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well IPL Finally started!
RCB VS SRH, Your Favorite Player of the Match? One change RCB could do to be better and what could SRH do to improve according to you?
And Prediction Time:
today, MI or KKR?
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The confetti cannons had finally exhausted their payloads, leaving the outfield of the Narendra Modi Stadium blanketed in a shimmering sea of gold and blue. The presentation ceremony was over, the interviews were wrapped up, and the stadium was slowly, reluctantly emptying out.
But for the Gujarat Titans, the night was just beginning.
Aarav Pathak, still wearing his sweat-drenched, dirt-stained match jersey, walked away from the chaotic huddle of his teammates. He carried the heavy, glittering TATA IPL 2023 Trophy in his right hand.
He walked exactly to the center of the pitch—the very spot where he had scooped, swept, and driven his way to an impossible 110 off 42 balls.
Shubman Gill, anticipating the moment, jogged over with Aarav's phone.
Aarav placed the golden trophy gently onto the scuffed-up red soil. He sat down cross-legged right next to it, leaning back slightly on his hands. He didn't flex. He didn't scream. He just offered a soft, exhausted, and profoundly satisfied smile to the camera.
It was the new same pose from the 2022 victory. He also clicked the same photo from 2022 style too. It had officially become a ritual.
Click.
Aarav took the phone from Gill and uploaded the picture immediately.
Caption: 2 Seasons, 2 Trophy. 2 Stars. 💙🏆⭐⭐ #AavaDe
Within sixty seconds, the post crossed half a million likes. The internet was officially broken, but Aarav had already locked his phone, slipping away from the flashing cameras and the dancing players.
He found a relatively quiet corner near the tunnel leading to the dressing rooms. The bass of the stadium DJ was muffled here. He leaned against the concrete wall, slid down until he was sitting on his haunches, and pulled out his phone again.
He bypassed his overflowing WhatsApp notifications and initiated a video call.
To the world, the people he was calling were the undisputed titans of industry. Rajat and Priya Pathak commanded an empire that spanned continents, consistently ranking as the richest family in Asia. A single word from them could shift stock markets.
But to the 22-year-old boy sitting on the stadium floor, they were just Mom and Dad.
The call connected almost instantly. "AARAV!"
Priya Pathak's face filled the screen. She was sitting in the living room of their Mumbai estate, wiping away tears of sheer joy with a tissue. Behind her, Rajat Pathak was beaming, holding a glass of celebratory champagne.
"Hi, Mom," Aarav smiled, his voice raspy from shouting on the field. "We did it."
"You were magnificent, my boy!" Rajat's voice boomed over the speaker, his chest puffed out with absolute pride. "110 off 42 balls in a final? You broke Chennai's back! Several people called me to congratulate you."
"I don't care about them!" Priya interjected, pushing Rajat slightly out of the frame. "Aarav, you looked so exhausted at the end! Are you okay? Did CSK's yorker hurt your foot? And why are you sitting on the floor?!"
Aarav laughed, a deep, tired rumble. "I'm fine, Mom. My foot is perfectly fine. I'm just sitting here because my legs refused to hold me up anymore. The adrenaline crash is real."
"You sleep for two days straight when you get back, understood?" Priya commanded, the billionaire matriarch turning into a typical Indian mother.
"I will, Mom," Aarav promised. "I'm bringing the trophy home for you guys to see. Well, the replica at least. BCCI doesn't let us take the original one to keep, but it looks exactly the same."
"We are clearing the center table in the foyer for it," Rajat grinned. "We are so incredibly proud of you, Sethji. You defended the crown."
"Thanks, Dad. Love you both. I'll call you tomorrow when I wake up."
Aarav disconnected the call, feeling a warm surge of comfort. He immediately went to his favorites list and dialed the one person he had been thinking about since the final wicket fell.
'Dr. S 🩺'
He waited. Ring... Ring... Ring...The number you are calling is currently unanswered. Please try again later.
Aarav frowned. He checked the time. It was past 2:00 AM. He dialed again. Ring... Ring... Ring... Nothing. In London it should be 8:30 p.m.
A tiny knot of worry formed in his stomach. Shradha never missed his post-match calls. Even if she was exhausted from a hospital shift in London, she always stayed awake to watch him play, especially a Grand Finale.
Maybe she fell asleep, Aarav rationalized, rubbing his tired eyes. The time difference and her clinical rotations are brutal. She's probably passed out with her phone on silent.
He shot her a quick text: We won! Call me when you wake up. Miss you. ❤️
He pushed the worry aside. He had a team waiting for him.
The team bus ride back to the ITC Narmada was a blur of blaring Punjabi music, hoarse shouting, and banging on the windows.
When they arrived at the hotel lobby, the staff had arranged a massive, five-tier cake painted in the Gujarat Titans colors. Aarav, alongside Ashish Nehra, cut the cake, sparking a massive food fight that left half the squad covered in blue icing.
By 4:00 AM, the official party moved upstairs.
"The trophy is staying in my room tonight!" Abhishek Sharma announced loudly in the corridor, clutching the golden cup to his chest like a baby. "I hit 39 off 12 balls! I earned custody for tonight!"
"If you drop it, Abhi, I'm throwing you out of top floor." Aarav yelled down the hall.
The 'after-party' naturally congregated in one of the massive suites. It wasn't a formal, structured celebration. It was pure, unadulterated, chaotic joy.
Rashid Khan had taken over the Bluetooth speaker, playing an erratic mix of Afghan pop and Bollywood item numbers. Arshdeep Singh and Rahul Tewatia were in the center of the room, doing a wildly off-beat, energetic Bhangra. Even Ashish Nehra, usually strictly business off the field, was convinced to do a few awkward dance steps by a relentless Shubman Gill.
Aarav sat on the edge of a sofa, a glass of sparkling water in his hand, watching his boys let loose. He laughed as David Miller tried to mimic Arshdeep's dance moves, failing spectacularly.
He checked his phone twice during the party. Still no message from Shradha. The knot in his stomach tightened just a fraction, but he forced himself to stay in the moment. He had led these boys to a championship; they deserved their captain's presence tonight.
Tuesday, 30th May 2023
The morning was declared a total, uncompromising rest day. The hotel was dead silent until 2:00 PM.
Aarav woke up at 2:30 PM, his body aching in places he didn't know existed. He ordered a massive room service breakfast-lunch hybrid and finally looked at his phone.
No missed calls from London. No texts. Now, he was genuinely worried. He tried calling her again. It went straight to voicemail. Is her phone dead? Did she lose it?
Just as he was about to call Sara Tendulkar to ask if she had heard from her sister, his phone buzzed in his hand.
He answered it instantly. "Shradha?"
"Aarav, it's Dad."
Aarav blinked, sitting up in bed. It was Rajat Pathak. And he didn't sound like the jovial, proud father from the night before. His voice was clipped, tight, and completely stripped of emotion—the voice of the billionaire CEO dealing with a crisis.
"Dad? What's wrong?" Aarav asked, his heart rate spiking.
"I need you to drop whatever media commitments or parties you have scheduled for today," Rajat said smoothly but firmly. "I need you to pack a bag and get to the Surat mansion immediately."
Aarav swung his legs out of bed. "Surat? Dad, we just won the IPL, I'm supposed to fly to Mumbai with the team tomorrow. What's going on?"
"There is a problem, Aarav. Here, at the Surat estate. It requires our immediate, discreet attention," Rajat's tone brokered zero argument. "The helicopter is waiting for you at the Ahmedabad private terminal. Be on it."
Click.
The line went dead.
Aarav stared at his phone. The Pathak family's mansion in Surat was a sprawling, highly secure estate, mostly used for family relaxing and chilling. If his father was summoning him there with such tension, bypassing the Mumbai celebration, something serious had happened.
Between Shradha's sudden, deafening silence and his father's cryptic, urgent phone call, the euphoria of the IPL victory evaporated completely.
Aarav packed his bags in record time.
He walked down to the team room where a few of the players were lounging, eating late lunches and nursing hangovers.
"Skipper! We're hitting the pool, you coming?" Shubman Gill called out from a sofa.
"Can't, Gilly," Aarav said, grabbing the official, heavy BCCI Replica Trophy from the display table. (The original was already on its way to the BCCI vault). "Family emergency. I have to fly to Surat right now."
Gill frowned, sitting up. "Everything okay, Seth?"
"I don't know," Aarav admitted honestly. "Dad called. Sounded serious."
He found Ashish Nehra and Gary Kirsten having coffee in the lobby. He quickly explained his sudden departure.
"Family comes first, Aarav," Nehra nodded, patting his shoulder. "You've done your job here. Go sort it out. We'll see you in a few weeks for the national camp."
Aarav hugged Nehra, bumped fists with Gill and Abhishek, and walked out the glass doors of the ITC Narmada.
The Pathak Aviation AgustaWestland helicopter lifted off from Ahmedabad, banking south towards Surat.
Aarav sat in the luxurious leather seat, the golden replica of the IPL trophy resting on the seat next to him. He looked out the window at the sprawling Gujarat landscape passing below.
He tried calling Shradha one more time. Voicemail.
He texted his mother: Mom, what is happening in Surat? Dad sounded tense.Read. No reply.
Aarav clenched his jaw, a sense of deep, unsettling foreboding washing over him. The helicopter began its descent towards the massive, walled compound of the Pathak Surat Estate. Black SUVs were already lined up near the helipad.
The greatest cricketing night of his life had seamlessly, abruptly transitioned into a chilling mystery. And as the chopper's skids touched the tarmac, Aarav knew that whatever was waiting for him inside those mansion doors was going to change everything.
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The AgustaWestland helicopter banked smoothly over the diamond hub of India, the city of Surat sprawling below. Aarav Pathak looked out the window, his jaw clenched tight. The euphoria of the IPL Championship had been completely replaced by a cold, gnawing knot of anxiety in his stomach.
His father, Rajat Pathak, never used the word "problem" lightly. If he had summoned Aarav to the heavily guarded mansion in Surat, bypassing the Mumbai celebrations entirely, something serious was afoot.
The chopper hovered over the massive, palatial estate of the Pathak family. It was a sprawling property, secluded by high walls and lush, manicured gardens, topped with a state-of-the-art private helipad on the roof of the main wing.
As the helicopter touched down and the rotors began to slow, Aarav unbuckled his seatbelt. He grabbed his duffel bag and the golden replica of the IPL trophy, stepping out onto the roof.
He paused for a second, looking down over the edge of the roof at the expansive front lawn. Parked right in the middle of the circular driveway, next to the family's usual fleet of SUVs, was a sleek, silver Aston Martin. Aarav frowned. It wasn't a car from their Surat garage. Someone important was already here.
He didn't wait for the estate manager. He took the private glass elevator straight down from the roof to the ground floor.
The elevator doors chimed and slid open. The mansion was eerily quiet. The opulent living room, with its double-height ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and plush velvet sofas, was completely empty. There were no frantic security guards, no lawyers, no signs of a corporate or family crisis.
Aarav dropped his heavy duffel bag onto the Italian marble floor with a thud. He placed the replica IPL trophy carefully on a side table.
Exhausted from the match, the adrenaline crash, and the sheer stress of his father's cryptic phone call, Aarav collapsed face-first onto the massive, L-shaped sofa in the center of the room. He let out a long, heavy sigh, burying his face in the cushions for a brief second before rolling onto his back.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He needed to call his dad immediately and find out what on earth was going on.
He unlocked the screen and opened his contacts. Just as his thumb hovered over 'Dad', a pair of soft, delicate hands slipped over from behind the sofa and firmly covered his eyes.
Aarav instantly stiffened. Every athletic instinct in his body fired up, ready to react to the sudden intrusion.
But before he could grab the wrists of the person behind him, he took a breath.
He stopped completely. The tension drained out of his muscles in a millisecond. It wasn't the scent of a stranger, or a family member, or a house staff. It was a fragrance that was permanently etched into his brain. A comforting, intoxicating blend of soft vanilla, a hint of lavender, and rain.
His heart did a violent, impossible somersault in his chest.
"Guess who, Captain?" a soft, bubbly whisper tickled his ear.
Aarav didn't just pull the hands away; he grabbed her wrists gently, swung his long legs off the sofa, and twisted his entire body around in one fluid motion.
Standing behind the sofa, wearing a simple white sundress and a blindingly beautiful smile, was Shradha.
"Shradha?!" Aarav gasped, utterly and completely shell-shocked.
He didn't give her a chance to say another word. He reached over the back of the sofa, hooked his arms under her waist, and quite literally hauled her over the backrest, pulling her down into his lap.
"Aarav! Wait, I'm going to fall!" she shrieked with laughter as she tumbled over, landing squarely on his chest.
Aarav wrapped his arms around her tightly, burying his face in her neck, breathing in the scent he had missed so desperately. The relief, the joy, the sheer overwhelming surprise washed over him like a tidal wave.
"You're here," he mumbled into her hair, his voice thick with emotion, holding her as if she might disappear. "You're actually here. In Surat."
Shradha wrapped her arms around his neck, hugging him back just as fiercely. "I'm here, my Champion. I'm here."
He pulled back just enough to look at her face. He cupped her cheeks, his thumbs tracing her jawline. "How?" Aarav asked, his brain finally catching up. "Your phone was off. It went straight to voicemail. You were supposed to be in London doing clinical rounds! And my Dad... he called me about an emergency!"
Shradha burst into a fit of giggles, her eyes shining with mischievous delight. "You think your dad would pull you away from your IPL victory party for a real emergency? Aarav, he planned the whole thing! We planned it together!"
Aarav's jaw dropped. "My Dad lied to me?"
"He prefers the term 'strategic misdirection'," Shradha laughed, playing with the collar of his t-shirt. "I managed to get exactly three days off from the hospital. Three days. I flew into Mumbai yesterday. I wanted to surprise you, so I turned my phone off so I wouldn't accidentally ruin the secret when you called me after the final."
"You ignored my calls," Aarav said, narrowing his eyes playfully. "I was terrified! I thought you lost your phone or something happened!"
"It was for the greater good!" she defended herself, kissing his nose. "If I answered, I would have cracked. Your Dad arranged the Aston Martin to pick me up from Mumbai and drive me straight to the Surat mansion. He knew you'd never suspect a surprise here. He wanted to give us some absolute privacy away from the team and the media."
Aarav let out a long, disbelieving laugh, letting his head fall back against the sofa. "I am very upset with dad. He made me think something was collapsing."
"He loves you," Shradha smiled, resting her chin on his chest. "He wanted to give you your real trophy."
Aarav looked down at her. The exhaustion in his eyes completely vanished, replaced by a soft, fiery adoration. "He succeeded. This is definitely better than the golden cup on the table."
He leaned up and captured her lips. It was a kiss full of longing, relief, and the sweet taste of victory. For three months they had been separated by time zones and grueling schedules. Now, in the quiet, air-conditioned sanctuary of the Surat mansion, time finally stood still for them.
When they finally broke apart, both of them breathless and smiling, Shradha rested her head comfortably on his shoulder.
"So, I only have three days," she murmured, tracing invisible patterns on his arm. "Then it's back to London to finish the degree."
"Then we are not leaving this house for 72 hours," Aarav declared firmly. "I will have Ramakaant Kaka lock the gates from the outside."
"Actually," Shradha giggled, looking up at him. "You can't do that. Because Mom and Dad are coming too."
Aarav blinked, raising an eyebrow. "Mom and Dad? You mean Sachin Sir and Anjali Aunty are flying to Surat?"
Shradha rolled her eyes playfully. "No, you idiot. I mean Mom and Dad. Priya Mom and Rajat Dad. They are flying in from Mumbai this evening for a celebratory family dinner."
Aarav paused. A slow, wicked smirk spread across his face. "Wait a minute," he leaned in, his voice dropping into a teasing, arrogant drawl. "Did you just call my parents 'Mom and Dad'?"
Shradha's cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink, but she didn't back down. She tilted her chin up defiantly. "Yes, I did," she stated. "Is there a problem with that, Pathak?"
"No problem," Aarav chuckled, his chest vibrating against hers. "It's just funny. You haven't even signed the marriage register yet, Doctor, and you're already claiming my parents."
Shradha flipped her hair over her shoulder with a dramatic, haughty sniff. "Please," she boasted, tapping his chest. "I am going to be the future Mrs. Pathak. They already like me more than they like you. They are my parents now. You are just the guy who plays cricket."
Aarav laughed out loud, completely enchanted by her sass. "Oh, is that how it works? I'm just the side character in my own family?"
"Exactly," she nodded solemnly. Then, a mischievous glint entered her eyes. "Besides... don't act so innocent. Who was it that saved my father's number as 'Dad' in his phone a year before we were even officially engaged?"
Aarav froze, his smirk instantly evaporating and laughed slowly.
"That... that was manifestation," Aarav defended weakly, his ears turning slightly red. "It's a psychological technique."
"Oh, manifestation?" Shradha giggled, poking his ribs mercilessly. "Is that what you call touching his feet and saying 'Yes, Dad' every time he tells you to correct your cover drive even before being official? You claimed my parents way before I claimed yours, Captain!"
"Okay, okay, fair point," Aarav conceded defeat, catching her hands and pinning them gently to his chest so she would stop poking him. "I admit it. I stole your parents. You steal mine. It's a fair trade."
"The best trade," she whispered, her smile softening into something incredibly tender.
Aarav pulled her up, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in the crook of her neck. The sheer perfection of the moment washed over him. He had won the IPL. He was the Vice-Captain of India. And the girl of his dreams had flown across the world just to sit in his lap and tease him.
"Three days, huh?" Aarav murmured against her skin.
"Three days," she agreed, wrapping her arms securely around his neck.
"Then let's not waste another minute," he smiled, pulling her in for another long, slow kiss, the chaos of the cricketing world entirely forgotten in the quiet haven of Surat.
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The morning sun filtered through the sheer linen curtains of the master suite, painting the massive room in a soft, golden glow. Outside, the sprawling gardens of the Surat mansion were quiet, save for the faint, melodic chirping of birds. Inside, the world had shrunk to the exact dimensions of the king-sized bed.
Aarav woke up slowly, the lingering exhaustion of the IPL final finally seeping out of his bones. He didn't open his eyes immediately. He just lay there, anchoring himself to the sensation of the warm, steady weight resting across his chest.
Shradha was sprawled out, half-lying on top of him. One of her legs was tangled with his, her arm thrown securely across his waist. Her face was buried in the crook of his neck, her soft, rhythmic breaths tickling his collarbone. She was wearing one of his oversized grey t-shirts, which swallowed her completely.
Aarav carefully moved his right arm, wrapping it around her waist and pulling her just a fraction closer. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of her messy hair.
"I know you're awake, Captain," Shradha mumbled, her voice thick and raspy with sleep. She didn't lift her head; she just nuzzled deeper into his chest.
Aarav chuckled, the vibration rumbling against her cheek. "How did you know? I was perfectly still."
"Your heart rate changed," she whispered, tracing a lazy, invisible pattern on his chest with her index finger. "It always beats a little faster when you wake up and realize I'm here. Occupational hazard of dating a medical student. I notice these things."
"Is that so, Dr. Tendulkar?" Aarav smiled, tilting his head to look down at her. "Or maybe I'm just incredibly lucky to wake up with the most beautiful girl in the world using me as a mattress."
Shradha finally lifted her head, resting her chin on his sternum. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, free of makeup, and her hair was an absolute bird's nest. To Aarav, she had never looked more perfect.
"You are a very comfortable mattress," she grinned, leaning up to press a soft, sleepy kiss to his lips. "Good morning."
"Good morning," Aarav murmured against her lips. "What's the agenda for today?"
"Nothing," she declared firmly, dropping her head back down. "Absolutely nothing. For the next twenty-four hours, until the parent platoon arrives tomorrow, we are doing nothing. No cricket. No clinical files. No corporate meetings. Just us."
"I like the sound of that," Aarav agreed, running his fingers soothingly up and down her spine. "But even people doing nothing need breakfast. And as the designated chef of this relationship, I suppose I should feed you."
Shradha groaned, rolling off him and sprawling onto her back on the massive bed. "Carry me to the kitchen. I am your Queen my dear King."
Aarav laughed, swinging his legs out of bed. He stood up, stretching his towering frame until his back popped, and then, without any warning, bent down and scooped her up into his arms bridal style.
"Aarav!" Shradha shrieked, grabbing him around the neck as he effortlessly carried her out of the bedroom. "I was joking! Put me down, you giant!"
"You gave an order to the King. The King executes my Lady," Aarav smirked, carrying her down the wide, sweeping marble staircase of the mansion.
The Surat estate was massive, built with a blend of traditional Gujarati heritage architecture and modern luxury. But despite its size, right now, it didn't feel like a billionaire's stronghold. With just the two of them wandering the halls in their pajamas, it felt like a home.
Aarav deposited her gently onto one of the high wooden bar stools at the kitchen island.
"Stay put. Don't touch any sharp objects," Aarav ordered playfully, tying an apron around his waist.
For the next forty-five minutes, Shradha sat with her chin resting in her hands, utterly mesmerized. Watching Aarav cook was like watching a well-choreographed dance. He didn't measure anything. A pinch of cumin here, a dash of turmeric there. He was making traditional Kanda Poha and brewing a strong pot of ginger-cardamom tea.
"You know," Shradha said, stealing a roasted peanut from the pan when he looked away, "the girls at the hospital were watching the IPL in the break room. They were going crazy over you. Neha literally said, 'I would sell my soul to just have Aarav Pathak look at me once.'"
Aarav paused, raising an eyebrow as he poured the steaming tea into two large mugs. "Oh really? And what did you say?"
"I just nodded and agreed," Shradha giggled, taking the mug he handed her. "I said, 'Yeah, he's alright. A bit tall, but he looks okish.' If they knew the 'Seth of Gujarat' was currently making me breakfast in his pajamas while I steal his snacks, they would probably assassinate me."
Aarav leaned across the slab, resting his forearms on the marble, bringing his face inches from hers.
"Let them talk," Aarav whispered, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a sudden, intense warmth that made the breath catch in her throat. "The whole world can look at me, Shradha. But I only see you. You're the only one who gets the Poha."
Shradha's cheeks flushed a brilliant shade of crimson. Even after all this time, the sheer weight of his devotion had the power to turn her into a puddle.
"You are so cheesy," she deflected, though her massive smile gave her away. She leaned forward and kissed the tip of his nose. "Now feed me. I'm starving."
The rest of the day blurred into a montage of perfect, lazy domesticity. They ate breakfast on the patio overlooking the sprawling green lawns. They spent the afternoon in the home theater, attempting to watch a Bollywood movie, but ended up talking through the entire thing, discussing random stuff, even their wedding plans.
"I don't want a circus, Aarav," Shradha said, curled up against his side on the massive recliner, her fingers idly playing with his silver chain. "I know our families are... well, high-profile. But I don't want 5,000 guests. I don't want a media frenzy."
"Neither do I," Aarav agreed instantly, pressing a kiss to her temple. "We keep it intimate. Lake Como, maybe? Or a private palace in Rajasthan. Just family, close friends and family, and your close friends. No press. Just you and me."
"Promise?" she looked up, her eyes wide and hopeful.
"I promise," Aarav vowed. "The reception can be a circus for the politicians and famous people. But the wedding? That belongs to us."
They fell asleep that night tangled in each other's arms, the silence of the Surat mansion wrapping around them like a protective shield. It was the calm before the beautiful, chaotic storm.
The next morning, the peaceful bubble popped around 11:00 AM.
Aarav and Shradha were sitting in the backyard, enjoying the cool winter sun, when a deep, rhythmic, thumping sound began to echo across the estate. The wind whipped up fiercely, sending loose leaves spiraling into the air.
"They're here," Aarav announced, standing up and grabbing Shradha's hand.
High above the mansion, the sleek, twin-engine AgustaWestland helicopter bearing the Pathak Aviation logo banked smoothly against the blue sky before beginning its descent toward the rooftop helipad.
"Come on," Aarav laughed, pulling a slightly nervous Shradha along. "Let's go receive the invading army."
They took the private glass elevator to the roof. The helicopter had just touched down, the rotors still spinning down slowly, creating a deafening hum.
The side door slid open.
The first person to hop out wasn't one of the parents. It was a towering, lanky figure wearing a Mumbai Indians practice t-shirt and sunglasses.
Arjun Tendulkar. "JIJA JI!" Arjun bellowed over the engine noise, bounding across the tarmac and pulling Aarav into a massive, aggressive bro-hug. "I survived the flight! Your dad's pilot flies like he's playing GTA!"
Aarav laughed, slapping Arjun's back. "Good to see you too, Arjun. Try not to break anything in the house."
Right behind Arjun stepped out Sara Tendulkar, looking incredibly good in a beige trench coat and designer shades. She bypassed Aarav completely and walked straight to her sister, wrapping Shradha in a tight hug.
"Look at you!" Sara squealed, inspecting Shradha. "You look so refreshed! I told you dragging him to Surat was a good idea!"
Then came the heavyweights.
Rajat Pathak and Sachin Tendulkar stepped out of the chopper together, engaged in deep conversation, looking less like a billionaire tycoon and a cricketing god, and more like two old friends arguing about real estate.
Finally, the matriarchs emerged. Priya Pathak and Anjali Tendulkar walked out arm-in-arm, laughing about something Priya had just said.
Aarav immediately stepped forward. He didn't offer handshakes. He bent down effortlessly, touching every one's feet first.
"Welcome, Mom," Aarav smiled warmly as he stood up.
Anjali beamed, her eyes crinkling with pure affection. She placed both hands on Aarav's cheeks and planted a kiss on his forehead. "My champion. Look at you! Winning trophies and still remembering to greet us properly. Jeete raho, beta."
He then turned to Sachin, touching his feet. "Welcome to Surat, Dad."
Sachin pulled Aarav into a firm, proud hug, patting his broad back vigorously. "Good to be here, son. Fantastic win in the final. That final over... brilliant execution."
On the other side, Shradha was mirroring the exact same ritual. She bent down and touched Priya's feet.
"Mom! I missed you!" Shradha beamed.
Priya pulled her future daughter-in-law into a fierce embrace, ignoring her own son for a moment to fuss over Shradha. "My beautiful girl! Aarav hasn't been bothering you, has he? If he annoys you, just tell me. I will ground him. I don't care if he is the Indian captain or vice."
Rajat laughed heartily, giving Shradha a gentle pat on the head. "She speaks the truth, Shradha. He might be the boss on the field, but Priya runs the household. Welcome home, beta."
"Thank you, Dad," Shradha smiled brightly, completely at ease.
The sheer normalcy of the exchange was beautiful. There were no billionaires, no icons, no massive egos on that rooftop. There was just a boy, a girl, and two families that had seamlessly blended into one loud, loving unit.
Thirty minutes later, the entire chaotic entourage had relocated to the main living room on the ground floor.
The room was vast, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the pool, but it suddenly felt incredibly full. Ramakaant Kaka, the Pathak family's trusted head steward, alongside his staff, rolled out an absolute feast of high tea. There were silver trays laden with Khaman Dhokla, Handvo, hot Samosas, and delicate porcelain cups of strong, ginger-infused Masala Chai.
Priya and Anjali had commandeered the largest sofa. They were operating as a highly efficient tag team, systematically dismantling the dietary routines of their children.
"Aarav, take another samosa," Anjali ordered, pushing the plate towards him. "You look like you've lost two kilos since the IPL final. What are the nutritionists feeding you?"
"Mom, I literally just ate a dhokla," Aarav protested weakly, sitting cross-legged on a floor cushion near Shradha's chair. "If I eat another samosa, Virat bhai will bench me for failing the skinfold test."
"Let him bench you!" Priya chimed in, supporting Anjali. "I will call Virat myself. A growing boy needs carbohydrates! Shradha, beta, you too. Take this kaju barfi. You study so much, your brain needs sugar."
Shradha, unable to say no to Priya, dutifully took the sweet, shooting Aarav a helpless, amused glance.
Across the room, near the large bay windows, the 'Men's Club' had formed.
Rajat and Sachin were standing with their cups of tea, deep in conversation. Aarav, munching on his forced samosa, tuned in to their frequency.
"It was the grip, Rajat," Sachin was explaining, demonstrating a bowling action with his empty hand. "When Aarav bowled that slower cutter to Narine in the over, did you see how his index finger dragged across the seam? It wasn't just a lack of pace; it was the revolutions. It dipped right at the end."
Rajat, who followed his son's cricket with the intensity of a head coach, nodded vigorously. "Exactly! I told him the same thing. But Sachin, my concern is his front-foot stride when he's batting against mystery spin. Against Varun Chakaravarthy, he was committing a fraction too early on the front foot."
Sachin's eyes lit up. This was his domain. He turned to look at Aarav on the floor.
"Aarav, come here for a second," Sachin called out.
Aarav dutifully stood up, leaving his safe haven near Shradha, and walked over to the two patriarchs.
"Your dad makes a good point," Sachin said, slipping effortlessly into the role of the ultimate mentor. "Chakaravarthy bowls that skidding carrom ball. If you commit to a long forward stride, and it goes straight on, you are a sitting duck for the LBW."
Sachin handed his tea cup to Rajat and took a batting stance right there on the plush Persian rug.
"Don't plant the foot," Sachin demonstrated, his balance flawless even in casual clothes. "Stay light on your toes. Let the ball pitch. If it turns, you have the fraction of a second to adjust backward. If it's full, your hands are fast enough to drive it without a massive stride. Play it late. Under your eyes."
Aarav watched intently, absorbing every single word. "So, shorten the trigger movement against him?"
"Exactly," Sachin patted his shoulder. "Your hand-eye coordination is elite. Trust it. Don't let your feet trap your hands."
"Noted, Dad," Aarav nodded, making a mental adjustment to his technique. It was a surreal reality—getting batting masterclasses in your living room from the man who had scored a hundred international centuries.
"Okay, enough masterclass!" Arjun interrupted loudly, bounding over from the snack table with a plate full of dhokla. He bumped his shoulder against Aarav's. "I want to talk about that 155 kmph yorker. Seriously, Aarav, what did you eat before that match? My back hurts just watching you bowl."
Aarav chuckled, nudging Arjun back. "It's all in the core, Arjun. You need to stop skipping your core workouts at the NCA."
"I don't skip them!" Arjun defended himself indignantly. "I just... aggressively modify them. But seriously, teach me that seam position. My inswinger is becoming an outswinger."
"Because your wrist collapses at the release point," Aarav pointed out, mimicking Arjun's action. "Keep the wrist locked. We'll go to the indoor nets downstairs later, I'll show you."
"Can I come?" Sara chimed in, walking over and linking her arm through Shradha's. "Not to play, obviously. I just want to record Arjun getting his stumps knocked over by Aarav. It will make great Instagram content."
"Hey!" Arjun protested, pointing a dhokla at his sister. "I am a professional cricketer!"
"You're a professional victim when Aarav bowls," Sara teased ruthlessly, making the whole room burst into laughter.
Shradha leaned her head against Sara's shoulder, laughing so hard her eyes watered. She looked around the room.
Her father and Rajat were back to discussing the stock market implications of the recent IPL broadcast deal. Her mother and Priya were now intensely debating the color palettes for the upcoming event, flipping through fabric samples on an iPad. Arjun and Aarav were arguing about bowling grips, occasionally demonstrating actions that looked ridiculous without a ball. Sara was playfully instigating chaos.
It was loud. It was chaotic. It was overflowing with opinions, unsolicited advice, and food. It wasn't a gathering of a billionaire family and a legendary sporting dynasty. It was just a big, happy, incredibly normal Indian family.
Aarav caught her eye across the room. Despite being mid-argument with Arjun, he paused. He sent her a soft, private smile—a silent acknowledgment of the beautiful madness unfolding around them.
Shradha smiled back, her heart swelling with an overwhelming sense of contentment. The trophies, the fame, the endless flights, and the intense scrutiny of the world outside these walls faded into insignificance.
Right here, in this living room filled with laughter and the smell of cardamom tea, she had everything she would ever need. They were home.
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Author's Note: - 6100+ Words
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