The interval at Lord's was usually a time for tea, polite conversation, and perhaps a scone. But on June 21, 2009, the interval was a stunned, vibrating silence. The scoreboard stood as a monolith of impossibility: INDIA 305/3.
Inside the Star News studio in Mumbai, the atmosphere was less analytical and more like a wake for the opposition.
Mayanti Langer turned to the camera, her face flushed with the residual adrenaline of Siddanth's innings. "Welcome back. We are... well, we are still trying to catch our breath. 305 runs. In twenty overs. It is a score that defies logic, physics, and history."
She turned to the panel. "Gentlemen, Pakistan needs 306 to win. That is 15.3 runs per over from ball one. Is there... is there even a chance?"
Sunil Gavaskar adjusted his tie, looking at the stats sheet with a mixture of pity and awe. "In cricket, we say 'funny game', Mayanti. We say 'anything can happen'. But today? No. This is not a climb; this is a vertical takeoff. Pakistan has a Ferrari engine in Afridi, but India has just built a wall across the road."
Kapil Dev shook his head. "They have to swing at everything. If they block one ball, the rate goes to 16. If they leave one ball, it goes to 17. The pressure is not on their shoulders; it is crushing their skulls."
Navjot Singh Sidhu leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. "My friend! You ask about chances? Let me tell you about chances! It is like asking a man on a bicycle to catch a rocket to the moon! It is like asking a goldfish to swallow a shark!
"Pakistan is not walking out to bat; they are walking out to a firing squad! The mountain is too high, the air is too thin, and the Sherpa—Siddanth Deva—has already stolen all the oxygen!"
Mayanti turned to the large screen behind them. "Let's look at the Win Predictor. The computer has crunched the numbers based on history, run rates, and conditions."
The graphic flashed onto the screen. A giant pie chart that was almost entirely Blue.
A tiny, almost invisible sliver of Green remained.
INDIA WIN PROBABILITY: 99.9%
PAKISTAN WIN PROBABILITY: 0.1%
"0.1%," Gavaskar read out loud. "I think the computer is being generous. That 0.1% assumes the Indian team decides to bowl underarm."
"It is over," Sidhu declared, sitting back. "The fat lady has not just sung; she has finished the opera and gone home for dinner! Now, we just watch the coronation!"
The Second Innings
The lights at Lord's were blazing. The Pakistani openers, Kamran Akmal and Shahzaib Hasan, walked out. They looked like men walking to the gallows. They didn't look at the crowd. They didn't look at the scoreboard. 306 was a number so large it didn't register as a score; it registered as a sentence.
MS Dhoni gathered his team in a huddle.
"Listen," Dhoni said, his voice calm amidst the chaos. "They have to hit every ball. They have no choice. Keep the field up. Make them hit over the top. Zak, RP... start us off."
Zaheer Khan took the new ball.
The Pakistan batsmen didn't even try to get their eye in. They swung from ball one.
Over 1: Kamran Akmal charged Zaheer on the second ball. He swung wildly across the line.
Zaheer bowled a perfect outswinger.
The ball kissed the outside edge and flew to first slip.
Suresh Raina took the catch.
WICKET 1: Kamran Akmal c. Raina b. Khan 0.
"And it begins!" Ravi Shastri shouted on commentary. "The pressure of the scoreboard is too much! Akmal had to go for it, and Zaheer is too smart! India strikes in the first over!"
RP Singh took the second over.
Shahzaib Hasan, young and inexperienced, tried to pull a length ball. He top-edged it high into the London night.
Rohit Sharma settled under it at mid-on.
WICKET 2: Shahzaib Hasan c. Rohit b. RP Singh 4.
The crowd was singing Vande Mataram. It was deafening.
Pakistan was 10 for 2 after 2 overs.
They swung. They missed. They edged.
Zaheer and RP bowled 4 overs in tandem. They gave away runs because the batsmen were slogging blindly, but the result was inevitable.
By the end of Over 4, Pakistan was 35 for 2.
They needed 271 runs from 16 overs.
---
Dhoni didn't let up. He brought on the spinners.
Harbhajan Singh, Pragyan Ojha, and Yuvraj Singh.
It was a massacre.
The Pakistan batsmen—Shoaib Malik, Misbah-ul-Haq, Shahid Afridi—had no option but to attack.
Harbhajan Singh was in his element.
Over 6: Shoaib Malik stepped out. Harbhajan fired it in wide. Stumped by Dhoni.
WICKET 3.
Over 8: Shahid Afridi. The danger man.
He tried to hit Harbhajan out of the ground. He didn't pick the doosra.
The ball spun away, took the leading edge, and popped back to the bowler.
WICKET 4: S. Afridi c & b Harbhajan 8.
"The Turbanator strikes!" Sunil Gavaskar exclaimed. "Afridi had to go, but Harbhajan outfoxed him! Pakistan is collapsing like a house of cards!"
Harbhajan picked up his third wicket in his next over, trapping Fawad Alam LBW.
Pragyan Ojha chipped in, getting Misbah-ul-Haq caught at deep square leg.
Yuvraj Singh rolled his arm over and got Abdul Razzaq caught at long-off.
The scoreboard was a sorry sight.
Pakistan: 80 for 7.
Overs: 10.
The required rate was 22 runs per over. The game was long dead. Now, it was just about the burial.
Dhoni looked around. He saw the crowd. He saw the energy.
He looked at Siddanth Deva.
Siddanth was standing at mid-off, fresh, eager. The 100% Form Card he had used for his batting... the System hadn't deactivated it yet. The "Duration: 1 Match" clause meant he was still in God Mode.
"Sid," Dhoni called out, tossing him the ball. "Finish it."
Over 11
Siddanth took the ball. The crowd roared. The "Devil of Cricket" was back.
He stood at the top of his mark.
Umar Gul, Saeed Ajmal, and Mohammad Amir were the remaining batsmen.
Siddanth felt the surge. Every muscle fiber was firing at maximum efficiency. The target on the pitch looked like a laser dot.
"Siddanth Deva comes into the attack," Nasser Hussain said, his voice hushed. "He scored 188 runs. Now he has the ball. Pakistan is 7 wickets down. This could be over very quickly."
Ball 1: Umar Gul on strike.
Siddanth ran in. He didn't just run; he glided. The approach was terrifyingly fast.
He released the ball.
156.4kph.
Gul saw it late. He jabbed his bat down.
The ball beat the bat, beat the stumps by a millimeter, and thudded into Dhoni's gloves.
DOT BALL.
"PACE!" Shastri yelled. "That is lightning! Gul didn't even see it! 156 clicks on the gun!"
Ball 2:
Siddanth walked back. He didn't need a break.
He ran in again. Same action.
155kph. Yorker. Base of middle stump.
Gul tried to dig it out. He was too slow.
CRACK.
The middle stump didn't just fall; it snapped. It flew out of the ground, somersaulting towards the wicketkeeper.
WICKET 8: Umar Gul b. Deva 2.
"Cleaned him up!" David Lloyd screamed. "The furniture is disturbed! The timber is shivering! Pure, unadulterated pace!"
Ball 3: Saeed Ajmal walked out. The number 9.
Siddanth stood at the mark. He looked at the stump lying on the ground.
He wanted another one.
He ran in.
He bowled the "Heavy Ball". 152kph. Directed at the top of off-stump.
Ajmal, a tailender, poked at it nervously.
The ball kissed the outside edge.
It flew to first slip.
Yuvraj Singh took a sharp catch at waist height.
WICKET 9: S. Ajmal c. Yuvraj b. Deva 0.
"TWO IN TWO!" Shastri was on his feet. "Siddanth Deva is on a hat-trick! In a World Cup Final! Can you believe it? The scriptwriter is writing a fantasy!"
Mohammad Amir walked out. The last man.
Pakistan: 85 for 9.
Siddanth Deva was on a hat-trick to win the World Cup.
The crowd noise was a deafening, white-noise roar. DEVA! DEVA!
Dhoni brought the field in. Slips, gully, short leg, silly point. The ring of vultures.
Siddanth looked at Amir.
One ball. One good ball.
Don't hold back.
He ran in. The run-up was smooth, powerful, perfect.
He leaped at the crease.
He released the ball.
It wasn't a yorker. It wasn't a bouncer.
It was the 110kph Slower Ball Yorker. The deception.
Amir saw the arm speed. He saw the aggression. He prepared for the 155kph thunderbolt. He planted his front foot to block.
The ball didn't arrive.
It floated. It dipped. It spun.
Amir's bat came down too early. He hit the air.
The ball drifted past the bat and gently, almost apologetically, nudged the off-stump.
The bail fell.
WICKET 10: Mohammad Amir b. Deva 0.
HAT-TRICK.
PAKISTAN ALL OUT 85.
INDIA WINS BY 220 RUNS.
---
For a microsecond, time stood still. The bail hit the ground.
Then, Siddanth exploded.
He turned and sprinted towards MS Dhoni.
Dhoni, the Captain Cool, had ripped off his keeping gloves and was running towards the bowler.
Siddanth launched himself into the air.
He jumped, wrapping his legs around Dhoni's waist, screaming at the sky.
Dhoni caught him, laughing, spinning him around. The usually stoic captain was roaring with joy.
Then, the wave hit them.
Yuvraj, Raina, Rohit, Harbhajan—the entire team converged on the pitch. The players from the dugout sprinted onto the ground, flags in hand.
They piled on top of Siddanth and Dhoni. A mountain of blue jerseys, tears, and triumph.
"IT IS DONE!" Ravi Shastri's voice broke, thick with emotion. "India are the World Champions! They have defended the title! And they have done it in the most dominant fashion imaginable! Siddanth Deva finishes it with a hat-trick! A hat-trick to win the World Cup! Write this name down in gold letters! HISTORY AT LORD'S!"
The team eventually untangled.
Siddanth stood up, his hair messy, his face flushed.
He looked at the Pakistani players. They were standing by the boundary, heads bowed, utterly defeated.
Siddanth walked over. He walked to Younis Khan.
He shook his hand.
"Well played," Siddanth said.
It was a lie—Pakistan had been annihilated—but it was the right thing to say.
Younis looked at the 18-year-old. He looked at the scoreboard. 305 vs 85.
"You were too good," Younis said softly. "Too good."
Siddanth shook hands with Amir, with Afridi. There was no animosity. Just the acknowledgement of total superiority.
The Studio Reaction
The camera cut back to the Sony Max studio.
It was pandemonium.
Navjot Singh Sidhu was dancing. He was doing the Bhangra on the studio floor.
Kapil Dev was weeping. The 1983 captain, watching the 2009 generation conquer Lord's again.
Ajay Jadeja and Gaurav Kapur were popping confetti poppers.
"LOOK AT THIS!" Sidhu yelled, grabbing the camera. "My friend! This is not a victory! This is a statement! The Devil of Cricket has eaten them alive! 188 runs! A hat-trick! He is not human! He is a celestial being sent to play cricket!"
"The margin," Gaurav gasped, looking at the screen. "220 runs. The biggest margin in T20 history. In a final. Against Pakistan. This is... this is revenge for everything."
"It is closure," Kapil Dev said, wiping his eyes. "After Mumbai... after everything the country has been through... this team has given us a reason to smile. A reason to stand tall. Siddanth Deva... god bless that boy."
India Erupts
The broadcast cut to live feeds from across India.
Mumbai: Marine Drive was a sea of people. Fireworks were exploding over the Taj Hotel, the same hotel that had burned months ago. Now, it was lit up in the Tricolor. Strangers were dancing on cars.
Delhi: India Gate was invisible under the smoke of a thousand firecrackers. The drums were beating.
Hyderabad: In Mehdipatnam, the Deva residence was the center of the universe.
Vikram Deva was on his balcony, waving an Indian flag to a crowd of hundreds gathered on the street below.
"MY SON!" he was shouting, his voice hoarse. "THAT IS MY SON!"
Sesikala was inside, surrounded by neighbors, handing out sweets with trembling hands. She wasn't watching the TV anymore. She was just looking at a framed photo of Siddanth on the mantelpiece, whispering, "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
Arjun was in the street, leading the chant.
"SID-DU! SID-DU! SID-DU!"
The colony, the city, the nation—they were all chanting one name.