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The post-match presentation was a disorienting blur of blinding floodlights, flashing cameras, and a wall of noise that seemed to vibrate through the very soil of Lord's. The adrenaline that had acted as a high-octane fuel through that final, manic over was rapidly draining away, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion. My limbs felt like they were encased in lead; my bowling shoulder throbbed with a dull, persistent ache that synced with my heartbeat.
Ravi Shastri stood by the boundary rope, looking for all the world like a Roman emperor surveying his conquered lands. He held a glass of champagne—likely commandeered from the English dressing room's somber supplies—and beamed like a proud father. The rest of the team was embarking on a victory lap, waving stumps aloft to the delirious Indian contingent in the stands, but I was pulled aside by the media team for the official duties.
Nasser Hussain stood with the microphone, his face a complex tapestry of emotions. There was professional admiration, certainly, for the skill on display, but beneath it lay the stinging disappointment of a former England captain watching his fortress crumble.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, the Player of the Match... for a game-changing century and a historic, spellbinding 5-for-0 in the second... Aarav Pathak!"
The roar from the crowd was physical. It hit me in the chest. I accepted the heavy crystal plaque—cool to the touch against my sweaty palms—and the obligatory bottle of champagne.
"Aarav," Nasser began, stepping closer as the noise subsided slightly. He looked me dead in the eye, searching for a crack in the armor. "I have watched a lot of cricket at Lord's. I played here for years. I have never seen anything quite like that final spell. 152 clicks on Day 5 evening. Most bowlers are looking for the physio at that stage, not the sound barrier. What was going through your mind?"
I leaned into the mic, my voice raspy, stripped of its usual smoothness. "Honestly, Nasser? I wasn't thinking about mechanics or speed guns. I was thinking about my team. We were hurt yesterday. We took blows to the body, to the head, and to our pride. Today wasn't about technique; it was about retribution. Virat bhai told me to make it hell for them, so I just tried to turn the thermostat up until they broke."
Nasser chuckled dryly, a sound devoid of humor. "You certainly did that. You broke more than just their resistance; you broke the stumps. A hat-trick to finish a Test match at the Home of Cricket. Has the magnitude of that achievement sunk in yet?"
"Not yet," I smiled wearily, shifting the weight of the trophy. "Right now, I just feel the pain in my back. Maybe when I see my name on the board, the reality will follow."
The Honours Board
Forty minutes later, the media circus had finally packed up. The team was back in the dressing room, the air thick with the smell of sweat, champagne, and Deep Heat. They were singing the team song, banging on the tables in a rhythmic frenzy, celebrating the breach of the fortress.
But I had one appointment to keep before I could join them.
I slipped out of the dressing room and walked down the narrow, carpeted corridor towards the Visitors' Dressing Room Honours Boards. It's a sacred ritual at Lord's. The silence in the hallway was a stark contrast to the chaos I had just left. The walls here whispered with history. If you score a century or take five wickets in an innings, your name is etched in gold leaf forever. Legends don't just visit this room; they live on these walls.
I was surrounded by camera and few of the MCC members, then I found the black marker pen that the steward had reverently left on the small side table for me.
First, I approached the Batting Honours Board.
I scanned the list, reading the names like a prayer. Vinoo Mankad. Dilip Vengsarkar. Sourav Ganguly. Rahul Dravid. Ajinkya Rahane. KL Rahul. And there, freshly painted from earlier in the year during the WTC final, was my name already.
I found the empty slot for 2021. My hand was shaking slightly—not from nerves, but from the sheer physical toll of the day. The muscles in my forearm were twitching involuntarily.
I uncapped the pen. The sharp, chemical smell of permanent marker filled the air.
2021 | Aarav Pathak | England | 129
I stared at it for a long moment. Third century at Lord's in just two matches. It felt surreal, almost like I was reading someone else's biography or a fictional webnovel.
Then, I turned to the opposite wall. The Bowling Honours Board.
This was rarer territory. Not many cricketers walk across the room to write on this wall too. Usually, you belong to one tribe or the other. I looked at the names of the destroyers. Kapil Dev. Chetan Sharma. RP Singh. Ishant Sharma. Bhuvneshwar Kumar.
I found the space waiting for me.
2021 | Aarav Pathak | England | 5-0
I stepped back to admire the absurdity of it.
5-0.
It looked like a typo. It looked like a scoreline from a tennis match. Five wickets. Zero runs conceded. A hat-trick included. It defied the logic of Test cricket.
"Not bad, kid," a gravelly voice said from the doorway.
I spun around, half-expecting a security guard. Instead, I saw James Anderson.
He was still in his whites, looking like he had gone twelve rounds with a heavyweight boxer. There was a bruise forming on his arm, and he moved stiffly. He held a beer in his hand, the condensation dripping onto the carpet.
"Jimmy," I nodded, straightening up.
He walked into the room, his eyes scanning the board before settling on my fresh ink. "I've played 160 Tests. I've seen Warne spin it square, I've seen McGrath land it on a dime. I've never seen a spell of pure violence like that. You broke the stump, you know. The groundsman is absolutely furious. Says it's going to take him hours to fix the hole."
"Sorry about that," I smirked, though I wasn't sorry at all. "Adrenaline took over."
Anderson let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Don't be sorry. You earned it. You gave us a hiding today." He paused, taking a sip of his beer. "Just... next time, maybe bowl a few under 90mph? My back is killing me, and I'm too old to be dodging bullets."
He raised his beer in a toast, a gesture of respect from one gladiator to another. "Well played, Aarav. Seriously."
"Cheers, Jimmy. Means a lot coming from you."
By the time the bus dropped us back at the hotel, I was a zombie. The euphoria had faded into a dull, throbbing pain that encompassed every inch of my body. My lower back felt like it was fused together, a solid block of agony. My bowling shoulder felt like it was on fire, the rotator cuff screaming in protest at the abuse I had hurled at it.
I staggered into the elevator, leaning heavily against the wall, barely registering the congratulations from the hotel staff. I collapsed onto my bed, not even bothering to take off my training kit. The smell of grass and sweat was pungent, but I was too tired to care.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was Mom.
Mom: Beta, I saw the match. Everyone is bursting crackers here in the India. Are you okay? You looked angry today. Your eyes were scary.
I smiled weakly, hearing her voice was the grounding I desperately needed.
"I'm okay, Ma," I mumbled, closing my eyes. "Just tired. Very, very tired."
"You ran too much," she scolded gently, the worry evident in her tone. "And why were you fighting with everyone? That poor boy with the helmet... you didn't even check on him."
"It's the game, Ma. Sometimes you have to be the bad guy to win. I had to protect my team."
"Okay, okay. I know you are a big player now. But listen to me. Before you sleep, order warm milk. Put haldi (turmeric) in it. Do they have haldi in London?"
I laughed, a weak, raspy sound. "I'll find some, Ma. I'm sure the chef can manage."
"Drink it. It heals the inside. And sleep. Don't look at the phone. Don't read the news. Just sleep."
"Okay, Ma. Love you."
"Love you, beta. So proud. My Raja beta."
I hung up. I didn't have the energy to call room service for haldi milk. I grabbed a bottle of water from the nightstand and chugged it, the cool liquid soothing my parched throat.
The door beeped open. Shubman Gill walked in, fresh from the shower, a towel around his neck, humming a Punjabi song. He took one look at me sprawled on the bed—still in pads and jersey—and stopped dead.
"You look like a corpse, bhai," Gill said, tilting his head. "A victorious corpse, but a corpse nonetheless."
"I feel like one," I groaned, pulling the duvet over my head to block out the light. "Gill, do me a favor."
"Anything, King."
"Text Shradha. Tell her I'm alive, but I'm passing out. I can't keep my eyes open. Tell her I love her and I'll call her tomorrow when I'm human again."
"Done," Gill said softly, dimming the lights. "Sleep, brother. You earned it. You owned London today."
The last thing I remember was the sound of distant sirens in the London traffic outside the window, fading into silence as the darkness took me.
I woke up at 11:30 AM the next day.
I didn't wake up naturally; I woke up because hunger was gnawing at my stomach like a wild animal. I sat up, groaning audibly as my back cracked in three different places. I felt stiff, incredibly stiff, but rested. The sharp pain had dulled to a manageable ache.
Gill was already up, sitting on the sofa with his feet on the coffee table, scrolling through his phone with a massive grin plastered on his face.
"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," Gill laughed, looking up. "Or should I say, the most trending person on planet Earth right now?"
"What?" I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, reaching blindly for my phone. "What time is it?"
"Time for you to see this. Twitter is melting. The internet has broken."
I unlocked my phone. My notifications were broken—frozen at '99+'. Millions of likes, retweets, and mentions.
The cricketing world had reacted while I slept. It wasn't just a win; it was a cultural event.
1. The God of Cricket The first tweet I saw pinned to my timeline was from the man himself. My mentor. My idol. My future father-in-law.
Sachin Tendulkar (@sachin_rt) What a match! What a win! The character shown by this team to bounce back from Day 1 is incredible. And @AaravPathak... speechless. To get your name on the Honours Board is a dream, to do it on BOTH boards in the same match is legendary. 5-0 is a stat for the history books. Also, brilliant captaincy by @imVkohli to rest him post-lunch. Masterstroke. This team is special. 🇮🇳 #ENGvIND #LordsTest
I smiled, warmth spreading through my chest. The "Masterstroke" comment was classic Sachin—always analyzing the game, always giving credit to the leadership.
2. The Dada of Cricket
Sourav Ganguly (@SGanguly99) This is the brand of cricket I love to see! Fearless, aggressive, and dominating. India didn't just win; they bullied the opposition in their own backyard. Dadagiri at Lord's part 2! Aarav Pathak is a generational talent. Well played Team India! 🇮🇳
3. The Support System
Suresh Raina (@ImRaina) What a win boys!! @AaravPathak bhai you are on fire 🔥🔥 5 wickets for 0 runs?! Unbelievable. Proud of the whole team. The way you protected the tail was amazing. Jai Hind! 🇮🇳
Harbhajan Singh (@harbhajan_singh) Chaa gaye shero! (You ruled, lions!) That hat-trick was the cherry on top. England didn't know what hit them. Proper fast bowling destruction. I loved the aggression. Keep showing them who is boss! @AaravPathak keep shining! 🏏
4. The Captain
Virat Kohli (@imVkohli) Whatever is said, whatever is thrown at us, we answer on the field. 🤫 This team is a pack of wolves. Proud of every single one of them. And this guy @AaravPathak... he is a freak of nature. 5-0. Enough said. Leeds, we are coming. 🇮🇳💪 #TeamIndia #NewIndia
5. The Nawab of Najafgarh Virender Sehwag, as always, had brought his poetry game.
Virender Sehwag (@virendersehwag) Angrezon ko pilayi chai, aur stumps ki kar di pitai! (Served tea to the English, and beat up the stumps!) Aarav Pathak ne kiya kamaal, Lords mein macha diya dhamaal! 5-0 is not a football score, it is the roar of the Indian Tiger! Wah! #IndvsEng
I laughed out loud. Sehwag's Twitter game was as destructive as his batting.
The Australians, naturally, were reveling in England's demise.
Ricky Ponting (@RickyPonting) Nothing better than waking up to see England rolled over at Lord's. That spell from young Pathak was hostile. Reminded me of the West Indies in the 80s. Pure pace, aiming for the badge. Great to watch. England looked rattled and had no answers.
David Warner (@davidwarner31) Wow!! What a game. India too strong. Aarav Pathak that is serious pace mate 😳🔥 152kph?! I'm staying at the non-striker's end if we play! Well played India.
Shane Warne (@ShaneWarne) I've said it before and I'll say it again, Test cricket is alive and kicking! The way India played with that aggression was fantastic. Aarav Pathak... superstar. To bowl 152kph in the last over of Day 5? That's fitness. That's desire. That slower ball to Buttler was magic. Well bowled mate. 🌪️
The English Perspective
The English media and legends were divided, a mix of bitter disappointment and grudging respect.
Nasser Hussain (@nassercricket) Congratulations to India on the win. They played the better cricket on Day 5. However, I have to question the brand of cricket on display. The constant sledging, the targeting of heads, the lack of empathy for injured players... it leaves a sour taste. You can win and still respect the Spirit of Cricket. But the skill is undeniable.
I rolled my eyes. Classic Nasser. Always finding the cloud in the silver lining.
Michael Vaughan (@MichaelVaughan) You can't complain when you get back what you dished out. England went short at the Indian tail yesterday. India went short today. India just did it faster and better. No point crying about it. We were blown away by a superior attack. Simple as that.
Kevin Pietersen (@KP24) I love the passion from India! Virat brings the energy and Aarav brings the fire. BUT... knocking helmets off for fun? I don't know. We need to be careful we don't cross the line into dangerous play. But 5-0 is undeniable. Great viewing for the neutral.
Andrew Flintoff (@Flintoff8) Doesn't happen often that we get bullied at Lord's. Fair play to India. Don't like the attitude much, bit too arrogant for my liking, but you can't argue with the skills. That yorker to Buttler was unplayable. Fair play.
Stuart Broad (@StuartBroad8) Tough couple of days. We fought hard but India were relentless today. That spell with the second new ball changed the game. We move on to Headingley. Long series ahead.
Ian Botham (@BeefyBotham) England need to wake up. You can't be bullied in your own backyard. India wanted it more. That young lad Pathak looks the real deal. Pace hurts.
Alastair Cook (@AlastairCook) One of the great Test match wins for India. That last session was as intense as anything I've ever seen. England rattled in a way I've rarely seen at home. Aarav Pathak's spell will be talked about for decades. To reverse the pressure like that takes special character. A tough pill to swallow for us, but a privilege to watch.
I put the phone down, letting it all sink in. The world was talking. The legends were watching. And we had won.
"Hungry?" Gill asked, tossing me a protein bar which hit me in the chest.
"Starving," I said, ripping the wrapper open with my teeth. "Let's go get some breakfast. I think I deserve pancakes. And waffles. And maybe an omelet."
"You deserve the whole bakery, bhai," Gill laughed, standing up and stretching. "Let's go. The King needs his feast."
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A hot shower does wonders for a battered body, but it doesn't cure everything. As I stepped out of the bathroom, steam trailing behind me, my lower back still hummed with a dull ache, and my right shoulder felt like it had been tightened with a wrench. But looking in the mirror, seeing the tiredness in my eyes, I knew it was a good pain. It was the price of history.
I pulled on a fresh hoodie—one that didn't smell of champagne and sweat—and collapsed back onto the bed. Shubman had headed down to the gym, leaving the room blissfully quiet.
It was time.
I picked up my phone and dialed the number that was pinned to the top of my favorites. Shradha ❤️.
The ringtone didn't even finish its first cycle before her face filled the screen. She wasn't in her pajamas this time; she was sitting in the garden of the Tendulkar residence in Mumbai, the late afternoon sun casting a golden glow on her face. She looked radiant, and seeing her made the tension in my shoulders instantly dissolve.
"Hi," she whispered, a smile spreading across her face that reached her eyes.
"Hi yourself," I replied, my voice softening instinctively. "You look... sunny."
"And you look like you've been run over by a truck," she teased, though her eyes scanned my face with genuine concern. "How is the body? How is the champion?"
"The body is broken," I admitted, shifting the pillow to prop myself up. "But the heart is full. Did you watch it all?"
"Did I watch it?" Shradha laughed, a musical sound. "Aarav, I didn't breathe for the last two hours! When you bowled that bouncer to Buttler... my god. I was hiding behind a cushion. I thought you were going to kill someone."
"He started it," I grinned defensively.
"You are a menace," she shook her head, but the pride was unmistakable. "But... when you took that hat-trick... when you stood there with your arms out..." She paused, biting her lip slightly. "You looked like a god. My god."
My heart skipped a beat. "Only yours, Shradha. Always yours."
"You better be," she warned playfully. "I saw a lot of girls in the crowd holding 'Marry Me Aarav' signs. I hope you didn't wave at them."
"I was too busy breaking stumps to notice," I chuckled. "Besides, they don't know that the Prince of Cricket has already found his Princess."
We lapsed into a comfortable silence, just looking at each other. The distance between London and Mumbai felt insignificant.
"I missed you," I said softly. "In all that noise, in the celebration... I just wanted to turn around and see you in the stands."
"I was there," she said, touching the screen. "In spirit. I was screaming louder than anyone. Even Arjun told me to calm down."
"I love you, Shradha."
"I love you too, Aarav."
Just as the moment was getting heavy with emotion, the camera frame on her end shook. A hand appeared on Shradha's shoulder, and then a familiar, kind face leaned into the frame.
"Arey, leave the poor boy alone for a minute, let me see him!"
It was Anjali Tendulkar. Or as I had started calling her recently, Mom.
Shradha groaned playfully. "Mom! We were having a moment!"
"You have a lifetime for moments," Anjali Ma'am laughed, squeezing onto the bench beside her daughter. She looked at me through the screen, her maternal radar pinging instantly.
"Aarav, beta! Look at those dark circles!" she exclaimed. "Did you sleep? Did you eat?"
I smiled, sitting up straighter out of respect. "I slept, Mom. Like a log. And I just had a mountain of pancakes."
"Good," she nodded approvingly. "But tell me the truth. Your back. Is it hurting?"
"A little bit," I admitted. "Physio is taking care of it."
"Did you drink the haldi milk?" she demanded.
I froze. I had completely forgotten. "Uhh... the hotel ran out of haldi, Mom. London crisis."
"Bahana (Excuse)," she narrowed her eyes. "I am sending a packet with someone coming to Leeds. You drink it. You need to heal. We were so worried when you were diving around."
"I will, Mom. I promise. How was the match? Did you enjoy it?"
"Enjoy?" She beamed. "The house was a stadium! Your... your Dad," she gestured to the side, "was jumping on the sofa. I thought he would break his back celebrating your wickets!"
"Speaking of the devil," a familiar voice chimed in.
The phone shifted again, and there he was. The Master Blaster. The God of Cricket. Sachin Tendulkar.
He was wearing a casual t-shirt, looking relaxed but with that unmistakable sparkle in his eyes.
"Dad," I smiled, the word feeling more natural every time I said it.
"Aarav!" Sachin's grin was infectious. "What a performance, son. Simply magnificent."
"Thank you, Dad. I saw your tweet. 'Masterstroke', huh?"
Sachin laughed. "It was! Resting you after lunch was genius. You came back fresh, and the pace... I was watching the speedometer. 151? 152? consistently?" He shook his head in disbelief. "I faced Brett Lee and Shoaib Akhtar. I know what that speed looks like. You had them terrified."
"I just wanted to give it back to them," I said. "They bullied our tail. I couldn't let that slide."
"And you didn't," Sachin said, his voice turning serious with approval. "That aggression... controlled aggression. That is what I loved. You didn't lose your line. You didn't spray it. You channeled the anger into the stumps. That is maturity."
"I learned from the best," I said humble.
"You surpassed the best today," Sachin corrected. "Two Honours Boards in one match. I'm jealous, you know. I have to walk past that board every time I go to Lord's, and now I have to see your name twice!"
We all laughed.
"So," Sachin leaned in. "The slower ball to Buttler. Was that planned?"
"Spot on," I nodded. "He was sitting deep. I knew if I took the pace off, his shape would go. He fell over like a sack of potatoes."
"It was beautiful," Sachin chuckled. "Artistry. That is what fast bowling is. Not just pace, but deception. You played with his mind."
"Okay, okay, enough cricket talk," Anjali Mom interrupted, taking the phone back. "Let the boy rest. He has another match in a few days."
"Leeds," I sighed. "Headingley."
"We will be watching," Shradha said, blowing a kiss. "Go back to sleep, Aarav. Dream of wickets."
"I'll dream of you," I countered smoothly.
"Oh god," Sachin groaned in the background. "Too much romance. I'm leaving."
We laughed as the call ended. I put the phone down, the warmth of the conversation lingering in the empty hotel room. I had conquered Lord's. I had silenced the critics. But more importantly, I had made my family proud.
I lay back down, closing my eyes. The pain was still there, but it didn't matter. I was ready for Leeds.
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