June 30, 2017 | Feroz Shah Kotla, Delhi
They offered him Paris. They offered him Maldives. They even offered him silence.
But Ishaan Verma said no.
After the firestorm of the Champions Trophy final, BCCI's official statement had been brief:
"Player rested for mental well-being."
Unofficially, they had begged him to disappear. To go off-grid. Let the media noise cool. Let the fans move on.
He'd smiled politely. Nodded.
Then signed up for a Ranji Trophy Group Stage Match. Delhi vs Jharkhand. At Feroz Shah Kotla.
No cameras. No floodlights. No foreign commentators or Twitter trends. Just red-ball cricket and the scent of old stands soaked in afternoon heat.
🎯 The Decision
Coach Rahul Dravid had been the only one who understood.
"Are you sure you want this?" he asked over the phone.
"I want to feel the ball on the bat again. That's it."
"Then go do it. Not for them. Not even for me. Just for you."
🏟️ Kotla, Quiet
The stadium was a ghost of its IPL self. A worn-out outfield. Broken concrete seats. Dogs sleeping under the sight screen. Barely 400 people scattered across the stands, most of them club-level regulars or curious passersby.
The scoreboard flickered manually. No broadcasters. No graphics. No replays.
Only one name mattered on the team sheet:
4. I. Verma
Not "poster boy". Not "future of Indian cricket".
Just a middle-order batsman for Delhi.
And he liked it that way.
👕 The Kit Bag and the Memories
As he sat in the dressing room, pulling on the older Delhi kit—no brand logos, no collar sponsorships—his hands paused over the bat.
It was not the bat from the Champions Trophy final.
That one was at home, taped and sealed. That bat had seen war.
Today, he needed peace.
He chose an old one. A grainy, slightly cracked blade he hadn't touched since 2015. Raghav's initials—R.V.—still faintly visible near the grip, carved in ballpoint ink.
He wrapped a fresh rubber grip around it. Whispered to himself:
"Let's just play."
🌤️ The First Session
Jharkhand won the toss. Elected to bat.
Ishaan sat with his pads on for three hours, watching the ball spin, swing, and bounce awkwardly on a tired pitch.
By tea, Delhi bowled the visitors out for 186. The dressing room smelled of sweat and lemon spray.
Ishaan adjusted his pads again. Quiet. Not hyping himself up. Not thinking about form or pressure.
When the opener fell early, and the scoreboard read 10/1, Ishaan stood up without being told.
Walked down the stairs. Crowd silence. Only a few claps. One guy in the stands muttered, "Is that Ishaan Verma?"
Another replied, "Why would he play here?"
Ishaan smiled faintly.
🏏 The Innings
Over 8.3 — Saurabh to Ishaan
Right-arm medium, fourth stump. Ishaan leans forward.
Solid defence. No run.
Stump mic (local coverage):
"No swing here, bhaiya. Just keep him there. He's fragile after Champions Trophy."
Ishaan heard that. Didn't react.
Over 10.2 — Saurabh to Ishaan
Length ball, straight on off.
Ishaan taps it gently to mid-on.
Single.
Crowd: scattered applause.
Commentator (local radio):
"He's off the mark. It's not Adelaide. It's not London. But it's a start."
🛑 Ball by Ball — 20 to 40 Runs
Over 21.5 — Left-arm spinner to Ishaan
Flighted. Ishaan uses the depth of the crease, cuts past point.
FOUR!
First boundary.
Commentary box chuckle:
"Still has the touch. Always had the feet."
Over 29.1 — Saurabh returns
Short ball. Ishaan ducks.
Next one—good length. Pushed to cover. Dot.
Then another short one. Ishaan pulls.
Not for six. Just a grounded flick.
Two runs.
No flash. No scream. Just control.
He nudged. Blocked. Drove when it was full. Left when it swung.
By stumps, he was 42 off 108 balls.
🧘 Therapy in Strokes
In the dressing room, there was no roar.
His teammates high-fived him casually. "Nice one, bhaiyya."
No camera requests. No PR statements.
But his mind had stopped buzzing. For the first time in ten days, he didn't feel like a statue people threw stones at.
He was a cricketer. Bat in hand. Sun on face. Mud on his pads.
And that was enough.
🌇 The Kid With the Notebook
As he packed his gloves post-day's play, he saw a boy near the railing, clutching a notebook. Maybe 11, maybe 12. Nervous eyes. Scruffy hair.
A security guard waved him away, but Ishaan walked over.
"Hi," the boy said, eyes wide. "Are you… really Ishaan Verma?"
Ishaan smiled. "Only on Saturdays."
The boy held out his notebook. "Can you sign it?"
Ishaan signed his name quietly.
The kid said something that made him pause.
"I want to bat like you. Even if we lose."
Ishaan looked up.
Even if we lose.
Not only if we win.
Not only if you hit sixes.
But if we lose.
The Final Scene
Later that night, Ishaan sat outside his guesthouse under a broken tin shed. It began to drizzle.
He didn't move.
The bat leaned against his chair. His hands were sore. His legs ached.
But he was smiling.
Not like after a match-winning hundred. Not like after endorsement deals.
But the kind of smile that meant healing had begun.
That somewhere, amidst the loss, criticism, and chaos, the game had found him again.
📓 Final Line (Journal Entry)
"Today, the scoreboard didn't matter. The applause didn't matter. The win didn't matter. Only the stillness did. That's the game I remember loving."