The hotel had finally fallen silent.
It was strange how silence felt louder before a final.
The laughter that had echoed through the corridors after dinner had disappeared. Doors were shut. The physio room lights had gone off. Somewhere down the hallway, someone was still watching match footage at a low volume, but even that eventually faded.
Room 407 was still awake.
Ishan stood near the floor-to-ceiling window, hands tucked inside the pockets of his grey training hoodie. The city lights stretched endlessly beneath him, but his eyes weren't really looking at them.
Tomorrow wasn't just another match.
Tomorrow was history waiting to be written.
Jharkhand had never lifted the Syed Mushtaq Ali Trophy.
Tomorrow, they had a chance.
And somehow, destiny had chosen him to lead them there.
His phone vibrated.
Mumma Calling...
A smile found its way onto his face before he even answered.
"Hello, Mumma."
"Aur captain sahab..." she laughed softly. "Khana khaya?"
He chuckled.
"Haan Mumma, teen baar pooch chuki ho."
"Teen baar aur poochungi."
He leaned against the glass.
"Nervous ho?"
There was a pause.
"Aaj... thoda."
"Thoda?"
"Bas... responsibility zyada lag rahi hai."
His mother didn't rush to fill the silence.
She knew her son.
When he was younger, he spoke everything.
Now, he carried most things alone.
"Beta..."
"Hmm?"
"Result kal aayega."
"Haan."
"Lekin jis tarah tu pichhle do saal lada hai na... usmein tu pehle hi jeet chuka hai."
His eyes closed.
Sometimes mothers had an unfair gift.
They always knew exactly where the wound still hurt.
A few minutes later his father joined the call.
"Oye captain."
A smile escaped him.
"Ji Papa."
"Speech ready hai trophy uthane ki?"
Ishan laughed.
"Pehle trophy toh jeetne do."
His father replied without missing a beat.
"Jeetna ya haarna baad ki baat hai."
"Kal bas ek baat yaad rakh."
"Captain pressure nahi leta."
"Captain pressure absorb karta hai."
"So that baaki dus log azaadi se khel sake."
Those words stayed with him.
After the call ended, he didn't move for a long time.
