The GOAT of Cricket

Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport, Mumbai — July 2016

04:16 AM

The landing gear screeched softly against the Mumbai tarmac. Through the plane window, the monsoon clouds hung thick over a city still asleep, yet somehow never resting. Outside, ground crew bustled under flickering lights, the orange glow of sodium lamps casting long shadows across the rain-slicked runway.

Inside seat 2A, Ishaan Verma sat motionless, staring out through the rain-streaked glass.

Three matches. Two centuries. Player of the Series.

Social media had exploded. Headlines roared.

But in his chest, it was calm. Too calm.

The Arrival

04:32 AM

The cabin lights brightened. A gentle chime. A flight attendant's voice crackled over the speaker. Seat belts clicked open in succession.

Across the aisle, Shikhar Dhawan stretched and smiled.

"You ready for round two?"

"What round?"

"The one where you realise airports aren't buildings anymore — they're stadiums now."

Ishaan didn't reply. He just pulled his hoodie over his head and followed his teammates toward the jet bridge.

The glass doors of Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport slid open — and the world outside erupted.

Live Scene — Arrival Hall

Camera flashes like strobe lights. Airport security locked in a human chain. Screaming fans pressed against barricades.

A poster:

"Welcome Home, Century Machine!"

A little boy stood on his father's shoulders, waving a crayon sketch of Ishaan's Harare century — a cricket bat turned lightning bolt.

Journalists shoved forward.

"ISHAAAAAN! One word, please!"

"How does it feel to be India's future?"

"Is it true you're in talks with five brands already?"

He didn't stop.

He didn't look up.

He kept walking.

And then — he saw her.

Meera.

Wrapped in a shawl, guarded by two constables. No signs. No banners. Just a small bouquet of marigolds in trembling hands.

When their eyes met, the noise around him faded like a radio being turned off.

He walked to her. She didn't speak. Just took his hand and pressed it against her chest.

Her heart — galloping.

His — steady.

That Night — And the Room Without Sound

The Verma home hadn't changed.

Except everything had.

A new nameplate read "I. Verma" in polished brass.

The inside was small, warm, dim. A ceiling fan spun above the same cracked beige sofa. On the TV: muted replays of his third ODI.

Ishaan sat cross-legged on the floor, hands on his knees, watching himself.

Ball 97. Ishaan 118*.

Length ball.

Down the track.

Launched.

Six.

Game over.

On screen, commentators buzzed:

"He plays like he's been doing this for ten years!"

"No nerves. No edges. Just instinct and clarity."

Another panelist added:

"This isn't just potential. It's presence. A generational presence."

Behind him, Meera folded her son's travel hoodie and placed it gently on the backrest. Then walked to the kitchen and quietly began stirring dal.

Fragments of a Legacy

Later that night, Meera opened the old tin box on the top shelf.

Inside: medals, certificates, Raghav's engineering diploma, and a fading newspaper clipping —

"12-year-old Ishaan Verma scores 202 in inter-school final."

She held it for a second. Then whispered:

"He did it, Raghav.

Your boy did it."

Media Hurricane

The next morning, the flood began.

ICC homepage:

"Ishaan Verma: India's Bridge Between Eras?"

Cricbuzz panel:

"Better than Kohli at 21?"

Twitter Trends:

#CenturyBoy #NextSRT #VermaVibes

Emma Watson's story:

"The new prince of cricket?" with a lion emoji.

His follower count: +2.3 million in 72 hours.

Endorsement requests: 9 major brands.

News appearances offered: 17.

He accepted none.

The Silence Between Echoes

At Shivaji Park, he returned to the nets. No cameras. Just muscle memory.

Stump mic (practice nets):

"Don't drag. Keep the shoulder inside."

"Again. Again."

Every early morning, gym. Every evening, shadow drills. No selfies. No quotes. No stories.

When Rudra called from Delhi:

"Bro, you're everywhere! Billboards, TV debates, even Emma Watson!"

"I haven't arrived."

"What?"

"I've just proven I belong. Arrival's a longer road."

One Week Later — Churchgate, Mumbai

BCCI Headquarters | 4th Floor | Selection Committee Room

The elevator opened with a dull chime. Ishaan walked down a short corridor lined with portraits: Kapil. Dravid. Dhoni. Kohli.

He entered a quiet room.

Five selectors. A long table. One paper.

The chief selector, Mr. Kaul, didn't waste time.

"Your bat has spoken, Ishaan.

This evening, we announce the Test squad for the Border Gawaskar trophy."

"You're in."

"Number five. Probable playing XI."

He slid the paper across.

Ishaan didn't blink.

He folded it. Put it in his pocket.

"Thank you, sir."

He walked out.

Outside, the Mumbai sky wept again. Fat drops dancing on the sidewalk. Cars hissed past. A group of college students across the street pointed and whispered.

He walked past them unnoticed.

Final Scene

Back home, he sat in his room. Open diary. Blank page.

He wrote:

"When the tide rises, so do the shadows.

Stay anchored. Stay silent.

Let the ripples roar instead."

As the rain hit the windows harder, Ishaan Verma smiled to himself.

Not because of the headlines.

Not because of the fame.

But because the journey — the real one — was finally beginning.