The euphoria that engulfed the Sydney Cricket Ground following Siddanth Deva's impossible, match-winning ramp shot did not extend to the premium VIP hospitality box.
While the forty thousand Indian fans in the stands were dancing, waving flags, and screaming themselves hoarse into the cool Australian night sky, Vikram and Sesikala Deva were already moving.
Vikram's face, usually set in a mask of calm composure, was taut with deep anxiety. He had watched his son take devastating blows on the cricket pitch before—bruised ribs, helmet strikes, bleeding fingers—but the sight of Siddanth collapsing on the pitch, his face tight with agony, had triggered a primal, protective instinct.
"Krithika, grab your bag. Arjun, Sameer, let's go," Vikram ordered swiftly, his voice cutting through the celebratory noise of the corporate suite. "We are going down to the dressing room."
Krithika didn't need to be told twice. Her hands were slightly trembling as she grabbed her purse. The image of Siddanth sitting on the pitch, entirely drained and physically broken after hitting that final six, was burned into her mind. Anjali followed closely behind her sister.
The group of six quickly navigated the crowded, chaotic VIP corridors of the SCG. They pushed past ecstatic Indian fans and disappointed Australian corporate guests. The security guards, recognizing Vikram Deva, parted the cordons, allowing them access to the restricted player tunnels beneath the grandstands.
Outside the heavy glass doors of the Indian dressing room, the atmosphere was a frantic blur of activity. Support staff, broadcast personnel, and security were rushing back and forth.
Vikram spotted Arshad, the team manager for the Indian squad, standing near a stack of kit bags, furiously typing on his smartphone.
"Arshad!" Vikram called out, striding purposefully down the concrete hallway.
The team manager looked up, his stressed expression softening slightly as he saw Siddanth's parents and friends approaching.
"Vikram sir, Sesikala ma'am," Arshad greeted them quickly, pocketing his phone. "What a match. Unbelievable."
"Where is he, Arshad?" Sesikala asked immediately, her voice laced with maternal panic, bypassing the pleasantries entirely. "We saw them carry him off. How bad is the leg? Can we see him?"
Arshad held up his hands gently, trying to soothe the worried mother. "Ma'am, please don't panic. Siddanth is not in the dressing room. He is already out of the stadium."
"What do you mean he's out of the stadium?" Arjun frowned, stepping forward.
"The moment he came off the pitch, the medical staff put him straight into a dedicated ambulance," Arshad explained. "It's standard protocol for acute joint and ligament injuries. They need to get high-resolution MRI scans done immediately while the joint is still elevated and iced. He was transferred to St. Vincent's Hospital."
"St. Vincent's. Right," Vikram nodded, pulling out his phone. "Who is with him?"
"Nitin Patel, our lead physio, and Dr. Sharma are in the ambulance with him," Arshad said, pulling a small notepad from his pocket and scribbling down a number. He tore the sheet off and handed it to Vikram. "This is Nitin's mobile number. They are prepping him for the scans right now. Call Nitin when you reach the emergency reception, he will send someone down to bring you up to the private ward."
"Thank you, Arshad," Vikram said, gripping the piece of paper tightly.
"He's a fighter, sir," Arshad added with a small, proud smile. "What he did out there today... I have never seen anything like it. He will be alright."
The drive from the Sydney Cricket Ground to St. Vincent's Hospital in Darlinghurst was agonizingly slow. The streets of Sydney were heavily congested with departing cricket fans.
Inside the spacious team SUV, the silence was heavy and thick. Arjun, Sameer, and Feroz sat in the very back, quietly scrolling through Twitter. Krithika and Anjali sat on both sides of Sesikala, holding the older woman's hand tightly.
When they finally pulled into the brightly lit, sterile emergency drop-off zone of St. Vincent's Hospital, Vikram immediately dialed the physio's number. Within minutes, a junior medical assistant met them at the reception and escorted the group through a labyrinth of quiet, white corridors, taking them up to a secluded private orthopedic wing.
"They are currently doing tests inside," Nitin Patel explained as he met them outside a closed set of double doors. The physio looked completely exhausted, still wearing his Indian training kit. "We have to wait out here until the orthopedic specialist finishes reviewing the imaging."
And so, the waiting began.
For forty-five minutes, the family and friends stood in the quiet hospital corridor. Sesikala paced back and forth, muttering quiet prayers. Vikram stood with his arms crossed, his jaw clenched tight.
Krithika sat on a plastic waiting chair, her leg bouncing nervously, checking the clock on the wall every two minutes. Arjun and Sameer leaned against the wall in silence.
The tension was palpable. A torn ligament could mean six months out of action. It could mean missing the World Cup Final. It could mean permanent damage to his fast-bowling career.
Finally, with a soft electronic click, the heavy double doors at the end of the hallway swung open.
A tall, grey-haired Australian orthopedic surgeon walked out, holding a tablet. Behind him, pushed by a young nurse, came Siddanth Deva.
Siddanth was sitting in a standard hospital wheelchair. He was still wearing his blue Indian cricket trousers. His right foot was elevated on the wheelchair's leg rest, clad only in a thick white hospital sock.
He didn't look like a man who had just endured agonizing pain. He was leaning back in the chair relaxed, almost bored expression on his face.
"Sid!"
The entire group rushed forward instantly, swarming the wheelchair.
Sesikala reached him first, dropping to her knees beside the chair, her hands immediately flying to cup her son's face, checking him over frantically. Krithika was right beside her, placing a gentle, trembling hand on his shoulder.
"Are you okay? What did the scans say? How bad is it?" Krithika bombarded him with questions, her eyes wide with worry.
Siddanth offered them a bright smile that completely clashed with the tense, dramatic atmosphere of the hospital corridor.
"I'm perfectly fine. Relax," Siddanth said breezily, waving a dismissive hand. "It's nothing serious, Amma. The doctor said it's just a mild injury. I just need a few days of rest and some ice."
Sesikala blinked. The maternal panic that had been building in her chest for the last two hours suddenly hit a brick wall of pure, unadulterated motherly irritation.
THWACK.
Sesikala reached out and delivered a sharp, resounding knock directly on the top of Siddanth's head with her knuckles.
"Ow! Amma, what the hell?!" Siddanth yelped, genuinely startled, aggressively rubbing the top of his head. "I just won a World Cup semi-final, you can't hit me!"
"Don't you 'Amma' me, you idiot boy!" Sesikala scolded him loudly, her eyes flashing with a mix of immense relief and sharp anger, pointing a strict finger in his face. "If it is 'nothing serious' and just a 'mild injury', then why on earth are you sitting in a wheelchair like a patient in an intensive care unit?! Why are you not standing up and walking?!"
Arjun and Sameer instantly clamped their hands over their mouths, desperately trying to stifle their laughter as they watched the terrifying, legendary 'Devil of Cricket' cower under his mother's wrath.
"It wasn't my idea!" Siddanth defended himself quickly, still rubbing his head, pointing an accusatory finger at the Australian surgeon standing nearby. "It is the doctors! They insisted I sit in this stupid chair! Hospital protocol, they said! I told them I could walk, but they threatened to call security if I didn't sit down!"
Vikram Deva stepped forward, placing a calming hand on his wife's shoulder before turning his attention to the grey-haired orthopedic surgeon and the Indian physio, Nitin Patel.
"Doctor," Vikram said, his voice polite but demanding answers. "Is everything alright? We saw him go down on the pitch. It looked incredibly severe. Is it a ligament tear?"
The Australian surgeon looked down at his tablet, then looked at Vikram, his face a picture of absolute, utter medical bafflement.
"Mr. Deva, I will be completely honest with you," the surgeon began, scratching the back of his neck. "Based on the live broadcast footage, the angle of the twist, and the sheer amount of force your son generated when his spikes caught the turf... I was preparing the surgical theater. I was ninety-nine percent certain he had suffered a Grade 3 lateral ligament tear."
The surgeon paused, looking down at Siddanth with an expression resembling someone looking at a ghost.
"But we just ran an X-ray, an ultrasound, and a high-resolution MRI," the surgeon continued, shaking his head. "And there is absolutely no structural damage. None. The ligaments are perfectly intact. There is no fluid buildup, no hematoma, and no fiber separation."
Vikram frowned, completely confused. "But during his playing, he looked like he was in immense, blinding pain. He couldn't even put his foot on the ground."
"That is exactly what we are talking about," the surgeon sighed, exchanging a bewildered look with Nitin Patel. "It is like a medical miracle. The pain he experienced on the pitch was likely a severe, acute nerve shock combined with a massive muscle spasm that locked the joint to protect it. But biologically, structurally? The ankle is fine. We have tested him three times just to be sure we weren't reading the wrong scans."
"So... he can play?" Krithika asked, her voice filled with cautious hope.
"Nothing serious," the doctor confirmed, offering a reassuring smile. "Just a few days of rest to let the muscle spasms fully calm down, some light icing, and he will be completely fit to play."
Vikram let out a massive, shuddering sigh of pure relief. The crushing weight of anxiety finally lifted off his shoulders.
Siddanth, who was currently busy reassuring Krithika and playfully pulling Anjali's ponytail to annoy her, simply offered a small, knowing smile.
What the doctors, the physios, his parents, and the entire world did not know was the secret currently hidden within the translucent blue interface floating in the corner of his vision.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION LOG - ARCHIVE]
INVENTORY ACCESSED.
ITEM DEPLOYED: [Minor Recovery Potion]
Description: A one-time consumable item. Instantly accelerates biological cellular regeneration, repairing torn muscle fibers, ligaments, and bone fractures. Bypasses standard medical healing times.
Siddanth had held onto that specific potion for years. When he was twelve, he had received it as a reward. He had saved it through broken fingers, bruised ribs, and minor muscle strains, enduring standard pain and also that horrifying injury when playing against Pakistan. Deep down, he knew he would eventually need it for a doomsday scenario.
The D-Day he had been saving it for. The card had worked perfectly, stitching his torn ligaments back together while he was lying in the ambulance, leaving the doctors completely baffled by the total lack of damage.
"See? I told you. Mild injury," Siddanth smirked, looking up at his mother.
Sesikala just rolled her eyes, but she leaned down and kissed his forehead warmly. "Thank God you are safe. You took ten years off my life tonight, Siddu."
For the next twenty minutes, Siddanth sat in the hospital corridor, surrounded by his family and friends. The tension had completely evaporated, replaced by the giddy, exhausted high of a historic victory.
"The Vande Mataram chant," Siddanth said quietly, looking at Krithika. "I heard out there. It was... it was something else."
Krithika smiled softly, her eyes shining. "The whole stadium was singing it, Sid. Even the Australians went quiet. You gave them a reason to believe."
"You should check Twitter, bro," Sameer laughed, pulling out his phone. "You literally broke the internet. Sachin Tendulkar tweeted about you. The Barmy Army officially surrendered."
"I did what I had to do," Siddanth shrugged modestly.
Eventually, Arshad, the team manager, arrived with a secure transport van.
"Alright, family time is over, let's get the Man of the Match back to the hotel," Arshad clapped his hands. "The entire squad is waiting for him. They refuse to sleep until they see him."
Siddanth said his goodbyes, promising his parents he would call them in the morning. He shared a long, quiet look with Krithika, an unspoken volume of relief and affection passing between them, before he was wheeled down to the secure basement parking.
The Indian team was staying at the luxurious InterContinental Sydney, overlooking the beautiful harbor.
By the time Siddanth's van pulled into the heavily guarded underground parking lot, it was nearly 2:00 AM. He had ditched the wheelchair, opting to walk, although there was a slight limp, leaning lightly on Arshad's shoulder.
They bypassed the lobby entirely, taking a private service elevator directly to the secure floor reserved for the Indian contingent.
When Siddanth finally walked into his plush hotel suite, dropping his kit bag onto the floor and collapsing onto the massive king-sized bed with a heavy, exhausted sigh, he expected a few minutes of peace.
He didn't get it.
Less than thirty seconds later, there was a soft, rhythmic knock on the door.
Siddanth didn't even bother getting up. "It's open!" he called out.
The heavy wooden door pushed open, and Mahendra Singh Dhoni walked into the room. The Indian captain was wearing comfortable grey track pants and a team t-shirt, his hair slightly damp from a recent shower. He looked incredibly calm, but the deep lines of fatigue around his eyes betrayed the immense mental toll of the day.
Dhoni closed the door quietly behind him and walked over, pulling up an armchair and sitting down next to the bed.
"Mahi bhai," Siddanth greeted him, sitting up slightly and leaning against the plush headboard.
"I just got off the phone with Nitin Patel," Dhoni started, skipping the pleasantries, his sharp eyes studying Siddanth's heavily taped right ankle. "He told me the scans are better than expected. Severe sprain, but not completely torn. He said you have a freakishly fast healing rate."
"It still aches, but it's manageable," Siddanth nodded, wincing slightly as he adjusted his position. "I'll need heavy strapping and ice baths, but I can stand on it."
Dhoni leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his expression turning incredibly serious.
"Sid, I need a completely honest answer from you as my Vice-Captain. No bravado," Dhoni said, his voice a low, commanding rumble. "Are you fit to play the Final at the MCG against New Zealand? If there is even a chance you could aggravate this and cause permanent damage, I am pulling you from the squad right now."
Siddanth looked his captain dead in the eye.
"I'm playing the Final, Mahi bhai. Absolutely," Siddanth stated, his voice ringing with certainty. "I can bat. But I can't bowl."
He wasn't fully healed, and he wasn't lying. The recovery card had accelerated the process, saving him from a full tear, but the joint was still vulnerable.
"The front-foot impact on my delivery stride..." Siddanth continued, explaining the harsh cricketing reality. "The ankle can't take that much force yet. If I try to run in and hit the deck at 150 kmph, the ligament will snap completely. If I play, I have to play purely as a specialist batsman."
Dhoni didn't look surprised. He nodded slowly.
"That's what Nitin said. Batting is fine, bowling is out of the question," Dhoni confirmed. He leaned back in the chair, his tactical mind adapting to the new reality. "Alright. We'll have to play five specialist bowlers then. Mohammed Shami, Umesh Yadav, Mohit Sharma, Ashwin, and Jadeja. They will handle the fifty overs. I don't want you anywhere near the ball in the field either. You stand at first slip."
"Mahi bhai," Siddanth intervened smoothly, his analytical mind kicking in. "If I can't bowl, we need Bhuvi in the playing XI."
Dhoni frowned slightly. "Over Umesh or Mohit?"
"Over Mohit," Siddanth suggested, providing solid cricketing logic. "The MCG pitch will have some juice early on under the lights. If we play New Zealand, McCullum and Guptill will come incredibly hard in the powerplay. Bhuvi's swing with the new ball is our best chance to get early wickets and quiet them down. Mohit is great at hitting the deck in the middle overs, but Bhuvi gives us actual control up front alongside Shami."
Dhoni thought about it for a few seconds, visualizing the matchups. He nodded slowly. "Makes sense. Shami and Bhuvi with the new ball. Umesh as first change to extract bounce. We'll make the swap."
"As for the batting order," Dhoni continued, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "I am not sending you out at number four. We don't know how the ankle will hold up if you have to run quick singles for forty overs. Rahane will move up to four. I am dropping you down the order."
Siddanth raised an eyebrow, surprised by the sudden demotion, but quickly recognized the brilliant logic behind it.
"You want me as the finisher," Siddanth realized.
"Exactly," Dhoni smiled faintly. "If we get a good start, you come in at the end and deal strictly in boundaries, just like you did tonight. If we collapse, you come in and anchor it. Less running, maximum impact. Are you okay with that?"
"Whatever the team needs to win the Cup, Skip," Siddanth nodded without a second thought.
Dhoni stood up, the serious, tactical conversation concluding. The heavy burden of captaincy lifted slightly from his shoulders, replaced by genuine, brotherly affection. He reached out and patted Siddanth's shoulder.
"What you did out there today, Sid... I have never seen a braver innings in my life," Dhoni said quietly. "You won us a game. Get some sleep. The MCG awaits."
Dhoni turned and opened the hotel room door to leave.
However, as the door opened, he was immediately met by a wall of bodies.
"Oye! Move, move, move! The Captain has had his boring serious talk, now it's our turn!"
Virat Kohli's loud, booming, undeniably Delhi-accented voice shattered the quiet atmosphere of the hallway.
Dhoni just laughed, shaking his head and stepping aside as a literal invasion force of Indian cricketers burst into Siddanth's hotel room.
Virat Kohli, Rohit Sharma, Ravichandran Ashwin, Shikhar Dhawan, and Ravindra Jadeja all crowded into the suite, bringing an immediate wave of loud, chaotic, brotherly energy.
"Look at him! The absolute legend!" Virat yelled, marching straight up to the bed and jumping onto the mattress next to Siddanth, throwing an arm heavily around his shoulders. "Arre yaar, when you hit that yorker between your legs... I swear to God, I completely lost my mind in the dugout! I grabbed Shami by the collar and started shaking him! Who even thinks of a shot like that?!"
"It was just reading the field, Virat," Ashwin pointed out, looking incredibly smug. "They packed the off-side, Starc bowled a fast yorker at the toes, the only gap was fine leg. He just used the pace. It was highly logical."
"Oh, shut up, Ash! Nobody cares about logic!" Shikhar Dhawan roared with laughter, slapping the spinner on the back. "It was pure Punjabi swagger, that's what it was! Gabbar approves!"
Rohit Sharma, meanwhile, had completely ignored Siddanth. He had walked straight over to the complimentary fruit and snack basket resting on the glass coffee table on the other side of the room.
"Sid, are you going to eat these chocolate chip muffins?" Rohit asked casually, already unwrapping one. "Because if you are on a strict hospital diet, I'll take them off your hands."
"Ro, the least you could do is ask how I am before stealing my food," Siddanth laughed, genuinely happy to see the boys.
"You hit Starc for a six. You're fine," Rohit replied with his mouth full, sinking onto the plush sofa. "Besides, you owe me. I got out early so you could have the glory."
"You pulled a 150 kmph bouncer straight down deep square leg's throat!" Siddanth shot back.
"Tactical sacrifice, bro. Tactical sacrifice," Rohit winked lazily.
"But seriously, Sid," Virat said, his tone softening slightly, though the aggressive energy remained. "When you went down... man, the whole dressing room went dead silent. We thought you were done for the tournament. Seeing you walk back out there like a wounded gladiator... it fired us all up. I am never complaining about a sore back in training ever again."
"Just don't expect me to run any quick twos in the Final," Siddanth warned them playfully.
"Don't worry," Ashwin smiled, leaning against the wall. "I'll just block out deliveries for you again. I am starting to enjoy this new role. 'The Ultimate Defending Wall'. Has a nice ring to it."
"If you play two maiden overs in the Final, I will personally hit you with my bat," Virat threatened Ashwin, pointing a finger at him, causing the entire room to burst into laughter.
For the next two hours, the hotel room was filled with the sounds of pure, unfiltered camaraderie. They recounted the match, mocked the Australian field placements, analyzed the upcoming New Zealand team, and shared stupid internet memes about the game.
Siddanth sat back against the pillows, listening to his brothers laugh and argue.
The pain was a dull ache, but the Semi-Final was won.
The World Cup Final at the Melbourne Cricket Ground was only three days away. And the Devil of Cricket was ready to finish the story.