control."
The crowd, fueled by Deva's century and his reassuring gesture, found a new voice. They weren't pleading anymore; they were demanding. The song Vande Mataram began to ring out, sung by 35,000 people in perfect, haunting unison.
Commentary (Wasim Akram): "That gesture... look at that. He is telling a billion people to calm down. I have never seen a 20-year-old with this kind of swagger in a World Cup Final. That is not arrogance. That is absolute belief. He is telling the dressing room, 'I have got this.' And looking at the way he is batting, I think he just invented a new language of dominance."
Commentary (Shane Warne): "The Sri Lankans look deflated. Look at Sangakkara's shoulders. They dropped the moment that ball hit the rope. They know. They know the Devil has taken the game away."
Deva took his stance again. He looked at the scoreboard. 90 runs.
He looked at Dhoni.
"Singles?" Deva asked.
Dhoni smirked. "And the occasional double."
They tapped gloves. The final phase of the war had begun.
---
Over 39: Lasith Malinga to Dhoni
Malinga, sweating profusely, ran in to bowl his 8th over. He attempted his trademark yorker, aiming for Dhoni's toes. He missed his length by three inches. It ended up being a low full toss.
Ball 39.2: Dhoni didn't just block it. His bottom hand, that legendary piston of power, took over. He whipped the bat down.
THWACK.
The ball rocketed past mid-on. It hit the boundary boards with a violence that made the advertising hoardings rattle.
FOUR.
Commentary (Ravi Shastri): "That is the power of the man! He barely utilized any backlift. Just pure wrists and forearms. Malinga missed by an inch, and he paid the price."
Ball 39.4: Malinga corrected his length, banging it in short.
Dhoni swiveled. He didn't play it along the ground like Deva. He pulled it ferociously in the air, splitting deep square leg and fine leg.
FOUR.
The Captain had arrived. The run rate required dropped below 6.
What followed was not just a display of hitting but a masterclass in athleticism. Deva and Dhoni, arguably the two fittest men in the squad, turned the 22 yards into a running track.
They stopped dealing in boundaries. They started breaking the fielders' spirits with their running.
Over 43: Nuwan Kulasekara to Deva
42.1: Deva tapped the ball to soft hands towards wide mid-off. It was a simple single.
"ONE! NO, TWO! TWO! TWO!" Dhoni roared from the non-striker's end.
Deva turned like a sprinter on the blocks. They raced back. The throw came in at the bowler's end, but Deva was home by a yard.
42.2: Deva pushed the ball to deep point.
"PUSH HARD!" Deva shouted this time.
They ran the first one hard. They turned. The fielder, Kapugedera, fumbled slightly.
"THREE! THREE!"
They sprinted the third. It was relentless. It was exhausting just to watch.
Commentary (Harsha Bhogle): "Look at these two! They are running like gazelles! They are stealing runs right from under the noses of the Sri Lankans. This is demoralizing for the fielding side. You set a field, you bowl a good ball, and they still get two. The fitness levels are off the charts."
By the end of the 45th over, the equation had become laughable. India 255/3. Just 20 runs needed off 30 balls.
The required run rate was 4.00.
Deva was on 135. He was tired. His hamstrings were tight, his jersey was heavy with sweat, but his mind was sharp. He looked at the scoreboard.
MS Dhoni: 42 (38 balls).
Deva walked down the pitch during the over break. He tapped Dhoni on the chest.
"Skipper," Deva said, breathing heavy. "You're close."
Dhoni wiped his face with his glove. "Close to what? The Cup?"
"Fifty," Deva grinned behind his grill. "You deserve a fifty in the final. I'll give you the strike. You finish it."
Dhoni laughed, a rare, candid moment in the heat of battle. "Don't worry about stats, Sid. Just win the game."
"We've already won," Deva said with the arrogance of youth and the certainty of a god. "Now we style it."
Suddenly, the PA system crackled. The DJ dropped the beat, and the soulful, A.R. Rahman rendition of Vande Mataram washed over the stadium. But within seconds, the music was drowned out. The crowd took over. Thirty-five thousand voices singing in perfect, spine-chilling unison.
Dhoni and Deva stood mid-pitch, leaning on their bats. They didn't speak. They couldn't. For the first time in the night, the sheer magnitude of the moment pierced their armor of focus. The butterflies fluttered violently in their stomachs—not from fear of failure, but from the overwhelming weight of love pouring down from the stands. It was a physical sensation, a vibration that traveled up through their spikes and settled in their chests.
Aamir Khan was leaning dangerously over the railing, waving a massive Indian tricolor with the fervor of a man possessed, his shirt soaked in sweat.
Dhoni looked at Deva. Deva looked at Dhoni. No words were exchanged. None were needed. They just felt it—the history, the hope, the song. They swallowed hard, blinking back emotions that threatened to blur their vision, and tapped their bats on the ground, grounding themselves back to reality.
Over 47: Thisara Perera to Deva
The crowd was singing Vande Mataram on a continuous loop. The Sri Lankan players looked like they just wanted to go home. Their shoulders were slumped, their faces resigned.
46.1: Perera bowled full. Deva drove it to long-on.
He could have come back for two. He jogged a single.
1 Run. (Dhoni on strike).
46.2: Dhoni pulled to deep square leg.
2 Runs. (Dhoni 44).
46.3: Dhoni pushed to cover.
1 Run. (Dhoni 45).
46.4: Deva faced Perera. Bouncer.
Deva ducked. He didn't try to score.
Dot.
46.5: Deva tapped it to point.
"One, one, one," Deva called softly.
They jogged across.
1 Run. (Dhoni on strike).
46.6: Dhoni flicked it to deep mid-wicket. He ran hard.
2 Runs.
End of Over 47.
Score: 269/3.
Dhoni: 47*.
Target: 275.
Equation: 6 runs needed off 18 balls.
Nuwan Kulasekara took the ball for the 48th over. He looked at the scoreboard. He knew. The world knew.
Ball 47.1: Kulasekara to Dhoni
Dhoni was on 47. He needed 3 for his fifty.
Kulasekara bowled a yorker. Dhoni dug it out to long-on.
1 Run. (Dhoni 48).
Ball 47.2: Kulasekara to Deva
India needed 5 runs to win. Deva was on strike.
Deva could have hit a six. He could have finished the match right there.
He looked at Dhoni standing at the non-striker's end. The man who had backed him. The man who had promoted himself.
Kulasekara bowled a length ball. A gift.
Deva didn't hit it for four. He simply pushed it to mid-off with soft hands.
"Yes, Skipper. Your ball."
They crossed for a single.
India 271/3.
4 runs needed.
Dhoni on 48.
On Strike: MS Dhoni.
The crowd seemed to understand what was happening. The noise level dropped for a split second, an intake of breath before the scream. The flashbulbs in the stadium went off like a galaxy of strobe lights.
Dhoni adjusted his shoulder pads. He tightened his gloves. He tapped the bat on the crease. Thud. Thud.
He looked at Kulasekara. His eyes were wide, focused, terrifyingly intense.
Ball 47.3: Kulasekara to Dhoni
Kulasekara ran in. He didn't want to bowl a length ball. He tried to bowl a yorker outside off.
He missed.
The ball was full. It was in the slot. It was the kind of ball dreams are made of.
Dhoni cleared his front leg. The bottom hand took over. The bat speed generated was faster than the shutter speed of the cameras.
He didn't just hit it. He launched it.
The bat followed through in a high arc, the wrists turning over at the very peak of the swing. The Helicopter took flight.
The ball soared. It went high over long-on. It kept going. It sailed into the night sky, a white comet against the black void, destined for the stands where the wildest dreams of a nation lived.
Commentary (Sunil Gavaskar):"Dhoni finishes off in style! A magnificent strike into the crowd! India lift the World Cup after 28 years! The party starts in the dressing room! And it's an Indian Captain who has been absolutely magnificent in the night of the final!"
Commentary (Ravi Shastri):"Remember the name! Mahendra Singh Dhoni! And look at the scenes! Mumbai is alive! India is alive!"
The ball landed in the crowd. The match was over.
Fireworks exploded from the roof of the Wankhede, turning the night into day.
But on the pitch, amidst the chaos, there was a moment of stillness.
Siddanth Deva, standing at the non-striker's end, didn't run. He didn't scream.
He watched the ball disappear. Then, he calmly bent down.
He wrapped his fingers around the single stump at the non-striker's end. He pulled it out of the ground. The soil clung to the roots of the timber.
He held the stump in his right hand like a staff. He turned and started walking towards Dhoni.
At the striker's end, Dhoni held his pose for a second—the follow-through of the greatest shot in Indian cricket history. Then, he relaxed. He bent down and pulled out his stump.
He stood up and looked at Deva.
Deva was walking towards him, the stump in hand, a serene, almost holy smile on his face. It wasn't the smile of a conqueror; it was the smile of a brother.
Dhoni smiled back. The famous Captain Cool veneer cracked, replaced by pure, unadulterated joy.
They walked towards each other in the middle of the pitch, the noise of the world fading into the background.
They looked at each other. The 20-year-old prodigy and the 29-year-old leader. The Devil and the Captain.
Dhoni started doing little hops—a small, childlike jump of excitement.
Deva mirrored him.
Then, the calmness broke.
Deva launched himself at Dhoni.
He jumped, wrapping his arms around Dhoni's neck. Dhoni caught him, hugging him tight, spinning him around.
"We did it!" Deva screamed, his voice breaking, tears mixing with the sweat on his face. "We brought it home, Mahi bhai! We brought it home!"
Dhoni laughed, a loud, hearty sound that vibrated through Deva's chest. "You did it, Sid. You did it."
Within seconds, they were engulfed.
Yuvraj Singh was the first to arrive from the dugout. He didn't run; he sprinted, tears streaming down his face, screaming like a madman. He tackled both of them, sending the trio stumbling.
Then came Raina, Kohli, Harbhajan, Sreesanth. The entire squad piled on top of them in the middle of the pitch. A mound of blue jerseys, flailing limbs, and pure ecstasy.
Sachin Tendulkar ran onto the field. He had the Indian flag in his hand. He was crying openly, running with the energy of a debutant.
Virat Kohli hoisted Sachin onto his shoulders.
They carried Sachin Tendulkar around the Wankhede Stadium.
Commentary (Harsha Bhogle):"He has carried the burden of the nation for 21 years. It is time wthey carried him."
Deva was walking at the back. He looked up at the VIP box.
He saw his father, Vikram, leaning over the railing, waving the tricolour frantically. He saw his mother, Sesikala, weeping with her hands in prayer. He saw Arjun, Sameer, and Feroz dancing like lunatics.
He pointed the stump at them. This is for you.
He looked at the giant screen.
INDIA CHAMPIONS.
The long night was over. The morning had come. And the sun shone brighter than it ever had before.