The Medical Room: Unveiling the Tiger
7:32 PM. The medical facility attached to Wankhede Stadium—a well-equipped room designed for treating player injuries, complete with examination tables, monitoring equipment, and a small team of sports medicine professionals.
Anant lay on the examination table, still unconscious, his breathing shallow but steady. The team doctor, Dr. Ramesh Kulkarni—a sixty-two-year-old veteran of sports medicine with four decades of experience treating athletes—was directing the initial assessment.
"Vitals first," Dr. Kulkarni instructed his team. "Heart rate, blood pressure, temperature, oxygen saturation. I want complete baseline data."
A younger doctor—Dr. Priya Sharma, a sports medicine specialist in her late twenties—attached monitoring equipment while a male nurse prepared IV fluids.
"Heart rate 142 beats per minute," Dr. Sharma reported. "Elevated but not dangerously so given the exertion. Blood pressure 148 over 92—higher than normal but again, contextually appropriate. Temperature—" She paused, checking the reading again. "39.2 degrees Celsius. That's concerning. He's borderline hyperthermic."
"Expected," Dr. Kulkarni said grimly. "Six and a half hours of maximum physical exertion in humid conditions. His core temperature has been elevated for extended period. We need to bring it down gradually. Prepare cooling measures."
A female physiologist—Dr. Anjali Deshmukh, specialist in exercise physiology—spoke from where she was reviewing Anant's match statistics on a tablet. "Six hours, thirty-five minutes of batting. 204 runs. 312 balls faced. Approximate distance run between wickets—" she calculated rapidly, "—over four kilometers. In addition to the physical mechanics of batting itself, the concentration required, the dehydration. This represents physiological stress at the extreme end of human capability."
"Which is why he fainted," Dr. Kulkarni said. "His body initiated protective shutdown. Smart biological response, actually. Better to lose consciousness than risk permanent damage."
"But he remained standing while unconscious," the male nurse interjected. "How is that medically possible?"
Dr. Kulkarni had no answer. "I don't know. I've never encountered that phenomenon. The muscle rigidity suggests some kind of neurological override—will transcending normal biological processes. But that's... that's not something medical science fully understands."
"We need to remove his uniform," Dr. Priya said practically. "The saturated fabric is trapping heat. We need skin exposure to regulate his temperature effectively."
Dr. Kulkarni nodded. "Do it. Carefully. Document any signs of muscle damage, skin issues, anything abnormal."
The medical team began the process of removing Anant's cricket whites. The uniform had been custom-fitted for optimal movement, but now it clung like a second skin, saturated with sweat and requiring careful peeling away from his body.
As they removed his shirt, revealing his torso, the entire medical team stopped.
Stunned silence filled the room.
Dr. Kulkarni, who'd treated professional athletes for forty years, who'd seen countless examples of peak human physique, found himself staring with an expression approaching awe.
Anant's torso was... extraordinary.
The skin was flushed deep red—not unhealthy crimson but a rich, vital shade that spoke of blood flow maximized, capillaries dilated, the body's cooling mechanisms operating at full capacity. It was the color of health pushed to absolute limits.
But beneath that flushed skin, the musculature was breathtaking.
This wasn't bodybuilder bulk—those artificially inflated muscles designed for aesthetics. This was functional athletics sculpted to perfection. Lean, dense, powerful muscle with definition that looked carved from stone.
His shoulders and deltoids showed striations—individual muscle fibers visible beneath skin, speaking to extremely low body fat percentage. His pectoral muscles were developed like shields, plates of powerful tissue that suggested both pushing power and protective strength.
His abdominal region showed eight distinct segments—beyond the standard "six-pack," revealing obliques and serratus anterior muscles in sharp relief. The V-cut leading from his hips toward his lower abdomen was pronounced, almost aggressive in its definition.
His arms—visible as they removed his shirt sleeves—showed triceps and biceps with separation that professional athletes trained years to achieve. Forearms were thick with the kind of strength that came from gripping cricket bats for thousands of hours.
And the overall impression was... artistic. As if someone had studied human anatomy at the highest level and then sculpted the idealized version. Michelangelo's David given life and pushed through two years of Kalaripayattu training and elite cricket.
"My God," Dr. Priya whispered, her professional detachment momentarily shattered. "What kind of training produces this?"
Dr. Anjali the physiologist was examining Anant's body with scientific fascination mixed with something else—something she was trying to suppress but couldn't quite eliminate. Her breathing had subtly quickened. A slight flush crept up her neck.
"The muscle density is remarkable," she said, trying to maintain clinical tone. "Low body fat—probably six to seven percent. The definition suggests not just strength training but also extensive flexibility work. See the length of the muscle bellies? That's not just weights—that's functional movement training. Martial arts, possibly. Dance. Something that builds power while maintaining range of motion."
As they continued examining, removing the rest of his uniform with professional care, the full picture emerged.
His legs were equally impressive—quadriceps showing four distinct heads of muscle, hamstrings visible even in relaxed state, calves thick and powerful. This was a lower body built for explosive running, for the thousands of sprints between wickets, for the powerful weight transfer that generated batting force.
His back—when they carefully turned him to assess—showed latissimus dorsi muscles that formed wings, creating that classic V-taper. Trapezius and rhomboids were developed, suggesting pulling strength and shoulder stability.
And the skin covering all this musculature was unblemished except for a few small scars—evidence of cricket injuries, minor impacts absorbed in fielding. The texture was smooth, the tone even, youth and genetics combining to create almost impossible aesthetic perfection.
Dr. Kulkarni, forcing himself back to professional assessment, noticed something else.
"The muscle tissue is showing strain," he observed, pointing to Anant's quadriceps. "See the slight tremors? Micro-tears, almost certainly. The metabolic stress from six-plus hours of exertion has caused cellular damage. Nothing permanent—it'll heal with rest—but significant. This boy pushed himself to the absolute edge of what muscle tissue can endure."
As they continued their examination, something else began happening.
A scent.
Subtle at first, then increasingly noticeable. Not the expected smell of sweat—though that was present—but something else. Something that the male medical staff didn't consciously register but which hit the female staff like physical presence.
Pheromones.
Dr. Priya found her concentration wavering. She'd been checking Anant's carotid pulse, her fingers on his neck, professionally measuring heart rate. But suddenly she was aware of his skin under her fingertips—warm, smooth, alive. Her own pulse quickened involuntarily.
Dr. Anjali, preparing the glucose drip, fumbled slightly with the IV bag. Her hands were trembling imperceptibly. She felt warmth spreading through her body, moisture forming, her own biological responses triggering despite her professional training screaming at her to maintain control.
What is happening? she thought, confused and slightly alarmed by her body's reaction. This is a patient. A seventeen-year-old patient. I should not be feeling...
But she was feeling it. Attraction. Powerful, primal, chemical attraction that transcended logic or appropriateness.
The female nurse assisting—a young woman named Sneha in her mid-twenties—was blushing deeply, trying to focus on her tasks but finding her eyes drawn repeatedly to Anant's unconscious form. The definition of his muscles. The vulnerable beauty of his face in repose. The sheer physical presence despite unconsciousness.
Control yourself, she thought desperately. You're a medical professional. He needs help, not...
But her body was responding regardless of what her mind commanded. She could feel moisture forming between her legs, warmth pooling in her lower abdomen, nipples hardening despite the clinical setting.
The phenomenon was affecting all three women to varying degrees. Their movements became slightly more careful around Anant, their touches lingering fractionally longer than medically necessary, their breathing subtly altered.
The male staff noticed none of this. The pheromone response was gender-specific, affecting only women of reproductive age, triggering biological attraction responses at a subconscious level.
Dr. Kulkarni, oblivious to the chemical drama playing out among his female colleagues, was inserting the glucose drip into Anant's arm.
"Large bore IV, rapid infusion," he instructed. "His body has depleted glucose stores catastrophically. We need to replenish quickly."
The glucose solution began flowing into Anant's bloodstream.
And within thirty seconds, something remarkable happened.
The IV bag—containing 500ml of glucose solution that should have taken thirty to forty minutes to infuse—began emptying at visible pace. As if Anant's body was actively pulling the fluid in, demanding nutrients, metabolizing glucose faster than should be physiologically possible.
"That's... that's not normal," Dr. Priya said, watching the drip rate with disbelief. "The flow rate is triple what it should be. His cellular uptake is extraordinarily accelerated."
Dr. Anjali was checking readings on the monitoring equipment. "Heart rate is already dropping. 142 to 128 in just ninety seconds. Blood pressure normalizing. Temperature beginning to decrease. His recovery speed is..." She struggled for words. "It's like watching a superhuman healing factor. Like his body is optimized for recovery in ways I've never seen."
"What kind of physique is this?" Dr. Kulkarni murmured, half to himself. "I've treated Olympic athletes, international cricketers, professional football players. I've seen peak human conditioning. But this... this is something else. The efficiency, the power, the recovery capability. What terrifying physique."
By the time the first glucose bag was empty—less than eight minutes instead of the expected forty—Anant's vitals had improved dramatically. Heart rate down to 98. Blood pressure nearly normal. Temperature dropping toward acceptable range.
"Prep a second bag," Dr. Kulkarni ordered. "His body is clearly demanding more."
As they worked, Dr. Priya leaned close to Dr. Anjali and whispered: "Are you... are you feeling what I'm feeling? Around him?"
Dr. Anjali hesitated, then nodded almost imperceptibly. "Yes. The attraction. It's not just his appearance—though that's remarkable. It's something chemical. Biological. Like my body is responding to his presence regardless of what my mind wants."
"Same," Dr. Priya admitted quietly. "I thought it was just me. Thought I was being unprofessional. But if you're feeling it too..."
"Pheromones," Dr. Anjali said with certainty. "Has to be. Extreme physical exertion can increase pheromone production. Combined with his age—seventeen, peak testosterone production—and whatever genetic factors create his unusual physique... he's probably producing pheromone signatures at levels that trigger strong biological responses in women."
"Should we mention this to Dr. Kulkarni?"
"Absolutely not. He's male—he won't understand. He'll think we're being inappropriate. Let's just... manage our responses professionally and not discuss it further."
But managing was difficult. Every time one of them had to touch Anant—checking pulse, adjusting monitors, changing the IV bag—they felt that surge of attraction. Warmth. Moisture. The primal response that human females had evolved to feel toward genetically superior males.
After twenty minutes of treatment, Anant's condition had stabilized remarkably.
"He's essentially normal now," Dr. Kulkarni announced with satisfaction mixed with amazement. "Vitals are all within acceptable ranges. Temperature nearly normal. Hydration improving. The speed of recovery is extraordinary, but he's out of danger. He'll regain consciousness soon—probably within the next ten to twenty minutes."
"Should we dress him?" the male nurse asked. "His family will want to see him."
"Light coverings only," Dr. Kulkarni said. "We need to maintain cooling. A sheet over his lower body for modesty. Keep the torso exposed to air for now."
They arranged a clean white sheet over Anant from waist down, leaving his impressive torso exposed, his arms resting at his sides.
And in that moment—lying unconscious, his red-flushed skin showing the strain of extreme exertion, the musculature that looked carved from divine stone, his face peaceful despite everything, the slight smile still playing at his lips as if even in unconsciousness he was savoring victory—Anant Gupta looked like a warrior from mythology. Like a hero from ancient epics. Like something more than merely human.
Dr. Priya found herself staring again and forced herself to look away. He's seventeen, she reminded herself sternly. A child. A patient. Focus.
But another part of her mind whispered: That's no child. That's a man. A warrior. A legend being born.
Outside the medical room, a crowd was gathering.
The Vigil: Family and Team
The corridor outside the medical facility was packed. Haryana team players, support staff, Coach Malhotra with his family, Vikram Chauhan sitting in a wheelchair (the medical staff had insisted after his foolish sprint on an injured leg), and most importantly—the Gupta family.
Savita Gupta sat in a plastic chair, her hands clasped in prayer position, lips moving in silent mantras. She'd been crying on and off since watching Anant collapse. The joy of victory was completely overshadowed by terror for her son's health.
Ramesh stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder, providing silent support despite his own fear. His face was drawn, aged by worry, this successful father suddenly feeling helpless in the face of his son's vulnerability.
Priya was curled against her mother, her earlier joy completely evaporated. "Is bhaiya going to be okay?" she kept asking. "Will he wake up?"
"He'll be fine," Ramesh kept saying, trying to convince himself as much as his daughter. "He's strong. He'll be fine."
Coach Malhotra paced despite his wife trying to get him to sit. He'd poured two years of work into Anant, watched him transform from overweight awkward boy to this extraordinary athlete. The thought that the exertion might have caused permanent damage was unbearable.
"I should have warned him more strongly," Malhotra muttered. "Should have made him understand the dangers of pushing too hard. Should have—"
"You did everything right," Anjali interrupted firmly. "Anant made his own choices. He's not a child you can control—he's a young man who decided what he was willing to sacrifice for victory. You were his coach, not his jailer."
"But if he's permanently damaged—"
"He won't be. That boy has willpower like I've never seen. He'll recover. Have faith."
The team players were quieter, sitting in small groups, processing what they'd witnessed. The impossible innings. The dramatic finish. The standing faint. All of it felt surreal now, like a fever dream they'd shared.
"Did that really happen?" Amit Sharma asked quietly. "Did Anant really score 204 not out practically alone? Did we really win the Ranji Trophy?"
"It happened," Rajesh confirmed, though his voice carried disbelief. "We all saw it. We were there. It was real."
"He's not human," another player murmured. "No one human could do what he did. The concentration, the endurance, the will—that was superhuman."
"He's human," Vikram said from his wheelchair, his voice carrying conviction. "Very human. Which makes what he did even more remarkable. A human boy pushed himself to absolute limits and beyond. Chose to risk everything for this team, for victory. That's not superhuman—that's heroic."
At that moment, Dr. Kulkarni emerged from the medical room. Every person in the corridor surged forward, a tsunami of anxious humans desperate for information.
"Please! Please, everyone calm down," Dr. Kulkarni said, raising his hands. "Anant is stable. His vitals are normal. He's recovering remarkably quickly. There's no permanent damage that we can detect. He simply exhausted himself to the point of temporary shutdown. With rest, fluids, and nutrition, he'll be completely fine."
The collective exhale of relief was audible. Savita burst into fresh tears—this time of gratitude rather than fear. Ramesh felt his knees go weak, having to grip the wall for support.
"When will he wake up?" Coach Malhotra demanded.
"Soon. Perhaps ten to twenty minutes. His body is already showing strong recovery responses. When he wakes, he'll be disoriented at first, probably very thirsty and hungry. But he'll be himself."
"Can we see him?" Savita asked desperately. "Please, I need to see my son."
Dr. Kulkarni hesitated. "Immediate family only for now. He needs rest, not crowds. Parents and sister—yes. Everyone else should wait until he's fully conscious and recovered somewhat."
Savita, Ramesh, and Priya were ushered into the medical room.
And stopped just inside the door, staring.
Anant lay on the examination table, covered by a white sheet from the waist down but with his torso exposed. The red-flushed skin. The extraordinary musculature. The peaceful expression. The slight smile despite unconsciousness.
Savita approached slowly, reaching out to touch his face with trembling fingers.
"My baby," she whispered. "My beautiful boy. What did you do to yourself?"
She could see the strain in his muscles, the evidence of extreme exertion written on his body. But she could also see the smile—that small, peaceful smile that suggested even unconscious, even after pushing himself to collapse, he was happy. Satisfied. Content with his choice.
"He's smiling," Priya said wonderingly. "Even asleep, bhaiya is smiling. Is he dreaming about winning?"
"Probably," Ramesh said, his voice thick with emotion. He reached out and placed his hand on Anant's shoulder, feeling the warmth, the living proof that his son was alive and recovering. "He did something impossible today, Priya. He became legendary. And even unconscious, some part of him knows it and is happy."
They stood around Anant—this family that had supported him through transformation, through struggles, through two years of pursuing an impossible dream—and watched him breathe. Watched color return to normal. Watched recovery happen in real-time.
In the corner, Dr. Priya was documenting observations on her tablet, trying not to let her eyes linger too long on Anant's form, still fighting her body's chemical responses.
The minutes ticked by. Five. Ten. Fifteen.
Then Anant's eyelids fluttered.
The Awakening: Return to Consciousness
Consciousness returned in fragments.
First, sensation: lying on something firm but not uncomfortable. Temperature comfortable now—the extreme heat had faded. Hearing: low voices, familiar presences nearby.
Then awareness: his body hurt. Everything hurt. Muscles ached with deep, bone-level fatigue. But it was satisfying hurt—the pain of accomplishment, not injury.
Finally, memory: the match. The innings. The final over. The last six. Winning.
We won, Anant thought, the realization bringing a wave of joy despite the pain. We actually won.
His eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the medical room's fluorescent lighting. Blurry shapes resolved into faces hovering over him: Maa, Papa, Priya, medical staff.
"Anant?" Savita's voice was trembling. "Beta, can you hear me?"
"Maa," Anant whispered, his voice hoarse from dehydration. "We won. Did we win? Tell me we won."
"You won," Ramesh laughed through tears. "You magnificent idiot, you won. You scored 204 not out. You hit 22 runs in the final over. You won the Ranji Trophy for Haryana. You became a legend."
Anant's smile broadened despite his exhaustion. "Good. That's... that's good."
"How do you feel?" Dr. Kulkarni asked, immediately in doctor mode, checking pupil response with a small flashlight.
"Tired. So tired. And thirsty. And hungry. Also, did I faint? I remember hitting the last six and then... nothing."
"You fainted," Dr. Priya confirmed, bringing water with a straw for him to sip. "Your body initiated protective shutdown. You'd pushed yourself far beyond normal limits. But you're recovering well. Remarkably well, actually."
Anant drank greedily, the cool water feeling like salvation. After finishing the first cup, he asked for another. Then another.
"Slow down," Dr. Kulkarni cautioned. "Your stomach needs time to adjust. Too much too fast and you'll vomit."
Anant reluctantly slowed his drinking. Then he tried to sit up.
"No no no," multiple voices said simultaneously.
"You need to rest," Savita insisted, gently pushing him back down. "You've been unconscious for nearly forty minutes. You need to recover before moving around."
"But the team—the presentation—I need to be there when we receive the trophy—"
"The presentation is postponed until tomorrow morning," Vikram's voice came from the doorway. He'd wheeled himself in despite doctor's orders, refusing to wait any longer to see his captain. "They're holding it at 10 AM. You have time to recover. Right now, you rest."
Anant looked at Vikram and felt emotion welling up. "We did it, Captain. We actually did it."
"You did it," Vikram corrected, wheeling closer. "That was your innings. Your victory. Your legend being written."
"It was the team—"
"Stop being modest. We all watched. We know the truth. You carried us. You refused to fail. You achieved the impossible." Vikram's voice grew intense. "Anant, what you did today... people will talk about that innings for decades. That final over will be shown in cricket academies as an example of what's possible when will transcends physical limits. You didn't just win a match—you created mythology."
Before Anant could respond, there was a knock on the door.
Dr. Kulkarni frowned. "I said immediate family only—"
But Coach Malhotra was opening the door, and his expression changed instantly from protective annoyance to something approaching reverence.
Because standing in the doorway, wearing simple casual clothes, with a calm smile on his face, was Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar.
The God of Cricket had come to visit.
The God's Blessing: When Legends Touch
The room went absolutely silent. Then chaos.
Every Haryana player who'd managed to peek into the medical room went completely rigid. Statues. Frozen in place by the sheer presence of the man who'd defined Indian cricket for two decades.
Ramesh Gupta—a cricket fan his entire life, who'd watched Sachin's entire career with devotion—felt his knees literally go weak. Savita let out a small gasp. Even Priya, too young to fully comprehend Sachin's significance, felt the weight of the moment.
Coach Malhotra, who'd been a state-level cricketer himself in his youth, found himself unable to speak.
But Sachin didn't acknowledge any of them. His attention was fixed entirely on the young man lying on the medical table.
He stepped into the room, walking with quiet purpose, and stopped beside Anant's table.
His eyes—those eyes that had watched cricket balls travel at 150 kph for twenty-three years, that had seen every kind of bowling, every kind of pressure—studied Anant with intense focus.
He saw the red-flushed skin still showing evidence of extreme exertion. The extraordinary musculature that spoke of training beyond normal dedication. The peaceful expression despite obvious fatigue. The smile that suggested satisfaction despite the cost.
He truly is a god, Sachin thought with something approaching wonder. What kind of willpower produces this? What kind of drive creates a physique and performance like today's? This isn't just talent—this is someone who's transcended normal human limitations through sheer force of will. ( He is a Saitama of Cricket haha)
But what struck Sachin most was the smile.
That small, content smile on Anant's face. Despite everything—the exhaustion, the pain, the physical toll—he was happy. Genuinely, completely happy with what he'd accomplished.
Sachin remembered that feeling. That satisfaction that came from knowing you'd given everything, that you'd achieved something extraordinary, that the pain was worth it because the result was glory.
He'd felt it after Desert Storm in Sharjah. After his double century in Sydney. After countless innings where he'd pushed beyond normal limits.
And seeing that same expression on this seventeen-year-old's face, Sachin felt something profound. Recognition. Kinship. The knowledge that he was looking at someone who might—just might—surpass everything he'd achieved.
Sachin's serious expression softened. He laughed—a genuine, childlike sound of pure joy—and moved closer to Anant.
Anant, meanwhile, was staring up at the man hovering over him with an expression of absolute disbelief. His lips moved but no sound emerged. His brain had apparently short-circuited.
Sachin Tendulkar. The Master Blaster. The God of Cricket. In the same room. Looking at me. This can't be real.
"You will become a legend," Sachin said, his voice quiet but carrying absolute conviction. "Not might become. Will. What you did today was just the beginning. You have greatness in you—not potential greatness, but actual present greatness that's going to grow into something that makes what I achieved look small."
Anant's eyes went wide. "Sir, I... I don't... you're the greatest—"
"Records are meant to be broken," Sachin interrupted gently. "Legends are meant to inspire the next generation to surpass them. I've had my time. Now it's your time. And I'm honored, genuinely honored to have witnessed the beginning of your legend today."
He reached down and placed his right hand on Anant's shoulder. The touch felt electric—not literally, but symbolically. As if something was being passed from one generation to the next. A blessing. A recognition. An anointing.
"We will meet again," Sachin promised. "Sooner than you think. When you're wearing blue jersey. When you're representing India. When you're carrying a billion people's dreams. We'll meet then, and I'll be cheering for you."
Anant felt tears pricking his eyes. He couldn't speak—his throat was too tight with emotion. He just nodded, trying to convey everything he felt through his expression.
Sachin smiled, squeezed Anant's shoulder once more, and then straightened. He turned to leave, still not acknowledging anyone else in the room. This moment had been for Anant alone.
But at the door, he paused and looked back. One final glance at the young man who might carry Indian cricket's future.
Then he was gone, leaving stunned silence in his wake.
For a long moment, nobody moved. Nobody spoke. They were all processing what had just happened.
Then Ramesh broke the silence with a choked laugh. "Did Sachin Tendulkar just... did he just come here to bless you? Did that really happen?"
"I think so," Anant whispered, still staring at the door. "I think the God of Cricket just told me I'd become a legend. Papa, please tell me that actually happened and I'm not hallucinating from exhaustion."
"It happened," Coach Malhotra confirmed, his voice filled with wonder. "Every person in this room witnessed it. Sachin Tendulkar came here, specifically to see you, to tell you that you'll be great. Do you understand what that means?"
Anant closed his eyes, fresh tears leaking from the corners. "It means I can't fail. It means I have to honor that blessing. It means I have to become what he said I will become."
"You will," Vikram said with absolute conviction. "That wasn't hope or possibility speaking. That was certainty. The God of Cricket recognized a new god being born. And gods don't lie."
The Walk: When Dreams Confront Reality
Sachin Tendulkar walked through Wankhede Stadium's corridors, heading back toward the VIP section where he'd left his belongings. His mind was churning, processing what he'd witnessed and what he'd felt in that medical room.
A seventeen-year-old boy with a physique that suggested superhuman dedication, with a smile that showed satisfaction in sacrifice, with statistics from today that would make seasoned professionals shake their heads in disbelief.
204 not out. Practically alone. 22 runs in the final over. Youngest Ranji Trophy captain. Winning against defending champions. Pushing himself to unconscious collapse because winning mattered more than safety.
That's not just talent, Sachin thought as he walked through the now-empty stands of Wankhede. That's something rarer. That's someone who has the gift, the drive, the willpower, and the character. All four. Most players have two, maybe three. Having all four... that's what creates legends.
He stopped in the stands, looking out at the pitch—the same pitch where India had lost the World Cup final to Sri Lanka thirteen months earlier.
Sachin had played in that match. Had scored 18 runs before being dismissed. Had watched his dream of winning a World Cup slip away one final time. At thirty-eight years old, he'd known it was probably his last chance.
The devastation had been crushing. Not just for him, but for Tendulkar, Dravid, Laxman, Sehwag, Zaheer Khan—the golden generation who'd given everything to Indian cricket and come up just short of cricket's ultimate prize.
After that loss, Sachin had retired from ODI cricket. He still played Tests, still loved the game, but the fire had dimmed. The dream of a World Cup had died on this very field.
But today, on this same field, he'd watched a seventeen-year-old boy do something impossible. He'd watched the next generation announce itself with fire and fury and unbreakable will.
And suddenly, Sachin felt something he hadn't felt since that devastating final.
Hope.
Not for himself—his playing days were ending, his moment had passed. But for Indian cricket. For the future. For the possibility that maybe, just maybe, this extraordinary boy could do what Sachin's generation couldn't.
Win the World Cup.
Not just once. Multiple times. Lead India to glory that had eluded everyone else.
That's worth fighting for, Sachin realized. Worth using whatever influence I have to make sure he gets every opportunity. Worth protecting him from the pressures that destroy young talent. Worth nurturing him so he doesn't burn out before achieving his potential.
He pulled out his mobile phone and scrolled through contacts until he found the number he wanted.
Narayanaswami Srinivasan—the current BCCI president, one of cricket's most powerful administrators.
Sachin dialed. The phone rang twice before being answered.
"Sachin? This is unexpected. What can I do for you?"
"Emergency meeting," Sachin said without preamble, his voice carrying an edge of command that few people alive could use when speaking to the BCCI president. "Tomorrow morning, 8 AM, BCCI headquarters in Mumbai. I need the full selection committee present. And I need MS Dhoni there."
A pause. "Dhoni? The India captain? He's on rest after the recent series—"
"I don't care. Get him there. This is important. This is about the future of Indian cricket."
Another pause, longer this time. Then: "Alright. Sachin, when you use that tone, I listen. I'll make the calls. Everyone will be there. Can you give me context?"
"I just watched a seventeen-year-old boy score 204 not out in the Ranji Trophy final, winning the match with 22 runs in the final over, captaining for the first time, pushing himself to unconscious collapse. I watched the birth of something that might be the answer to our World Cup pain. And I'm not going to let bureaucracy or politics or system incompetence waste his potential."
A sharp intake of breath on the other end. "Anant Gupta? You're talking about Anant Gupta?"
"Yes."
"I watched highlights. It was... extraordinary. But he's seventeen, Sachin. We have protocols, development pathways—"
"Protocols didn't win us the World Cup," Sachin interrupted. "Protocols won't heal the wound of that loss. But maybe—just maybe—that boy can. If we're smart enough to nurture him properly instead of crushing him with the system."
"Alright. 8 AM tomorrow. Full selection committee, MS Dhoni, you. Anyone else?"
"Praveen Mehta—he's been following Anant all season. He has comprehensive data. And bring Anant's coach—Malhotra. I want someone there who actually knows the boy personally, who can speak to character not just statistics."
"Consider it done. This is... this is really that important?"
"This is potentially the most important meeting BCCI will have this year," Sachin said flatly. "We have a once-in-a-generation talent. Maybe once-in-multiple-generations. And the decisions we make tomorrow will determine whether he becomes the legend he's capable of becoming, or whether we destroy him before he reaches potential. So yes, it's that important."
"Understood. I'll make it happen. Good night, Sachin."
"Good night."
Sachin ended the call and stood in the empty stadium for a moment longer.
The night was cool now, Mumbai's famous sea breeze carrying salt and moisture across the field. The stadium lights were still on, illuminating the pitch where today's drama had unfolded.
And in Sachin's mind, he could see the future. A young man in blue jersey, leading India in World Cup final, carrying the dreams of a nation, achieving what his predecessors couldn't.
It was just a vision—hope made tangible, not prophecy. But it felt real. Felt possible in a way that nothing had felt possible since the 2011 World Cup final loss.
Thank you, Sachin thought to the empty stadium, to the gods of cricket, to whatever forces had brought this boy into existence. Thank you for giving us another chance. For giving India another chance. For bringing us hope in the form of a seventeen-year-old who hits sixes out of the stadium and smiles while unconscious.
Now I just have to make sure we don't waste him.
He turned and walked toward the exit, his mind already working through what needed to happen tomorrow. The arguments he'd make. The protections he'd demand. The fast-tracking that needed to happen.
Anant Gupta's legend had been born today.
Tomorrow, Sachin would make sure that legend had every opportunity to grow into something that changed Indian cricket forever.
The God of Cricket was about to use every ounce of his influence to create the next god.
And nothing—not bureaucracy, not politics, not tradition, not caution—was going to stop him.
[END OF CHAPTER FIFTEEN]