It had been two months since that fateful night, and Ishan Kishan still hadn’t woken up. His once lively eyes remained closed, his body still, as if suspended between life and death. The hospital room was sterile and cold, filled with the monotonous beeping of machines that kept him alive. The walls were adorned with pictures and notes from fans, teammates, and family, each a silent prayer for his recovery.
Outside the room, Shubman Gill stood, his eyes fixated on the glass window that separated him from Ishan. He visited the hospital every day, never once stepping inside. He couldn’t bear to see Ishan up close like this—motionless, lifeless. It felt as though every breath he took was stolen from the boy lying unconscious before him.
Shubman’s face was gaunt, his once bright eyes now dull and empty. He no longer wore his engagement ring; it sat on Sara’s dresser, returned without a word exchanged. Shubman hadn’t spoken to Sara since that day. He was merely existing, moving robotically through life, burdened by guilt and sorrow.
Every morning, he would go to the stadium, his hands clenched around his bat like a lifeline. His family, hoping that cricket would bring him solace, had convinced him to return to the sport. His mother and sister had cried, begging him, “Ishan ki kasam, tum wapas kheloge. Woh bhi yahi chahta hai, Shubi.” They thought it would help him heal, but it only drove him deeper into his pain.
During practice, Shubman trained harder than ever, punishing himself with every swing of the bat, every ball he faced. His teammates could feel the tension, the way he pushed himself as if trying to atone for a sin that could never be forgiven. The cricket ground, once filled with cheers for Shubman, had fallen into a heavy silence. The audience, the commentators, and even the fans all knew of the storm raging within the “Prince of Cricket.” No one dared to shout or cheer; it was as if the stadium itself mourned along with him.
Shubman would play his matches with a stoic expression, his face a mask of pain that he never removed. His silence spoke louder than words, and everyone knew he was still fighting a battle with himself. His teammates, his fans, and the world watched helplessly as Shubman, the once joyful and vibrant young cricketer, crumbled piece by piece.
---
After one such match, Shubman and his teammates were ushered into a room for a post-match interview. The atmosphere was heavy, and the usual banter between players was missing. Shubman sat at the end of the table, staring blankly at his hands while his teammates answered questions about the game.
The interview started with routine questions about the match, strategies, and performances, but it didn’t take long for the journalists to shift their focus to what was on everyone’s minds— Ishan’s health and Shubman’s broken engagement.
The interviewer, a middle-aged man with a probing gaze, leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Shubman. “Shubman, the entire nation is praying for Ishan. Could you tell us how his absence is affecting the team?”
A heavy silence fell over the room. Rohit Sharma, the captain, stepped in quickly, trying to protect his young teammate. “We miss Ishan every single day. He’s not just a player for us; he’s family. His absence has been hard on all of us, and we’re just hoping he comes back soon.”
The interviewer nodded but didn’t back down. He directed his next question at Shubman, whose eyes remained fixed on the floor. “Shubman, everyone can see how much this has affected you personally. You were very close to Ishan. How are you coping?”
Shubman didn’t respond. His throat tightened, and he could feel every eye in the room on him, waiting for him to speak. Virat, sitting beside him, placed a hand on Shubman’s shoulder, trying to offer silent support. But Shubman’s silence spoke volumes. It was the silence of a man who had lost everything.
Seeing that Shubman wasn’t going to answer, the interviewer pressed further, his voice taking on a sympathetic tone that barely masked his need for a headline. “It’s been reported that your engagement with Sara Tendulkar has ended. People are saying that it was because of Ishan. Is that true?”
The question hung in the air like a poison, stinging everyone present. Virat’s face tightened with anger, and Hardik looked ready to jump across the table. Rohit shot the interviewer a warning glance, his voice low and furious. “This interview is about cricket. We won’t entertain personal questions.”
But the damage was done. Shubman’s hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to keep his emotions in check. The memories of his last conversation with Ishan, the promises he had broken, the pain he had caused—it all came rushing back.
Sara’s image flashed in his mind, her tear-streaked face when he returned the engagement ring without a word. He could still hear her pleading, “Shubman, please... Aman wanted this. We promised him...”
But Shubman couldn’t keep that promise. Not when the price was losing Ishan.
Rishabh Pant, sensing Shubman’s distress, quickly intervened, trying to deflect the questions. “We are all hurting. Not just Shubman. We’re a team, and when one of us is down, we all feel it.”
The interviewer, still undeterred, continued, “Fans have been showing their support for Ishan outside the hospital. Some are even attacking Sara online, blaming her for the broken engagement and Ishan’s condition. What’s your message to them?”
Shubman finally looked up, his eyes red and brimming with unshed tears. His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper, but it was filled with a raw, unfiltered pain. “Stop… Please, just stop. Ishan needs your prayers, not your anger. Sara… she’s not to blame. It’s... it’s my fault.” His voice cracked, the weight of his guilt finally breaking through.
Virat immediately stepped in, his tone protective. “This is not the time to blame anyone. Right now, we need to focus on Ishan’s recovery and support each other as a team.”
But Shubman wasn’t done. He looked at the cameras, his eyes hollow. “I failed him. I couldn’t protect him. I couldn’t keep my promise... I just... I just want him to wake up. I want to tell him I’m sorry...”
Shubman’s voice broke, and he buried his face in his hands, unable to hold back the tears any longer. The room fell silent, the only sound was Shubman’s quiet sobs as he finally let out the grief he had been holding in for so long.
Rohit wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close, his own eyes misting with tears. “He’ll wake up, Shubi. He has to.”
The interview ended abruptly, the journalists falling silent as the team escorted Shubman out of the room. No one had the heart to continue, and no words could capture the pain that had been laid bare.
Outside the stadium, fans gathered, holding banners and signs for Ishan. “Wake up, Ishan. We need you,” one sign read. Another held a picture of Shubman and Ishan, their smiles now haunting reminders of better days.
As Shubman walked past them, a little girl, no older than six, tugged at his sleeve. “Shubman bhaiya, Ishan bhaiya kab wapas aayenge?”
Shubman knelt down, his voice choked with emotion. “Jaldi aayega, baccha. Tum sab ki duaon se zaroor wapas aayega.”
The little girl smiled, holding up a bracelet she had made. “Yeh Ishan bhaiya ke liye banaya hai. Aap unhe de doge?”
Shubman took the bracelet, his eyes welling up again. “Haan, zaroor dunga.”
As he stood up, his teammates surrounded him, each sharing the weight of his pain. They were a family bound not just by the sport they loved but by the deep, unspoken bond of brotherhood. And in that moment, as they walked together toward the hospital, there was a silent promise in each of their hearts—a promise to hold on, to keep fighting, and to never give up hope, no matter how dark the days ahead might be.
Because Ishan wasn’t just a teammate. He was their heart, their soul, and until he woke up, none of them would ever be whole again.
