I’ve been calling cricket matches for thirty-two years, and every time I sit in this booth, it feels like stepping onto sacred ground. The stadium hums, the players take their positions, and the world holds its breath. Today, it’s India vs. Pakistan—always the most volatile of matchups. And of course, Nekchand Murthy is beside me, adjusting his headset with that smug little grin.

‘Ready for another performance, Anjan?’ he says, voice dripping with false warmth.

I don’t answer. I just put on my earpiece and wait for the first ball.

The captain tosses… wins… elects to bat. The crowd roars. I lean into the mic: 'And so it begins—not with a bang, but with the quiet click of pads being strapped, gloves tightened, dreams tightened even more.'

Nekchand cuts in: 'Or maybe it begins with a six! Let’s see if these boys can actually hit, not just pose!'

I clench my jaw. This is going to be a long day.

Then, the first delivery—full, fast, edged to slip. OUT.

My moment.

I take a breath. The story starts now.