October 3, 2017 | Arun Jaitley Stadium, Delhi
1:12 AM
The pitch slept. The city didn't.
A thousand horns hummed in the distance. Street dogs howled. Neon lights blinked in scattered windows. The world had turned down its volume.
Except here.
Under the floodlights of an empty stadium—cold, unmoving, washed in pale blue light—Ishaan Verma was shadow batting alone.
No crowd.
No music.
Just the whistle of the breeze brushing past his sleeves and the faint creak of his bat handle.
🎬 Scene: The Ghost of the Oval
Every shadowed forward press brought back a ghost from The Oval.
A hook for one.
A drive for none.
The non-striker's end—again and again—watching the stumps behind others shatter.
"You should've finished it."
"Played for your hundred."
"Where was the killer instinct?"
He heard those voices not from the press or the fans—but from the depths of his own gut.
🏏 The Ritual of Recovery
He had no gloves on.
Just a bat and a strip of turf lit by halogen moons above.
Step. Press. Swing.
Pause. Repeat.
He wasn't practicing.
He was cleansing.
Shadow batting was his confession booth.
The handle was the candle.
And the floodlights? His confessor.
He didn't count strokes.
Didn't chase angles.
He just breathed.
In.
Out.
Swing.
Again.
👣 Footsteps in the Dark
From the tunnel behind the dugout, footsteps echoed—slow, purposeful.
Not heavy, not urgent. Just enough to let you know that whoever was walking, wasn't lost.
Ishaan didn't turn. He felt the presence before he saw it.
Virat Kohli stepped into the light.
Tracksuit. Hands folded behind his back. No phone. No entourage. Just watching.
Ten seconds passed. Twenty. Then Kohli spoke, not from authority, but experience.
"Pain is fuel. Just don't let it burn your hands."
Ishaan didn't reply immediately.
He finished another shadow stroke. This one crisp. Down the ground.
He turned, bat resting on his toe.
"Next time, I don't stay. I finish."
Kohli smiled faintly. Nodded.
"Good. Because there's a knock at the door."
📰 The Call-Up
Earlier that day, Kohli had sent him a screenshot.
It was from the BCCI's official media release.
"India T20I Squad for NZ Series: Kohli (c), Dhoni (wk), Rohit, Ishaan Verma, Pandya, Bumrah..."
No phone call. No selector meetings.
Just that one text.
Kohli: "Welcome back."
Ishaan hadn't replied.
He wasn't sure yet what to feel.
Joy? Not quite.
Relief? Closer.
Vengeance? Dangerous.
No—what he felt was something else. Something quieter, and heavier.
Purpose.
🧵 Flashback: Dravid's Words
After the Ranji game, Ishaan had spoken to Rahul Dravid in the parking lot.
"Will they always remember only the finals?"
Dravid had paused. Looked him square in the eye.
"No. But you will."
"So I'm always playing against ghosts?"
"No. You're playing with them. The great ones always do."
💢 The Past Refuses to Leave
Now, standing in this midnight net session, Ishaan imagined a white ball flying at him.
He closed his eyes.
And in his mind—it wasn't a bowling machine.
It was Mohammad Amir.
No, not just him. Cummins. Boult. Rabada. Woakes. Starc. Every name that tried to intimidate him, every name that doubted his temperament.
"Kill him with the short ball."
"He's a showpony."
"Collapse begins at four. Verma."
One breath.
Then he opened his eyes.
🎯 Throwdowns Begin
He didn't want throwdowns.
He needed them.
He texted Ramesh, the net coach.
11:54 PM
ISH: "I need 45 minutes. Balls only. No words."
Ramesh replied instantly.
11:55 PM
"I'll bring the machine. Meet in Net 3."
By 12:30 AM, the machine was humming.
Ramesh didn't speak. Just set the ball loader, adjusted the pace to 142 kmph, and nodded.
The first delivery zipped in.
Thud.
Middle of the bat. Straight back.
Next one. Short ball. Ishaan ducked instinctively, then cursed himself.
He pointed to Ramesh.
"Same ball. Again."
Thud.
Third ball. He hooked.
Not with anger. But precision.
It flew. And flew. And dropped into the empty stands.
That one wasn't for the crowd.
That one was for himself.
🐺 The Fire Returns
Ball after ball, stroke after stroke, sweat replaced silence.
Leg-glance. Cover-drive. Paddle-sweep. Lofted flick.
But most of all—
The hook shot.
Every bouncer, he greeted like an old rival.
Some were missed. Some were middled.
But none were feared.
He grunted with every pull.
Not in showmanship.
But in transformation.
🎬 Final Shot
The last ball was fired at full pace—short, rising, angling toward his shoulder.
Ishaan danced across, transferred his weight perfectly, and hooked it with a roar.
The sound of leather off willow echoed in the empty stadium like thunder rolling through a valley.
He dropped his bat.
Took off his helmet.
Closed his eyes.
And breathed.
The storm inside had not vanished.
But it no longer controlled him.
📝 Journal Entry (Later That Morning)
"Not every night ends in darkness. Some are lit by floodlights and old fire. Some burn quiet. But burn bright."
"I'm ready."