The GOAT of Cricket

**Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport, Mumbai — July 2016**

The glass doors hissed open.

Flashbulbs exploded.

Cheers erupted.

Security strained to contain the surge.

Ishaan Verma, fresh off his Player of the Series-winning tour of the Caribbean, stepped into the arrival lounge like a comet returning to earth. Banners fluttered. Placards screamed his name. A boy with cricket gloves too big for his hands held up a crayon sketch — Ishaan lofting a six, the word *lion* underlined three times.

Near the VIP gate stood Meera Verma, in a simple blue cotton saree, holding a bouquet of red roses. Her hands trembled, but her eyes searched only for one thing: her son.

He spotted her.

Wading through reporters, selfie-hunters, and bodyguards, he reached her. She didn't speak. She just wrapped him in an embrace and pressed her forehead to his chest. Ishaan hugged her like the world might tilt again if he didn't hold tight.

"You okay?" he whispered.

She nodded, eyes wet. "You?"

"I don't know yet."

---

### *The New Normal*

Home wasn't home anymore. It was a shrine.

Posters of Ishaan had sprouted across the colony. Kids ran around with makeshift bats pretending to be him. The chaiwala at the corner stall had renamed his special brew: *Verma Shot — strong and sweet.*

Inside the modest Verma apartment, one thing had changed — a brand-new flat-screen television, gifted by the housing society, now played Ishaan's Caribbean highlights on loop. Commentary echoed faintly in the background:

> "What composure from the young man. You'd think he's played a hundred internationals."

That night, Ishaan sat cross-legged on the floor in his hoodie, staring at the screen, volume muted. His face flashed on the display, bat raised, helmet off, eyes skyward. Above the TV, Raghav Verma's photograph rested, framed and glowing faintly in the dim light.

Meera brought a plate of steaming poha.

"You've not eaten since morning."

He didn't look away from the screen. "Not hungry."

She sat beside him.

"They're calling you the next Kohli," she said softly.

He finally turned to her. "I'm not even the first Ishaan Verma yet."

---

### *Hero and Stranger*

The next seven days were a blur. Magazine interviews. Endorsement meetings. PR handlers. Calls from CEOs.

MRF wanted to sign him.

So did Nike.

Even a shampoo brand called. He laughed and politely declined.

Television debates buzzed:

> "Is Ishaan Verma India's next all-format titan?"

> "Too soon or just right?"

> "From debut to destiny: A star is born?"

At Shivaji Park, he returned to the nets that had shaped him.

But everything had changed.

Youngsters paused their drills to watch. Some clapped after every ball. Some waited for autographs, not advice.

He met old friends — some warm, others wary.

"Verma bhai, party kab de rahe ho?"

"You ever coming back to domestic, or are we below your level now?"

Ishaan smiled, nodded, laughed — but inside, something tugged. Not pain. Not pride.

Something in between.

He faced one delivery. Drove it straight. Clean as a hymn.

Applause.

He left the nets without playing another ball.

---

### *The Masks of Success*

Nights blurred into endless scrolling.

Fan DMs. Trolls. Poems. Proposals.

One message stopped him cold.

**@emmawatson** had posted a story:

A slow-motion clip of Ishaan pulling a bouncer. Captioned:

> *"Poise under pressure. India's new prince."* 🦁

He stared. Replayed it. Checked the handle three times.

His thumb hovered over "reply."

He didn't press send.

Not yet.

---

### *Return to the Grave*

At dawn on Sunday, Meera woke to an empty house.

She checked the terrace. The gate.

Ishaan was at the crematorium.

Kneeling on the same ground where Raghav Verma's ashes had been scattered, he whispered:

"Dada... they think I'm ready for the world. But am I?"

A janitor nearby, broom in hand, paused and peered.

"You're that boy, right? The cricketer. I saw you hit that six on TV."

Ishaan stood. Brushed his jeans. Nodded.

"That was for him."

The man smiled. "Then keep playing for him."

---

### *The Call*

Later that evening, while rain tapped gently on the windowpanes and Meera stirred tea in the kitchen, Ishaan's phone buzzed.

**BCCI HQ — Official Communication**

> Subject: ODI Squad Selection

>

> Dear Mr. Verma,

>

> You have been selected for the Indian ODI squad for the Zimbabwe tour, commencing next month. Kindly report to the NCA for pre-tour fitness protocols.

He stared at it.

Meera looked over. "What now?"

"Zimbabwe."

She smiled. "Another flag. Another dream."

He didn't smile.

He walked into his room, shut the door softly, and sat on the floor, back against the wall.

Just like he had before his T20I debut.

But this time, no tears. No euphoria.

Just breath. Stillness.

He looked at his father's photo.

And whispered:

"Let's get to work."