For More Future Chapters: -
My Patreon: -
https://www.patreon.com/c/Kynstra
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Please Donate Power Stones and Join My Patreon.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The dust from the T20 World Cup in Australia had barely settled, but the relentless wheel of international cricket kept turning. The focus shifted back to the 50-over format. With the 2023 ODI World Cup less than a year away, every bilateral series was a building block.
The BCCI had announced the squad for the three-match ODI series against Bangladesh a week prior. It was a squad that blended the absolute core of the Indian top order with a fresh, untested pace battery.
India ODI Squad for Bangladesh Tour:
Rohit Sharma (C)
Aarav Pathak (VC)
Shikhar Dhawan
Virat Kohli
KL Rahul
Shreyas Iyer
Ishan Kishan (wk)
Rajat Patidar
Axar Patel
Washington Sundar
Shahbaz Ahmed
Shardul Thakur
Mohammed Siraj
Deepak Chahar
Kuldeep Yadav
Kuldeep Sen
Umran Malik
The rest afforded to senior pacers like Bumrah, Shami meant that the pace attack was heavily reliant on Aarav, Chahar, and raw, inexperienced speedsters like Umran Malik and debutant Kuldeep Sen. The onus to control the game was firmly placed on the batting lineup and the spin department.
It was 9:00 AM on match day. The 1st ODI was a Day/Night fixture, scheduled to start at 1:30 PM, but the Indian team was already at the Sher-e-Bangla Stadium for an optional, specialized morning net session.
Mirpur is infamous in the cricketing world. Unlike the true, bouncy tracks of Australia or the flat batting paradises of standard Indian grounds, the pitch at Sher-e-Bangla is a living, breathing trap. It is notoriously slow. The bounce is uneven—one ball might rear up to the chest, while the next scoots along ankle-high. But worst of all is the grip. The ball stops on the batter, making stroke-play incredibly difficult.
Rahul Dravid and Batting Coach Vikram Rathour had set up a specialized training matrix in the outdoor nets.
Aarav Pathak walked out of the dressing room, fully padded up. He had his helmet tucked under his arm, his shirt already clinging to his back in the suffocating Dhaka humidity. He knew that his usual game hitting through the line and using the pace of the bowler was going to be severely tested here.
"Morning, Pathak," Virat Kohli greeted him, wiping sweat from his face with a towel. He had just finished a grueling 45-minute session against the local net spinners. "It's a minefield today. The ball is stopping completely. Forget about hitting on the up."
"Noted, Virat bhai," Aarav nodded, strapping on his helmet. He grabbed his bat a slightly lighter blade than the one he used in Australia, designed for quicker bat speed against spin.
Aarav stepped into Net 1. Waiting for him were Axar Patel and a group of local Bangladeshi left-arm orthodox net bowlers. The brief was simple: simulate the threat of Shakib Al Hasan and Mehidy Hasan Miraz.
"Fire them in, Bapu," Aarav shouted to Axar. "Don't give me flight. Bowl it into the pitch."
Axar darted the first ball in on middle and leg. In Australia, Aarav would have stood tall and punched it down the ground. Here, he immediately got down on one knee. Thwack. He swept it hard along the ground.
For the next twenty minutes, Aarav didn't play a single drive. He engaged in a brutal, repetitive drill of sweeps. Conventional sweeps to the balls drifting down leg. Reverse sweeps to the balls pitched on the fourth stump line. Paddle sweeps to use the pace of the quicker deliveries.
Vikram Rathour stood behind the net, nodding approvingly. "Keep your head down, Aarav! Don't look up until the bat has made contact! The bounce is too low to risk top-edges!"
Aarav grunted in acknowledgment. His thighs burned from constantly dropping to one knee, but he didn't stop. In Mirpur, the sweep shot wasn't just an aggressive option; it was a survival tool to disrupt the spinner's length.
Aarav moved to Net 2. This pitch had been deliberately scuffed up by the groundsmen to simulate a wearing 40th-over track. Washington Sundar and Kuldeep Yadav were bowling here.
"Okay, Aarav," Dravid said, holding a side-arm thrower. "You can't get caught on the crease here. If you play from the crease, the ball will stop and take the leading edge. You either go all the way back, or you come all the way forward. Commit."
Kuldeep tossed up a traditional wrist-spin delivery. Aarav charged down the track instantly. He didn't try to slog it. He got so close to the pitch of the ball that the spin was entirely negated. He smothered it, driving it with soft hands back past the bowler.
The next ball, Kuldeep dragged it slightly short. Instead of trying to pull it from his normal stance, Aarav went deep into his crease. He moved so far back that his back foot was nearly touching the stumps. He waited an eternity for the ball to arrive, watching it grip and turn slowly, and then punched it off the back foot with a horizontal bat.
"Brilliant," Dravid clapped. "Play it as late as possible. Let the ball come to you."
Aarav was sweating profusely now. The physical exertion of constantly shifting his weight, stepping out, and dropping back was immense. But his muscle memory was adapting. He was retraining his brain to ignore the instinct to push at the ball.
The final phase was perhaps the most frustrating. Mohammed Siraj and Deepak Chahar came in to bowl with an older, softer white ball. They were instructed to bowl a barrage of cutters and slower balls into the pitch.
In Mirpur, when pacers bowl cutters, the ball tends to 'tennis-ball' bounce or skid low. If a batter goes hard at it, it goes straight to cover or mid-wicket.
Siraj ran in and bowled a deceptive off-cutter. Aarav read the hand. He resisted every urge in his body to smash it. He loosened his grip on the bat handle entirely. As the ball arrived, stopping slightly on the turf, Aarav presented a completely 'dead' bat.
The ball hit the willow and died instantly at his feet. It didn't carry even two yards.
"That's it!" Rohit Sharma, who was watching from the sidelines, yelled out. "Soft hands! That's how we survive the middle overs! If you go with hard hands here, the ball pops up to the infield!"
Aarav repeated the drill. Ball after ball. Drop the wrists. Loosen the bottom hand. Absorb the impact. It was boring, unglamorous cricket. There were no cameras flashing, no crowds cheering. It was the ugly, gritty side of the game that won matches in the subcontinent.
After an hour and a half of continuous, high-intensity batting, Aarav finally stepped out of the nets. He ripped off his gloves, his hands red and blistered despite the inner linings. He took off his helmet, pouring a bottle of ice-cold water over his head.
"Good session, Vice-Captain," Rohit said, handing him a fresh towel. "You look dialed in."
"It's a sluggish beast, Rohit bhai," Aarav panted, wiping his face. "You have to generate all the power yourself, but if you hit it too hard, you get caught. It's a mental game today."
"That's Bangladesh for you," Rohit smiled wryly.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The scorecard at the end of the three-match ODI series read 2-1 in favor of Bangladesh. For the casual fan, it was a bitter pill to swallow—a series loss to a neighboring rival. The headlines in the subcontinent were predictably dramatic, mourning the defeat of the giants.
But inside the Indian dressing room, and for the astute cricket analysts watching closely, the series wasn't just a defeat; it was a laboratory as Indian team was testing different combinations for the world cup.
With the 2023 ODI World Cup looming on the horizon, Rohit Sharma, Rahul Dravid, and Vice-Captain Aarav Pathak had quietly unveiled a radical new batting template. The days of conservative ODI accumulation in the first 20 overs were officially dead. India was attempting to play a 50-over game with a T20 mindset, structured around one immovable sun: Virat Kohli.
The shift was most evident at the very top of the order.
Shikhar Dhawan, usually the smiling accumulator who took his time to build an innings, was given a new, ruthless mandate. From Ball 1, Dhawan played like a man in a T20 Powerplay. He stepped out to the fast bowlers, slashed over point, and tried to maximize the fielding restrictions at all costs. His role was kamikaze disrupt the bowler's rhythm early, even if it meant a quick, high-impact dismissal.
At the other end, Rohit Sharma played a slightly different game. He started slow, almost sluggishly, taking 15 to 20 balls to assess the tricky, gripping Bangladeshi pitches. But once he crossed that 20-ball threshold and got his eye in, the "Hitman" awoke. He would effortlessly shift gears, suddenly striking at 150. He would find those majestic pull shots over mid-wicket, turning a quiet start into a brutal assault before the field spread out.
When Dhawan's high-risk game inevitably led to his dismissal, the core of the new strategy walked out. Virat Kohli at Number 3.
In this new aggressive template, Kohli was the anchor, the stabilizer, the axis around which the entire batting lineup revolved. While everyone else was given the license to attack, Kohli's job was to balance his wicket and take the team deep into the 40th over. He played classical ODI cricket—finding gaps, running manic twos and threes, and ensuring that even if wickets fell at the other end, the innings would never suffer a total collapse.
He was the insurance policy that allowed the rest of the team to play fearlessly.
Then came Aarav Pathak at Number 4.
Aarav and Kohli formed the engine room of the middle overs. When Aarav walked in, he didn't immediately launch into his T20s-style destruction. He respected the sluggish conditions. He built the innings with Kohli—rotating strike, pushing hard for doubles, and keeping the run rate ticking around 6 runs per over.
But the strategy had a specific trigger. Once the innings crossed the 30th or 35th over mark, and Aarav was set, a switch flipped.
The Vice-Captain would suddenly abandon classical rotation and go aerial. The sheer power of the 'Pathak' meant that even on slow pitches where the ball stopped, he could clear the long boundaries. He would hit huge, towering sixes off the spinners, completely derailing the opposition's middle-overs squeeze. And because Kohli was still solid at the other end, Aarav could take these risks without the fear of a middle-order collapse.
Following them, the likes of Shreyas Iyer and KL Rahul applied the finishing touches, capitalizing on the platform to push the scores well past 300.
The batting template was a resounding success. India posted massive, intimidating totals. But ODIs are won by taking 10 wickets, and this is where the grand experiment faltered.
The Indian pace battery was largely inexperienced. With the senior pros rested, raw speedsters like Umran Malik and debutant Kuldeep Sen were thrown into the deep end.
The Bangladeshi conditions—slow, low, and demanding extreme discipline—were a harsh teacher. The young pacers, used to the true bounce of IPL pitches struggled to adapt. They bowled too fast, too short, or too full, bleeding runs in the death overs.
The only bowlers who looked consistently threatening were Aarav Pathak and Kuldeep Yadav. Aarav's mastery of cutters, slower bouncers, and his sheer 150 kmph pace allowed him to extract whatever life was left in the Mirpur and Chattogram tracks. Kuldeep Yadav's left-arm wrist spin was a puzzle the Bangladeshi batters struggled to solve, fetching him crucial wickets in the middle phase.
But two bowlers cannot win a 50-over match alone.
Mehidy Hasan Miraz and Shakib Al Hasan capitalized on the inexperienced Indian bowling, stitching together miraculous partnerships to chase down targets or set up match-winning defenses.
As the team packed their bags to leave Bangladesh, the mood was mixed.
The 2-1 series loss stung, especially a heartbreaking 1-wicket loss in the first ODI where the lower order escaped the young Indian pacers.
However, Rohit Sharma and Rahul Dravid weren't panicking. They had found their blueprint. The batting order knew their exact roles. The King would anchor, the Hitman would explode, the Prince would shift gears, and the rest would attack.
They just needed their premier bowlers—Bumrah and Shami—back in the mix. The road to the 2023 World Cup had truly begun, built on a foundation of aggressive intent and the unwavering stability of Virat Kohli.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Bangladesh tour had been a grueling, humbling experience. The pitches were treacherous, the lessons were harsh, and the 2-1 defeat stung. But as the chartered flight touched down in Mumbai on the eve of the New Year, Aarav Pathak left the disappointment on the tarmac.
2022 had been a year of unimaginable highs—the IPL Championship, the Test series victory in England, the T20 World Cup, and the meteoric, billions of dollars rise of his tech company, Astra.
He arrived at Pathak Villa just as the sun dipped below the Arabian Sea, painting the Juhu horizon in brilliant shades of violet and gold.
"You look exhausted, but you look home," Priya Pathak said, pulling her towering son into a tight embrace the moment he stepped through the grand oak doors.
"I am home, Mom," Aarav smiled, burying his face in her shoulder, letting the scent of her jasmine perfume wash away the fatigue of the tour.
Dinner was a lavish, quiet affair. Just the three of them Aarav, Priya, and Rajat Pathak seated around the long mahogany dining table. There were no cricket analysts here, no boardroom executives. Just a family.
Rajat poured himself a small glass of single malt and raised it. "To 2022," Rajat toasted, his sharp eyes gleaming with pride. "The year my son didn't just play the game, but conquered it. And the year Astra officially became a tech leviathan."
Aarav clinked his glass of sparkling water against his father's. "To 2022. Thanks, Dad. But Bangladesh was a reality check."
"Good," Rajat said firmly, setting his glass down. "Reality checks keep you grounded. You've had a vertical ascent this year, Aarav. Trophies, centuries, business acquisitions. But remember, the higher you climb the mountain, the harder the wind blows to knock you off."
Rajat leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. The billionaire tycoon was imparting the wisdom that built his own empire. "2023 is going to demand more from you. Astra is expanding, and your cricket schedule is relentless. You need to be steady. Don't let the success of yesterday make you complacent about tomorrow. Achieve more, yes, but retain your balance. A calm mind is your greatest weapon, both in the boardroom and on the 22 yards."
"I hear you, Dad," Aarav nodded, absorbing the advice. "Steady and hungry. That's the mantra."
"And make sure you actually sleep!" Priya interjected, piling another serving of Malai Kofta onto Aarav's plate despite his protests. "I don't care about your billions or your centuries if you have dark circles under your eyes. Eat!"
Aarav laughed, surrendering to his mother's demands. In this house, he wasn't the Prince of Cricket; he was just a boy who needed to finish his dinner.
At 11:50 PM, Aarav stood alone on his private balcony. The cool winter breeze of Mumbai rustled his hair. Down on the beach, fireworks were already beginning to shoot into the sky, anticipating the countdown.
He pulled out his phone and initiated a FaceTime call. It was 6:20 PM in London.
Shradha picked up on the second ring. She was sitting by the window of her apartment, wrapped in a thick, fluffy blanket, a mug of hot chocolate in her hands. The grey London evening was visible behind her.
"Hey," she smiled softly, her eyes lighting up the moment she saw his face.
"Hey yourself," Aarav replied, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur. "What are you doing sitting by the window in the cold?"
"Missing you," she admitted freely, a slight pout on her lips. "Everyone here is getting ready for New Year's Eve parties, and I am sitting here reading about cardiovascular pathologies. It's depressing."
Aarav's heart ached. The physical distance between them had never felt wider. "I miss you too, Doc. More than I can put into words. The house is full, but it feels empty without you sneaking around my kitchen."
Shradha giggled, shifting closer to the screen. "Your mom called me an hour ago. She showed me the feast she cooked. I was extremely jealous."
"She misses you. We all do," Aarav said, resting his elbows on the balcony railing. In the background, the distant roar of the city counting down began. Ten... Nine... Eight...
"Aarav?" Shradha whispered.
"Yeah?"
"I love you. Thank you for making 2022 the best year of my life."
Three... Two... One...
The Mumbai sky exploded into a kaleidoscope of colors. Crackers boomed, lighting up the coastline in gold, red, and green.
"Happy New Year, Shradha," Aarav said, his eyes entirely focused on the screen, ignoring the fireworks above him. "I love you. You are my anchor."
Shradha touched the screen, pressing a kiss to her fingertips and placing it over his image. "Happy New Year, my Champion. Go conquer 2023."
They stayed on the call for another hour, talking about nothing and everything, bridging the thousands of miles with shared laughter and quiet promises, until Shradha finally had to return to her medical journals.
The next morning—the first day of 2023—the warm Mumbai sunlight streamed through the tall glass windows of Pathak Villa. Aarav woke up feeling refreshed, the physical and mental fatigue of the previous year's challenges replaced by the clean slate of a new beginning.
He quickly showered, dressed in a crisp, comfortable white kurta, and headed downstairs. He found his parents in the sunlit conservatory, enjoying their morning tea and discussing the day's plans.
Aarav walked straight up to them. Without a word, he bent down deeply, respectfully touching his father's feet first, and then moving to touch his mother's feet.
"Happy New Year, Dad. Happy New Year, Mom," Aarav said as he stood up, his voice full of warmth and reverence.
Priya immediately reached out, placing a loving, protective hand on his head. "Happy New Year, my son. Jeete raho (Live long). May this new year bring you endless happiness, good health, and that World Cup trophy you've been dreaming of."
Rajat smiled with immense pride, pulling Aarav into a brief morning hug and patting his back firmly. "Happy New Year, Champion. Always keep your head high and your feet on the ground. We are already so incredibly proud of the man you are becoming."
"Thank you," Aarav smiled, pulling up a chair to join them for a quick cup of tea and some light banter before his next stop.
The next morning—the first day of 2023—Aarav drove his Range Rover across the Sea Link to Bandra. It was a tradition now.
The heavy gates of the Tendulkar residence swung open for him. As he walked into the familiar, elegant foyer, Anjali Tendulkar was the first to greet him.
"Happy New Year, Aarav!" Anjali smiled warmly, holding a plate of traditional sweets.
Aarav bent down instantly, touching her feet. "Happy New Year, Mom."
Anjali's smile widened at the title. She placed a hand on his head, blessing him, and then immediately popped a pedha into his mouth. "May this year bring you endless happiness. Now come inside, Sachin is waiting for you on the terrace."
Aarav walked through the house. It felt strange not having Shradha pop out from a corner to tease him, or Arjun challenging him to an arm-wrestling match.
He found Sachin Tendulkar standing on the terrace, holding a cup of tea, looking out over the city.
"Happy New Year, Dad," Aarav said, touching the legend's feet.
Sachin turned around, his face breaking into a proud, affectionate smile. He pulled Aarav into a warm hug. "Happy New Year, Aarav. Welcome back from the grind. Sit."
They sat on the cane chairs under the morning sun. "Shradha wasn't on the video call this morning," Sachin noted with a twinkle in his eye. "She said she was 'studying'. But I assume you two already brought the new year in together?"
Aarav smiled sheepishly. "Yes, Dad. We spoke at midnight. She's working hard."
"She is," Sachin nodded, his expression turning slightly more serious, shifting from a father to a mentor. "And you have to work hard this year too, Aarav. Do you know what 2023 represents?"
Aarav knew exactly what it meant. "The ODI World Cup, Sir. In India."
Sachin leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his eyes locking onto Aarav's with an intensity that commanded absolute silence.
"I chased that trophy for twenty-two years, Aarav," Sachin said, his voice quiet but incredibly heavy with emotion. "Twenty-two years. 1992, 1996, 1999, 2003, 2007. I tasted the heartbreak, the tears, the despair of an entire nation every single time we fell short. I had to wait until the absolute twilight of my career, until my body was breaking down, to finally lift that gold cup at the Wankhede in 2011."
Aarav listened, captivated. Hearing the God of Cricket speak about his ultimate vulnerability was a surreal experience.
Sachin reached out and gripped Aarav's forearm firmly.
"You don't have to wait that long," Sachin stated, his voice ringing with absolute belief. "You are 22 years old. You are in the absolute prime of your youth. You have the team, you have the form, and you have the mindset."
Sachin pointed a finger at him.
"This is your year, Aarav. A World Cup at home is the ultimate test of character. The pressure will try to crush you. The expectations will be suffocating. But you have to rise above it. Rohit will lead the side, but you are the engine. You are the Vice-Captain. You have to win it."
Aarav felt a shiver run down his spine. This wasn't just advice; it was a mandate. It was the passing of a sacred torch from the man who defined Indian cricket to the boy who was destined to carry it forward.
"I know the weight of it, Dad," Aarav said, his voice steady, his eyes never leaving Sachin's. "I promise you. We won the T20 World Cup 2021, but I know the ODI World Cup is the holy grail. I won't let it slip. We will bring it home."
Sachin's intense gaze softened into a warm, paternal pride. He patted Aarav's arm and sat back in his chair. "I know you will, son. I know you will. Now... tell me about that pitch in Mirpur. Why were you playing the sweep so early?"
Aarav chuckled, the heavy emotional atmosphere lifting, replaced by pure cricket talk. As they sat there discussing technique under the Mumbai sun, Aarav Pathak knew his path for 2023 was set in stone. The business empire, the T20 leagues, the endorsements—they were all secondary.
The ODI World Cup was the singular, burning obsession. And he was going to conquer it.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Bombardier Global 7500 cut through the frigid, misty morning sky of Northern India. The luxury inside the cabin—the plush cream leather, the mahogany finishing, the ambient lighting—felt entirely suffocating.
Aarav Pathak sat by the window, his eyes fixed on the news channel playing on the massive OLED screen mounted on the bulkhead. The ticker at the bottom of the screen ran in a relentless, horrifying loop: "Rishabh Pant involved in severe car crash on Delhi-Dehradun highway. Car catches fire. Pulled out by Roadways bus crew. Admitted to Max Hospital."
Aarav's jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ached. His hands, resting on his lap, were balled into tight fists, the knuckles turning white.
Inside his mind, a storm of fury, guilt, and sheer helplessness was raging. He was from the future. November 2023. He knew this was going to happen. He had known the exact timeframe the cursed transition between 2022 and 2023.
For the last three months, Aarav had been on Rishabh's case like a paranoid older brother. "Don't drive at night, Spidey.""Hire a chauffeur, Rishabh. I'll pay for it. Just don't drive alone.""The fog on the Roorkee highway is a death trap. Take a flight."
He had warned him. Repeatedly. Aggressively. But Rishabh Pant was a chulbula—a jumping firecracker of a human being. He lived life on instinct, driven by impulses and a boyish sense of invincibility. He had wanted to surprise his mother for the New Year, and in his typical, stubborn fashion, he had taken the wheel of his Mercedes SUV in the dead of the night. Police reports suggested he had dozed off at the wheel. The car had smashed into the divider, flipped multiple times, and burst into flames.
If it hadn't been for Sushil Kumar, the bus driver who dragged him out of the burning wreckage seconds before it became an inferno, Aarav would be flying to a funeral today.
You idiot, Aarav screamed internally, his eyes burning. You absolute, reckless idiot. I tried to change it. I tried so hard to change the timeline for you.
He looked away from the TV, unable to watch the footage of the charred, unrecognizable shell of the Mercedes anymore.
He looked at his companions in the cabin. Ishan Kishan was staring blankly at the floor, his usually vibrant face pale and drained of all color. He had been crying earlier. Rishabh was his closest friend in the circuit. Shubman Gill was biting his nails down to the quick, his leg bouncing with nervous, terrifying energy. Arshdeep Singh sat with his eyes closed, a small prayer bead string in his hand, murmuring silently.
They were athletes in their prime. They felt invincible. Today, mortality had slapped them across the face.
Aarav stood up, walking over to Ishan. He placed a heavy, reassuring hand on the wicketkeeper's shoulder. "He's a fighter, Ishan," Aarav said, his voice surprisingly steady, adopting the role of the anchor they so desperately needed. "He survived the fire. He'll survive the hospital. Don't assume the worst."
Ishan looked up, his eyes red. "The news said his knee is gone, Aarav. They said he might never play again. His career..."
"The news doesn't know anything," Aarav cut him off sharply, projecting a certainty he didn't entirely feel. "Until I hear it from the Chief Surgeon, we don't write his obituary. We are going there to pull him up, not to mourn him."
The private jet touched down smoothly at the Jolly Grant Airport in Dehradun. The moment the doors opened, the biting chill of the Uttarakhand winter hit them. Waiting on the private tarmac were two black Range Rovers, arranged by Aarav's father's logistics team, surrounded by six imposing private security commandos in black tactical gear.
"Straight to Max Hospital," Aarav instructed the lead security officer as they piled into the SUVs.
The drive through Dehradun was a blur. As they approached the hospital, the scale of the chaos became apparent. The streets leading to Max Hospital were entirely jammed. Hundreds of fans, local media crews, news vans with satellite dishes, and curious onlookers had mobbed the entrance. The local police were struggling to hold the barricades.
"Sir, the main gate is completely blocked," the driver noted, looking at the sea of humanity.
Aarav's eyes hardened. He didn't have time for this circus. He tapped the intercom to the security detail in the front seat. "Clear it. Use the Pathak name with the local DSP if you have to. I am not waiting in traffic while my brother is in surgery."
The commandos stepped out of the lead vehicle. They coordinated with the local police inspectors. The moment the police realized whose convoy it was—the son of Rajat Pathak, the Vice-Captain of India—the barricades were forcefully shifted.
The Range Rovers crawled through the parted sea of flashing cameras and shouting reporters, entering the secure basement parking reserved for hospital directors.
Aarav, Ishan, Gill, and Arshdeep were escorted through the service elevators directly to the VIP surgical floor.
The atmosphere here was a stark contrast to the chaos outside. It was sterile, quiet, and suffocatingly tense. The smell of strong antiseptics hung in the air.
As they walked down the corridor, Aarav saw two familiar faces sitting slumped on a steel bench outside the ICU waiting area. Nitish Rana and Rinku Singh. Nitish, who played with Pant for Delhi, looked devastated. Rinku, Aarav's Gujarat Titans teammate, stood up immediately upon seeing them, his eyes red-rimmed.
Aarav walked over and hugged Rinku tightly. Rinku, usually the smiling joker of the dressing room, buried his face in Aarav's shoulder and sobbed quietly. "It's bad, Captain," Rinku choked out. "I saw the photos from the casualty ward. It's really bad."
"Hold it together, Rinku," Aarav whispered fiercely, rubbing his back. "We have to be strong for his family."
Aarav pulled back and looked down the hall. In a private VIP waiting lounge behind a glass door, two women were holding onto each other as if the world were ending.
Saroj Pant, Rishabh's mother, looked like she had aged ten years in the last forty-eight hours. She was weeping silently, her hands trembling as she clutched a photo of a Hindu deity. Beside her, holding her tightly, was Isha Negi, Rishabh's girlfriend. She lived nearby in Uttarakhand and had been the first to arrive. Her face was tear-stained, her eyes vacant and terrified.
Aarav took a deep breath, shedding the aura of the 'Prince of Cricket'. He opened the glass door and walked in.
Saroj Aunty looked up. When she saw Aarav, a fresh wave of tears broke. Aarav didn't stand over her. He immediately dropped to his knees right in front of her chair. He took both her trembling hands in his large, warm ones.
"Aunty," Aarav said, his voice incredibly soft, filled with the deep respect of a son.
"Aarav... my boy... my Rishabh..." she sobbed, leaning forward to rest her forehead against Aarav's shoulder.
Aarav wrapped his arms around her, letting her cry. "Nothing will happen to him, Aunty," Aarav vowed, his voice steady and absolute. "He is the most stubborn guy I know. He doesn't quit. He will walk out of here, and he will play again. I promise you."
He looked up at Isha, who was wiping her eyes with a tissue. He gave her a small, comforting nod. "He's going to be okay, Isha," Aarav said gently, standing up and placing a hand on her shoulder. "He has the best team looking after him now. We are all here."
"They took him into surgery an hour ago," Isha whispered, her voice trembling. "His knee... the doctors were looking so worried, Aarav. They said the ligaments are completely torn."
"Let the doctors do their job," Aarav said. "We will handle the rest."
Aarav walked out of the family lounge. The emotional toll was heavy, but he couldn't afford to be paralyzed by it. He needed facts.
At the end of the corridor, a group of senior doctors, accompanied by the Hospital Director, were talking in hushed tones with the BCCI Medical Support Group representative.
Aarav marched straight towards them. Ishan and Gill watched from a distance, knowing better than to interrupt Aarav when he was in this specific mode. The 'Seth' mode.
The Hospital Director, a distinguished man in his fifties, recognized Aarav immediately. The sheer presence of the 22-year-old, combined with the astronomical wealth of the Pathak empire backing him, commanded immediate deference.
"Mr. Pathak," the Director nodded respectfully, extending a hand. "Thank you for coming. It's a tragic situation."
Aarav shook his hand briefly. "Cut the pleasantries, Doctor. I need the exact, unvarnished truth. No PR spin. What is his status?"
The Chief Orthopedic Surgeon stepped forward. "He is currently under anesthesia, Mr. Pathak. We are managing the immediate trauma. The good news is, there is no brain or spinal cord injury. The MRI is clear on that front. He braced himself just before impact, which saved his life."
Aarav closed his eyes for a microsecond. He remembered my warning. He braced. The timeline had shifted just enough. In the original timeline, the injuries were horrifying. Here, they were severe, but the brain and spine were entirely untouched.
"The bad news?" Aarav demanded, his gaze piercing.
"The right knee," the surgeon sighed. "Multiple ligament tears. Anterior Cruciate Ligament (ACL), Posterior Cruciate Ligament (PCL), and Medial Collateral Ligament (MCL). It's a complete blowout of the knee structure. He also has extensive friction abrasions on his back from being dragged out, and two lacerations on his forehead requiring plastic surgery."
"Can he play wicket-keeper again?" Aarav asked, cutting straight to the core of Pant's existence.
The doctors exchanged nervous glances. The BCCI rep looked down. "Mr. Pathak, right now, our focus is ensuring he can walk normally again," the surgeon said carefully. "Professional wicket-keeping puts unimaginable stress on the knees. With a triple ligament tear... it will take a medical miracle and at least 15 to 18 months of brutal rehabilitation."
Aarav's expression didn't change, but his eyes turned into chips of ice.
"Then we buy the miracle," Aarav stated, his voice ringing with absolute, uncompromising authority.
He took a step closer to the Hospital Director. "Money, logistics, and geography are not variables in this equation, Director," Aarav said, his tone shifting from a concerned friend to a corporate titan negotiating a takeover. "If the best ligament reconstruction specialist on the planet is in London, New York, or Germany, you tell me. My family's private jet is fueled and on standby at Jolly Grant. We will fly the surgeon here by tomorrow morning. Or we will fly Rishabh to them the moment he is stable."
The BCCI Medical Rep stepped in. "Aarav, the Board is looking into flying him to the Kokilaben Dhirubhai Ambani Hospital in Mumbai. Dr. Dinshaw Pardiwala will handle the case."
"Good. Dr. Pardiwala is excellent," Aarav nodded. "But I want international consultations. I want the guys who fixed Tiger Woods and Zlatan Ibrahimovic looking at his scans. I'll fund the entire medical board. Whatever the BCCI doesn't cover, Pathak Industries will. He gets nothing but the absolute pinnacle of medical science. Is that understood?"
"Perfectly, Mr. Pathak," the Director assured him quickly. "We are already consulting with top orthopedic boards. We will spare no expense or effort."
"Keep me updated the second the surgery ends," Aarav ordered. "I want to be the first one to know."
Aarav walked back to where Ishan, Gill, Arshdeep, Rinku, and Nitish were sitting. He looked at the group of young men. They were the future of Indian cricket, and today, they were a group of terrified boys.
"He's going to be okay," Aarav told them, keeping his voice steady and confident. "The brain and spine are completely fine. The knee is messed up, but they are flying him to Mumbai for reconstruction under Dr. Pardiwala. I'm pulling in specialists from Europe to consult."
Ishan let out a massive, shuddering breath, burying his face in his hands. "Thank God. Thank God his head is okay."
"He's going to have a long road back," Aarav warned them, sitting down next to Gill. "A very long road. He's going to be in pain, and he's going to be depressed when he realizes he's missing the ODI World Cup this year."
"We'll be there for him," Arshdeep said fiercely, his jaw set. "Every step."
"Yeah," Shubman agreed, looking at the door of the surgical wing. "We don't leave a brother behind."
Aarav leaned his head back against the cold hospital wall. He closed his eyes. The smell of the hospital, the beeping of the distant monitors, it all felt surreal.
He had changed the timeline. He had altered match results, won World Cups, and elevated his career to legendary status. But today, sitting outside an operating theater in Dehradun, Aarav Pathak realized the true limits of his power.
He couldn't control fate. He couldn't stop a car from crashing. But as he listened to the soft weeping of Saroj Aunty from the lounge, and looked at the grim determination on the faces of his teammates, he made a silent vow.
He couldn't stop the crash, but he would absolutely control the recovery. Rishabh Pant was going to walk back onto a cricket field. He was going to hit one-handed sixes again.
Even if Aarav had to drag him through the rehabilitation himself, the Spidey of Indian Cricket would fly again. That was a promise from the Vice-Captain.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Aarav, Ishan, Gill, and Arshdeep spent five agonizing but crucial hours at Max Hospital.
Before leaving, Aarav stood outside the ICU doors one last time. He couldn't go in, but he placed his hand on the glass. I'll see you on the field, Spidey, he promised silently. Take your time. We'll hold the fort.
The drive back to the Jolly Grant Airport was completely silent. The young cricketers were emotionally drained. As the private jet took off, cutting through the winter fog of Uttarakhand towards the warm coast of Maharashtra, the reality of their profession began to set in.
Cricket is a relentless machine. It doesn't pause for heartbreak, and it certainly doesn't pause for accidents.
Tomorrow was January 3rd. India vs. Sri Lanka. 1st T20I.
With Rohit Sharma completely rested for this series to manage his workload and recover from a minor thumb issue, the BCCI had officially handed the reins to the Vice-Captain. Tomorrow, Aarav Pathak was not just going to lead India. He was going to lead them on his home turf: Mumbai.
They landed at Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj International Airport late in the evening and were discreetly whisked away to the Team Hotel in South Mumbai.
Aarav didn't go to Pathak Villa in Juhu. As captain, he needed to be with the team. He checked into his suite, took a long, hot shower to wash away the sterile smell of the hospital, and immediately ordered room service.
He threw his phone on the couch and collapsed onto the bed. The physical toll of the travel and the emotional toll of the day crashed into him simultaneously. He was asleep before his head fully settled into the pillow.
The next morning, the Mumbai sun streamed brightly through the hotel windows. Aarav woke up, his mind instantly compartmentalizing the previous day's trauma. He put on his India training kit, the blue feeling like a familiar armor.
When he walked into the team breakfast room, the atmosphere was a mix of quiet concern for Pant and focused energy for the match.
Aarav made it a point to go to every table. He patted shoulders, shared a few light jokes with Suryakumar Yadav, and made sure Ishan Kishan—who was still looking a bit shaken—was eating properly.
By 10:00 AM, the team bus rolled into the iconic Wankhede Stadium.
Stepping onto the lush green outfield, Aarav took a deep breath. He had played here countless times. He had watched matches from the Garware Pavilion as a kid. But today was different. Today, he wasn't just a local boy, and he wasn't just a franchise star.
He was the Captain of the Indian National Cricket Team, leading his country in his home city for the very first time. The red soil of the pitch, the sea breeze sweeping across the stands, the towering floodlights—it all felt incredibly personal.
"Feels like home, doesn't it?" a voice asked from behind.
Aarav turned to see Hardik Pandya walking up, carrying his bats. "It does, Hardik bhai," Aarav smiled. "But it feels heavier today."
"That's the captaincy weight," Hardik grinned, bumping his shoulder. "Don't let it weigh you down. You know this pitch better than anyone. Just trust your gut."
After a rigorous two-hour practice session—where Aarav bowled at full tilt to shake off the rust and hit a few towering sixes into the North Stand—the core leadership group convened in the coach's office.
Sitting around the table were Head Coach Rahul Dravid, Captain Aarav Pathak, and senior all-rounder Hardik Pandya, whose experience was invaluable in these tactical discussions.
"Sri Lanka is coming off an Asia Cup victory," Dravid started, looking at the stats on his iPad. "They are a dangerous T20 side. Dasun Shanaka knows how to marshal his troops, and their spinners Hasaranga and Theekshana—will test us on this red soil."
"Wankhede is a chasing ground," Aarav noted, leaning forward. "The dew comes in heavily in the second innings. We need to win the toss and bowl. But if we bat first, we need a par score of 180-190. For that, our batting needs to be deep, and our spinners need to be accurate."
"I agree," Hardik chimed in. "We need guys who can hit the deck hard and spinners who don't rely just on flight, because the ball skids here under lights."
Dravid nodded. "Let's lock in the XI."
Aarav picked up a whiteboard marker. "Opening... Ishan needs a good game. He's been stressed about Rishabh. Getting out there and hitting the ball will clear his head." "Gill partners him," Dravid confirmed. "He is in sublime form."
"I'll bat at three," Aarav wrote his own name down. "With Rohit and Kohli bhai out, I need to anchor and attack." "Sanju Samson at four," Hardik suggested. "He plays spin beautifully, and if we lose early wickets, he can stabilize. If we get a good start, he can launch."
"Done," Aarav nodded. "Surya bhai at five. No one touches his spot."
"Then me," Hardik pointed to himself. "Number six."
"Now, the all-rounders," Dravid said. "We need batting depth to play fearless cricket at the top." "Washington Sundar and Axar Patel," Aarav wrote them down. "Washi gives us the off-spin option against their left-handers, and Axar is lethal with his arm balls on a skidding Wankhede track. Plus, both can easily hit boundaries at number 7 and 8."
"Pace attack?" Dravid looked at Aarav. "You're the expert here." "Arshdeep is a lock for the death overs and the new ball swing," Aarav said confidently. "And Harshal Patel. Wankhede boundaries are short. His dipping slower balls and cutters will be crucial in the middle and death overs when they try to go big."
"And the lead spinner?" Hardik asked. "Yuzi Chahal," Aarav smiled. "He might go for a few runs, but he buys wickets. We need a genuine wicket-taker in the middle overs."
Dravid looked at the whiteboard. A perfectly balanced, aggressive, and deep T20 squad. He patted Aarav on the back. "Good side, Captain. You have your weapons. Now, go execute."
Team India Playing XI vs. Sri Lanka (1st T20I):
Ishan Kishan
Shubman Gill
Aarav Pathak (C)
Sanju Samson (WK)
Suryakumar Yadav
Hardik Pandya
Washington Sundar
Axar Patel
Harshal Patel
Arshdeep Singh
Yuzvendra Chahal
Aarav stood near the boundary rope, looking at the stands slowly filling up with blue jerseys. The shadow of Dehradun was put aside.
The Prince of Mumbai was ready to lead his empire.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jaa Ne
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Author's Note: - 7200+ Words
For More Future Chapters: -
My Patreon: -
https://www.patreon.com/c/Kynstra
Thank you very much for all the support and donate power stones!!
Do Comment, anything just comments and Donate Power stone!!
If you're enjoying the story, don't forget to leave a ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ rating! Your feedback means so much. And feel free to comment on where you think the story should go next—I'd love to hear your thoughts on the future direction!