June 19, 2017 | Mumbai, India
The plane touched down at 3:47 AM.
The skies above Mumbai were smeared with bruised clouds—angry, electric. Monsoon had arrived, as if mourning with the country. Outside the glass of the business-class window, droplets smudged across the plastic like fingerprints from a restless god.
Ishaan Verma hadn't moved.
He sat in seat 3A, headphones plugged in, not for music—but for silence. The soft hum of the aircraft's engines and the occasional mechanical groan felt more honest than anything he'd heard in the past 24 hours.
Virat was two rows ahead, sunglasses on, arms crossed. Dhoni sat opposite the aisle, scribbling something in a notebook. No one had spoken since they left Heathrow. The final still hung in the air like smog—heavy, clinging, inescapable.
As the flight taxied toward the gate, the captain's voice crackled over the intercom:
"Welcome to Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj International Airport. The temperature is 26 degrees and… there is light rain. We thank you for flying with us."
Rain.
Of course.
🛬 Arrival: The Flash Without the Flame
The first sign of chaos was the flicker.
Camera flashes lit up the arrival corridor like fireworks—only colder, more clinical. The glass doors slid open and the Indian team walked out, not as champions, but as men carrying silence.
"ISHAAAAN! ISHAAAN!"
"Verma, do you regret not accelerating?"
"Was the century worth the loss?"
"Are you still India's poster boy?"
"Was that hundred for the team or your stats?"
Microphones lunged forward like bayonets. Security guards formed a hasty perimeter, but the noise was already under his skin.
Ishaan didn't speak. He didn't even glance.
He walked through them—head down, headphones on, hands deep in pockets. The flashbulbs caught his profile, his black hoodie, and the outline of the bat he still carried—no kit bag, no luggage. Just the bat. Still taped from the final.
🚖 The Drive Home
Mumbai at dawn was a paradox—half asleep, half hysterical.
His cab cut through the grey drizzle. Hoardings that once bore his face now stood peeled at the corners. Some still displayed his image—arms raised, century pose—but with new captions scribbled in red:
"Ton But Gone."
"Verma's Fire, India's Ashes."
"119 — For What?"*
Ishaan stared at them, face unreadable.
In the silence, his mind betrayed him.
🔁 FLASHBACK: The Last Over
Bhuvneshwar's off stump cartwheeling.
Fireworks exploding behind the Oval stands.
Ishaan standing at the non-striker's end, unbeaten on 119.
Crowd erupting for Pakistan.
His own gloves trembling.
No bat raise. Just silence.
Kohli avoiding his gaze.
Dhoni removing his pads slowly.
No words. No warmth.
He had stayed. But it wasn't enough.
🏠 Home Isn't Always Shelter
The apartment door opened with a soft metallic click.
No garlands. No welcome. Just the creak of the hinge and the sound of monsoon tapping the windows like a mourner too polite to wail.
He entered.
The living room was clean, too clean. The maid had left the TV on mute—news channels playing footage of his innings on loop. Below it, scrolling text in red:
"Verma Century in Vain: Is He India's New Jinx?"
#Passenger119 trending worldwide.
He dropped his bat near the balcony door. It thudded softly, like the fall of a memory.
☔ The Terrace Scene
Evening fell like ash.
Ishaan climbed the spiral staircase to the terrace. No lights. Just the city skyline drowned in rain.
He sat on a plastic chair, barefoot. The bat beside him, angled upward like a monument.
The rain touched his skin, but he didn't flinch.
He watched it fall on his bat. Slowly, the grip turned darker, heavier. The tape around the edges began to unravel. It looked like it was weeping.
🗣️ Internal Monologue
"I was there till the end. I played smart. I didn't throw it away."
"But no one cares. Because they lost. Because I didn't finish it."
He closed his eyes.
He could still hear the crowd at The Oval. The cheers for Zaman. The boos for Kohli. The sighs when Dhoni was run out. The silence when the final wicket fell.
But mostly... the absence of sound when his name was read during the post-match.
Even the commentators didn't know what to say. A hundred and nineteen not out. And no applause.
📱 The Message
His phone buzzed. Once.
A single text. Unknown number.
"Still proud of you. — E"
He stared at it for a long time. Then locked the screen and placed the phone face-down on the wet chair.
🎭 The Ghosts of Greatness
Later that night, he unlocked the trophy cabinet.
Inside, beside a photo of his father, sat the bat from his debut hundred at Adelaide. The gloves from his Gabba masterclass. The cap Kohli had placed on his head when he was presented his Test cap.
All looked... distant.
He whispered to the bat from the final:
"You were perfect. I wasn't."
📺 The Media Carnage
The next morning, every channel, every anchor, every graphic shouted the same thing.
🎙️ "Should Ishaan Verma have accelerated earlier?"
🎙️ "He was too obsessed with batting till the end."
🎙️ "This is why Dhoni is different—he finished games."
🎙️ "We needed a hero. Not a survivor."
He watched for a minute. Then switched it off.
🔁 Call with Kohli
Phone rang. Kohli.
Virat's voice was calm, but sharp.
"Ishaan. I know what they're saying. Ignore them."
"I didn't win us the final."
"No one did. But you gave us a chance. If we'd had one guy to stay with you…"
Silence.
Then Kohli added:
"They remember who finishes. So next time… finish."
Ishaan exhaled slowly.
"I will."
✍️ Ending Beat: The Note
He sat by the window that night.
Took out a pen. A fresh page. The old leather notebook.
"Dear Dad,"
"I stayed. I held. I carried the weight. But I didn't bring them home. And now, they think I failed."
"Maybe I did. But you always told me something: 'You can be on fire, and still feel cold if you're alone.'"
"I was alone yesterday. Not because they left me. But because I couldn't carry all of them by myself."
"Next time, I won't just stay. I'll finish. For you. For me. For India."
He put the pen down. Rain still falling.
He picked up the bat again.
And this time, he didn't flinch at the wet grip. He held it tighter.
Like it wasn't a weapon.
But a promise.