The date was June 20, 2009. The day before the Final.
But in India, and across the border in Pakistan, time had seemingly stopped. The ticking of the clock wasn't measuring seconds; it was measuring the rising blood pressure of a billion and a half people.
The news broke the previous night. Pakistan, led by the mercurial Younis Khan and inspired by the booming all-round performance of Shahid Afridi, had stunned South Africa in the first semi-final.
The dream final was set. India vs. Pakistan.
At Lord's. The Home of Cricket.
But this was not 2007. The innocence of that inaugural T20 final in Johannesburg was gone. The context had changed violently, tragically, and irrevocably.
It had been less than seven months since 26/11.
The scars of the Mumbai terror attacks were not just fresh; they were still bleeding. The Taj Hotel had reopened, but the anger in the Indian psyche was a raw, exposed nerve. Diplomatic ties were frozen. Bilateral cricket was dead.
The only place these two nations could meet was on neutral ground, in an ICC event.
And now, fate had put them in the biggest match of the year.
---
The morning newspapers in India didn't carry sports headlines. They carried war cries.
THE TIMES OF INDIA: "THE FINAL FRONTIER: IT'S MORE THAN A GAME."
DAINIK JAGRAN: "BADLA! (REVENGE!)"
HINDUSTAN TIMES: "FOR MUMBAI. FOR INDIA. BRING IT HOME."
Across the border, the sentiment was equally fervent, though desperate for redemption of a different kind.
DAWN: "CORNERED TIGERS RISE AGAIN."
THE NEWS: "LORD'S AWAITS: CAN YOUNIS DO WHAT IMRAN DID?"
The 24-hour news channels were in a state of hysteria.
On India TV, the screen was split into flames and lightning bolts. The anchor, his voice reaching a pitch that threatened to shatter glass, screamed into the camera.
"Tomorrow at Lord's, it is not bat against ball! It is pride against arrogance! It is Truth against Terror! MS Dhoni's Youngistan versus Younis Khan's army! The wounds of 26/11 scream for justice, and tomorrow, our boys will deliver it on the pitch!"
Montages played on loop: Images of the Taj Hotel burning superimposed with images of Zaheer Khan shattering stumps. Images of Kasab superimposed with images of Yuvraj Singh roaring. It was visceral. It was jingoistic. It was the mood of the nation.
---
Connaught Place, the beating heart of New Delhi, was a furnace. It was 42 degrees, but the heat coming off the pavement was nothing compared to the heat coming off the people.
Rajdeep Sardesai, the veteran journalist, stood in the middle of the Inner Circle, a microphone in hand, sweat beading on his forehead. Behind him, a crowd had gathered. They weren't just cricket fans; they were a cross-section of India. Students, office-goers, shopkeepers. They were waving tricolors, some had painted their faces.
"We are live from the heart of the capital," Rajdeep said, looking into the camera. "In twenty-four hours, the first ball will be bowled at Lord's. But here, the match has already begun. I have covered many India-Pakistan encounters. The Friendship Series of 2004. The Mohali semi-final. But this... this feels different. There is an edge here. A hardness."
He turned to the crowd. He picked out a young man, a college student wearing a 'Bleed Blue' t-shirt.
"What does this match mean to you?" Rajdeep asked.
The student looked directly at the lens. His eyes were intense.
"Sir, this isn't about cricket. Last year, they attacked us. They came into our homes, our hotels. We haven't forgotten. We can't send the army, fine. But Dhoni bhai? Yuvraj bhai? They are our army tomorrow. We don't just want a win. We want them crushed. We want them to feel the pain of defeat."
The crowd roared in agreement. "BHARAT MATA KI JAI!"
Rajdeep moved to an older gentleman, a shopkeeper who looked like he had seen the wars of '65 and '71.
"Uncle ji, you've seen many matches. Is this too much pressure on the boys?"
The old man shook his head. "Pressure creates diamonds, beta. Look at that boy, Siddanth Deva. He is 18. Does he look scared? No. He looks like he is ready to fight. In 2007, we beat them in the final. History will repeat. But this time, it is for our honor. We have never lost to them in a World Cup. That record must stand."
Rajdeep turned back to the camera.
"You hear it. The emotion is raw. It is unfiltered. The 'Mauka' is not just to win a trophy. It is to make a statement. The shadow of 26/11 is long, and it stretches all the way to London."
---
While the streets were emotional, the air-conditioned studios of Star News (now ABP News) were trying—and failing—to keep it analytical.
The set was designed to look like a cricket pitch.
Hosting the show was the energetic Mayanti Langer.
Her panel was a heavyweight lineup.
Kapil Dev, the 1983 World Cup-winning captain, the father figure of Indian cricket.
Sunil Gavaskar, the Little Master, the voice of logic.
And Navjot Singh Sidhu, the man whose words were as colorful as his turbans. Today, he wore a deep, patriotic saffron.
Behind them, a giant screen played a loop of the fans in Delhi, Mumbai, and Kolkata burning effigies of Pakistani players (a standard pre-match ritual) and performing huvans (prayer ceremonies) for the Indian team.
"Gentlemen," Mayanti said, gesturing to the screen. "Look at that passion. Is it too much? Can this emotion backfire on the team?"
Kapil Dev leaned forward, his voice raspy and passionate.
"Mayanti, you cannot separate the team from the country. When I lifted the cup in '83, we played for pride. These boys... they know what happened in Mumbai. They are Indians first, cricketers second. Dhoni is calm. He will channel this. He will tell them, 'Use the anger, but keep the head cool.' That is the key."
"But the pressure, Paaji," Mayanti pressed. "It's a final. Against them."
Sunil Gavaskar adjusted his glasses. "Let's look at the facts. Forget the emotion for a second. The Streak. India has played Pakistan in ODI World Cups and T20 World Cups. We have never lost. 1992, 1996, 1999, 2003, 2007 T20 Group, 2007 T20 Final. It is 6-0. That is a psychological mountain Pakistan has to climb. They know it. Every time they see the blue jersey in a World Cup, they freeze."
"And it is the same fixture as 2007," Gavaskar continued. "Same two teams. Same stage. Last time, it went to the last over. Misbah vs. Joginder. But this time... the teams are different."
"Different?!" Sidhu exploded, unable to stay quiet any longer. He stood up, spreading his arms wide.
"My friend! It is not just different; it is a transformation! In 2007, we were a team of hope! In 2009, we are a team of conviction!
"Look at Pakistan! They are like a car with a Ferrari engine but no steering wheel! Afridi is a bomb—he can explode on you, or he can explode in his own hand! Gul is bowling yorkers like guided missiles!
"But India? Ah, India!"
Sidhu walked to the large touch-screen monitor. He pulled up an image of Siddanth Deva.
"We did not have this in 2007! We had talent, yes. But Siddanth Deva? He is not a player; he is a force of nature! He is the thunderstorm that follows the lightning!
"Look at his eyes in that photo. Do you see fear? No! You see a predator! He is the only Indian player to score century in this format in internationals. He has taken crucial wickets in the important games. He has done it in the semi-final. He is the Brahmastra!
"Pakistan relies on 'Jazba' (passion). But India? India has 'Jazba' plus 'Method'. And Deva is the Method!"
Gavaskar smiled, used to Sidhu's theatrics. "Sherry is right about Deva. He is the X-factor. In 2007, we didn't have a fast bowling all-rounder. We had Irfan, yes, but Deva is bowling 150kph. That pace... on a Lord's wicket... if there is cloud cover, Pakistan's top order—Kamran Akmal, Shahzaib Hasan—they are shaky against pure pace."
Mayanti turned to Kapil. "Kapil Paaji, you were an all-rounder. You see Siddanth Deva. What do you see?"
Kapil's eyes softened with genuine admiration. "I see... completeness. When I played, I had to manage my energy. If I bowled 20 overs, I was tired when I batted. This boy... he bowls 150, he fields like a leopard, and then he bats for 20 overs. His fitness is something I have never seen in an Indian cricketer. And his temperament. He got out on 29 runs in first innings of semi final against Sri Lanka but he made a comeback in second innings taking 3 crucial wickets, That was not a rookie innings. That was accepting failure and continue to perform when needed."
"Let's talk about the Pakistan threat," Mayanti steered the conversation. "Umar Gul. He has been the bowler of the tournament. The reverse swing king."
"Gul is dangerous," Gavaskar agreed. "He took 5 wickets for 6 runs against New Zealand. If the ball reverses, he is deadly. But... India has played him well. And our batsmen—Gambhir, Rohit, Deva, Dhoni—they play late. They don't throw their hands at the ball like the New Zealanders did."
"And Afridi?"
"Boom Boom!" Sidhu laughed. "He is a lottery ticket! If he wins, you are rich. If he loses, you tear it up! He scored 50 and took 2 wickets in the semi-final. He is high on confidence. But Yuvraj Singh handles spin better than anyone. It will be the battle of the six-hitters. Yuvi vs. Afridi."
"Final predictions," Mayanti asked. "Does the Streak continue? Does India get revenge for Mumbai?"
Kapil Dev: "My heart says India. My head says India. We are the better team. We have the better processes. Pakistan relies on individual brilliance. We rely on the system. India to win."
Sunil Gavaskar: "It will be tight. Finals are always tight. But India has the finishers. Dhoni, Yuvraj, Deva. Pakistan's middle order—Misbah, Shoaib Malik—they can get bogged down. I think India wins by 15-20 runs."
Navjot Singh Sidhu:
"My dear Mayanti! Does the sun rise in the West? Does the river flow up the mountain? NO!
"Pakistan will come with fury! They will come with fire! But India... India will bring the Fire Brigade!
"Dhoni will be the architect! Deva will be the executioner! The Cup is not going to Karachi! It is coming to Mumbai! It is coming to the Taj Hotel to say 'We have returned'!
"Jeetega Bhai Jeetega! India hi Jeetega!"
The studio audience erupted in applause. The fervor was infectious. It wasn't analysis anymore; it was a war cry.
London. The Night Before.
Siddanth Deva sat in his room at the St. James' Court. The TV was on, muted. He was watching the same news channels. He saw the crowds in Delhi. He saw the burning effigies in Lahore.
He saw the clips of the Taj Hotel burning.
He turned off the TV.
The silence of the room rushed back in.
He walked to the window. It was raining lightly in London. A drizzle.
Good, he thought. Moisture. Swing.
He thought about the "Streak." 6-0.
He thought about the 2007 Final. Misbah's scoop. Sreesanth's catch.
He thought about 26/11. The helplessness he had felt in that hotel room in Jaipur, knowing what was happening but unable to stop it.
He clenched his fist.
Tomorrow, he wasn't helpless.
Tomorrow, he had the ball. He had the bat.
It wasn't just a game. The reporter in Delhi was right.
It was catharsis.
His phone buzzed on the bedside table.
He picked it up. A message from India.
Sender: Virat Kohli
Siddanth smiled. Virat was back home, grinding in the domestic circuit, watching from afar. It must have been killing him not to be here, but his support had been unwavering.
"You awake?"
Siddanth typed back. "Yeah."
"Can't sleep here either. Delhi is going mad. They've put up screens in every colony."
"Hyderabad too," Siddanth replied.
"Listen, Sid. Tomorrow isn't just a game. You know that. We need this. The whole country needs this."
Siddanth felt the weight of those words. Virat wore his heart on his sleeve, and even via text, the intensity bled through.
"I know, Chiku. We're ready."
"I know you are. Destroy them. For everyone. And save me a stump."
"Will do. See you soon."
"Good luck, brother. Bring it home."
Siddanth put the phone down for a second, but it buzzed again. This time, it was the "Gully Gang" group chat—Arjun, Ravi, Sameer.
Arjun: "Bro! The colony bought a new projector just for tomorrow! Dad is already wearing his lucky shirt. No pressure, but if you lose, don't come back. (Not joking)."
Ravi: "Smash Gul for me. Just one six out of the ground."
Sameer: "We're all praying, Sid. You got this. The Hurricane is going to hit London!"
Siddanth chuckled softly. It was grounding. To the world, he was the "Brahmastra," the weapon. To them, he was just Siddu who used to buy pani puri's after matches.
Another message popped up. A bit more formal.
Sender: VVS Laxman
"Play the ball, Siddanth. Not the occasion. The noise will be loud, but your mind must be quiet. Good luck."
Siddanth took a deep breath. The support network was immense. From the legends to his best friends, everyone was pushing him forward.
He checked his System one last time.
[SYSTEM STATUS]
Brett Lee: 80%
AB de Villiers: 80%
Jacques Kallis: 20%
He closed his eyes. He visualized the run-up. The slope at Lord's. The release point.
He visualized the yorker crashing into Shahid Afridi's stumps. He visualized the cover drive off Umar Gul.
The script was written. India wins.
But he had to ensure the ink didn't smudge.
He turned off the lamp. Darkness filled the room.
Tomorrow. Lord's. The Final.
The reckoning.