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dear diary,
he is so annoying. annoyingly hard to ignore. (and trust me, i’ve tried.) i’ve only seen him around for a few days at this under-14 camp, but my brain keeps circling back to him, especially after this morning. i keep wishing i could talk to him more. to actually know him…
the first day, i didn’t even properly register him. i was in my own world, focused on the sweet spot of my bat, when i heard a voice from the next pitch over call out, “whoa! nice shot!” i saw a blur of a boy in my periphery, but i was too shy to assume he was talking to me. i just ducked my head and kept swinging. i heard him clap a few more times, each one making my ears burn a little. part of me hoped it was for me, but the bigger part was terrified of looking like an idiot if it wasn’t.
then, this morning happened.
we were all shuffling through the breakfast line, a zombie hoard of sleepy, sore boys, when i heard my name. not yelled, but called. clearly. in this… gentle voice. i turned, and it was him. how did he even know my name? i only learned his this morning – does that make me a bad person?
since my muscles were screaming from yesterday’s drills and i’m never in the mood for chatter before 10 am, i figured sharing a table with a quiet kid might not be so bad. i could just eat in peace. i walked over to where he was sitting, the lone chair across from him feeling like a spotlight. before i could even slide into it, he thrust his hand out.
“hello. i’m shubman.”
my morning grumpiness and his startingly direct approach must have short-circuited my brain, because i felt my eyes do an involuntary roll. but he just held his smile, his hand still extended, unwavering. i knew, right then, that resisting him was a battle i would lose. so i put my tray down with a clatter and took his hand. “abhishek.”
i’m not sure who let go first, but i swear to god, a tiny, electric shock passed between our palms. it was there and gone in a second. he waited until i was fully settled before speaking again, his voice calm and sure. “i know who you are. i’ve been watching you play the last couple of days.”
this was my first real look at him. he seemed about my age, but he carried himself with a stillness that felt older. he was quiet, but when he spoke, there was a quiet confidence that wrapped around every word. it was… impressive. “hmm. i haven’t watched you, though.” maybe it was a challenge. maybe it was to cover the flush of guilt i felt – he knew my name, and i’d been deliberately ignoring his existence.
god knows why i said that, or what reaction i expected. but what he said next? that’s the moment i knew i’d be thinking about him for a long, long time.
“you will watch me, one day. playing for india.” he leaned forward slightly, his eyes holding mine. “hopefully from the other end of the pitch.”
everyone here whispers that dream to themselves at night. but this was the first time anyone had ever said it out loud and included me in the picture. he wasn’t just sharing his dream; he was sketching a future with the two of us in it. my throat felt tight, and i had to look away. i couldn’t let him see how much that got to me. so, of course, i had to be a jerk. i think i snorted and asked him what made him so sure he’d be the one opening with me in five years.
he just smiled, completely unfazed. “you’d get your answer if you weren’t too busy having a stick up your –“ well, you get the idea, “– and actually looked to your right during training. then you’d see me bat and know why it’s me, and not anybody else.”
in typical boy fashion, that equally crude reply was the final hammer blow that shattered the ice between us. after that, breakfast flowed easy. we joked about the coaches giving us fitness lectures while feeding us a mountain of paraunthe. he did a spot-on impression of our camp warden, puffing out his chest: “fifteen minutes till lights out! or i’ll make you do fifty sit-ups in the cold!”
– ah. speak of the devil. i can hear that same announcement now. shubman is in another bunk room, just across the corridor.
but i did watch him after breakfast. he’s… really classy. his batting is nothing like mine. where i want to send the ball into orbit, he seems to have a quiet conversation with it, guiding it along the ground with this effortless grace. after his session, i bumped his shoulder and said, “very grounded you are, huh.” he laughed, and – his dimples. wow.
anyway. i’m getting distracted. i should stop.
but i think he’s right. i think we can open the batting for india together one day. i think our games fit together, like two pieces of a puzzle.
see you tomorrow, diary. good night.
love,
abhay.
dear diary,
we won last night. the under-19s world cup. here, miles away from home, in new zealand.
it feels so surreal. like this is still a dream. the confetti, the weight of the medal around my neck, the roar of the crowd… it’s all a glorious, noisy blur. but the clearest thing, the most real thing in my memory, didn’t happen on the field. it happened in the quiet of our room, long after the celebrations had died down.
they’ve had us rooming together for this entire tournament. it felt like fate, or maybe just a really smart dravid sir who saw how our games fit together. it’s been easy, you know? after knowing each other for almost five years now, there’s a comfort there that’s as familiar as my own batting gloves. we just… get each other.
last night, we finally stumbled back into our room, giddy and exhausted, the echoes of the team’s cheers still ringing in our ears. the second the door clicked shut, the world went quiet. i was flopped on my bed, staring at the ceiling with a stupid, permanent grin, when shubman’s voice cut through the silence.
“told you,” he said, his voice soft but sure. “from the other end of the pitch.”
i turned my head to look at him. he was leaning against the door, holding his medal, looking at me with an expression so fond it made my heart stutter. i felt a blush creep up my neck. “you did,” i admitted, my voice a little hoarse. “and you got your wish. maybe if you’d asked for something else that day, you’d have gotten that too.”
he looked down, a shy smile playing on his lips. “i did wish for something else that day, you know,” he murmured, almost to himself. “i think i’m getting close to it.”
i remember my breath hitching. my own secret, scribbled in your pages, felt like it was burning a hole in my chest. “what was it?” i asked, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. “the second thing?”
he was quiet for a long moment, and i could see the internal battle on his face. he’s never been able to hide anything from me. finally, he looked up, his gaze direct and vulnerable. “the reason i wished for us to bat together… was because i wanted a reason to be close to you. to get to know you. really know you.”
the air left my lungs. it was like he’d reached into my diary and read my own words back to me. “funnily enough,” i whispered as i stood up, taking a step towards him, the truth tumbling out before i could stop it, “i wished for the exact same thing that day.”
he pushed himself off the door and strode towards me. it wasn’t a distance we hadn’t stood at before – we’ve shared countless conversations this close – but the weight of our confessions made the space between us feel charged, intimate. the air was thick with everything we’d never said.
“and how have you found it?” he asked, his voice low. “getting to know me?”
i couldn’t answer. my gaze, completely out of my control, flickered from his earnest eyes down to his lips. it was just a split second, but he noticed.
he always notices.
in two quick steps, he closed the gap completely. his hand came up, his fingers gently tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. his voice was a hushed, shaky thing. “abhi… you should tell me to stop. before we make a mistake.”
my heart was hammering against my ribs, a wild, joyful rhythm. i managed a shaky grin, the last defense of my nervous heart. “well,” i breathed out, “getting to know the taste of your mouth is still technically part of getting to know you, right?”
that was all it took. the last thread of our restraint snapped. a laugh, half-relief, half-disbelief, escaped him, and then we were both leaning in. our smiles melted away the second our lips met, soft and tentative at first, then surer.
people always said your first kiss would feel like fireworks. but it wasn’t an explosion, diary. it was a homecoming – the final, missing piece of a dream we’d both been yearning for years.
we woke up this morning, our medals discarded on the nightstand, all tangled up in each other’s limbs. and over a sleepy, shared room-service breakfast, we decided to call each other what we’ve clearly been for a long, long time.
boyfriends.
it’s even more surreal than winning the world cup.
love,
abhay.
dear diary,
wow. i’m actually blowing the dust off you. it’s been a minute, huh? i guess my life only gets quiet enough for this when my brain is too full of thoughts i can’t say out loud. i can’t exactly bother komal anymore – now that she’s a married woman and all – and there are some things that even make me too shy to say to him.
speaking of things i can’t say out loud… today happened.
kavita aunty descended upon us. yes, that one. the human equivalent of a forwarded whatsapp message. the first thing she did was pinch my cheek and declare, “abhay, beta, you look so fit!” i just grinned and shrugged. i mean, obviously? i’m playing for india, i have to be in shape. but that was just the appetizer.
the main course was served with a dramatic sigh. “now that both your sisters are well-settled,” she announced, as if she was a news anchor breaking a major story, “it’s time for you to find a beautiful girl and get married too.”
a beautiful girl. ha! the irony almost made me snort my mango juice.
usually, i’d just deflect with a joke and hide in my room. but with the house feeling extra quiet since komal left, a little mischief felt necessary. so i gave her my most charming, troublemaker smile. “sure, aunty ji,” i said, “you find these ‘sohni kudiyan’ and let me know.”
how was i supposed to know she was a walking, talking matrimonial site, with a curated portfolio of potential brides in her handbag? her eyes lit up like i’d just hit a six. she ruffled my hair – a full on, mess-up-the-fringe-attack – and yelled, “dekho! how eager he is! munda jawan ho geya! (look! the boy has matured!) i’ll go find your mum right now!”
and she marched off, leaving me frozen in a panic. i could feel mum’s questioning stare from across the living room before i even turned around. when our eyes met, i did the only thing i could: deploying the Puppy Eyes. you know the one. the wide, slightly wobbly, “please-save-me-i-am-your-baby-boy” look. thankfully, it still works. she gave me a tiny, amused shake of her head and played along.
the aunty finally left after what felt like five hours of mum politely batting away suggestions. the second the door closed, mum came over and pinched my ear. “this is for encouraging her,” she said, but she was trying not to laugh. i could tell.
she gets it, you know? mum knows about us. it’s hard to hide the way my whole face lights up when my phone buzzes with his name, or the way i unconsciously smile at my screen. we never really tried to hide it from family. the rest of the world… well, that’s nobody’s business but ours.
but here’s the thing, diary. after all the aunty-drama quieted down, the word “marriage” just… stuck with me. with komal’s wedding confetti still practically vacuumed into the carpet, i guess i’m already in my feels. and the thought that bloomed in my chest, clear and warm as sunshine, was this: i would like to get married one day. with him, of course. there is no other version of this future in my mind.
he's just so busy right now, off carrying the hopes of a billion people on his shoulders. the last thing he needs is me adding “wedding planner” to his mental load. it’ll happen when it happens. i have to believe he wants it too – you don’t build a life with someone for more than half a decade on a whim, right? i just pray it’s sooner rather than later.
my heart feels so ready for that next chapter. i just hope his is, too.
god, writing that down makes me miss him so much it’s a physical ache. i should video call him. i need to see his face, even if it’s just for a minute before he sleeps for his match tomorrow.
huh. this felt… really nice. like talking to an old friend. i won’t be such a stranger again.
love,
abhishek.
dear diary,
he’s here.
he wrapped up the west indies series (it was a short one, i know. sometimes i wonder why we even bother with two-match series – just enough time to get used to the playing conditions before you’re packing again) and he flew back home.
not his home. my home. here. in amritsar.
this morning, the doorbell rang, slicing through the lazy quiet of the house. still half-asleep, my brain, fuzzy with dreams, immediately thought it was the sabziwala making an unusually early round. i shuffled to the door, ready to grumble about the ungodly hour, my protest already forming on my lips.
i pulled the door open, a complaint poised and ready – and was immediately pulled into a bone-crunching hug.
and then his scent hit me. that familiar mix of his stupidly expensive cologne and the simple, clean scent that is just… him. my brain short-circuited. my boyfriend. here. it was so sudden, so perfect, it felt like a scene straight out of a movie. i think i actually gasped into his shoulder. the line from that old song, mera piya ghar aaya, popped into my head, and i’m pretty sure i mumbled it right into the fabric of his t-shirt, my voice thick with sleep and sudden, overwhelming joy.
what truly woke me up, though, was his laugh.
he heard my pathetic attempt at serenading and just… dissolved. god. that sound. i don’t think there’s a more beautiful noise in the entire world. it’s not just a laugh; it’s a whole-body event. his head throws back, his shoulders shake, and those dimples (the ones fans go crazy for) flash, completely unguarded and just for me. the way his eyes crinkle, the fine lines fanning out… they make him look a little older, a little wiser, and so, so beloved.
i don’t usually get cuteness aggression, diary, but in that moment, holding him in the doorway, i was struck by this insane, overwhelming wish that i could just fold him up small and keep him in my pocket. just so i could take him out whenever i needed to be reminded of what pure, unfiltered happiness feels like, and hear that laugh all over again.
“ – abhay!” my dad’s voice startled us apart, “kaun aaya? (who’s arrived?)”. before i could even form a coherent sentence, shubman had already slipped past me, practically bouncing over to touch dad’s feet in a gesture of respect, leaving me trailing behind like a lovesick puppy. when i finally caught up, he was in the middle of laying on the charm, telling dad he’d just come to give him a surprise. and even though my dad saw right through the lie, he had this smug, pleased little smile on his face. he’s always been a soft touch for shubman, especially when he tries so hard to treat my family like his own.
maybe one day, we could legally be one family, too. god, i am so pathetic… these thoughts just keep finding me nowadays.
when dad went back to his room, leaving just the two of us in the hall, shubman immediately grabbed my hand and dragged me upstairs to my room, declaring we should do some light working out together. “i don’t know about you,” he said, all faux seriousness, “but i need to stay fit. odi series against australia in a few days.”
i couldn’t stop myself from asking why he’d flown all the way to amritsar, then. as the new odi captain, shouldn’t he be in mumbai, immersed in preparations for his first big series? he looked at me like i’d grown a second head, then shrugged as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “i love you. i miss you. isn’t that a good enough reason to come visit you?” when i teased him, saying i would’ve joined him in about a week anyway, he simply rolled his eyes, his voice dropping to that soft, earnest tone that makes my heart stutter. “abhay, i am not here to do time pass with you, acha? i want to spend my whole life with you. that includes the 24 hours i get off.”
now can you blame me if i keep thinking of getting married to him?
the workout was, of course, quickly abandoned, interrupted by me showering a plethora of kisses all over his face. more giggles spilled out of him – a sound i wish i could bottle and keep forever. dad must’ve woken mum up, because five minutes later her voice floated up the stairs, yelling for us to come down and eat her special aloo de paraunthe.
at the dining table, dad did his typical coach/mentor debriefing with him about the wi series first, before shifting focus on australia. mum, being herself, was more concerned about my wellbeing than my cricketing shots. “beta, shubhi,” she said, “abhay is going to be too busy to even remember eating. make sure he does that with you in australia, na?”
i felt shubman’s knee nudge mine under the table. when i glanced at him, his eyes were smirking, a clear promise that he was planning to keep me very busy in australia, just not in the way my mum meant. but when he turned back to her, that naughty façade melted away, and he was back to being the susheel munda my parents adore. i don’t know if all his time at kkr with shah rukh khan has rubbed off on him, but it’s like he comes pre-installed with a manual on how to charm your partner’s parents.
he reached out and held my mom’s hand from across the table, his voice softening. “aunty ji, don’t worry. you and uncle ji have both brought up abhishek really well. he will take care of himself there. in fact, he’d probably be busy looking after me. but if he doesn’t eat on time,” he added, throwing a playful glance my way, “i’ll feed him myself. tusi fikar na karo, theek aa? (don’t stress yourselves out, alright?) now, can i have one more of your parauntha, please? i’ve really missed ghar da khana (homemade food).”
the rest of the day was spent in a lovely, comfortable rhythm of fiery banter (in front of the parents) and lazy, sun-drenched kisses (safely hidden away in my bedroom). he’s gone to bed now, much earlier than our usual time. he tries to pretend he’s okay in front of me, but i can see the quiet fatigue in the way he moves, the toll of back-to-back cricket and relentless travel finally showing now that he’s let his guard down.
he’ll be leaving for mumbai tomorrow, and perth the day after. a little piece of my heart always aches when he walks out the door, but there’s a steady comfort in knowing he’ll be there, waiting with open arms, when i join him in canberra in two weeks. i miss him already, and he’s still sleeping right across me.
i’ll try to write regularly, even during the series. it feels good to talk to you again.
love,
abhishek.
dear diary,
we did it. we actually did it. 2026 t20 world cup champions. and we did it together, just like we said we would all those years ago — winning by ten wickets, side-by-side at the crease, the way it was always meant to be.
the moment the winning run was hit, the world exploded into a roar of blue. my first instinct, my only instinct, was to find him. i wanted to kiss him more than i wanted to breathe, to pour all the adrenaline and love and history of that moment into one act. but in a stadium of a billion eyes, we had to settle for a hug.
but, god, what a hug it was. it felt like we were the only two people on the planet. he lifted me off my feet, and i buried my face in his neck, the smell of sweat and grass and him filling my senses. and then, his whisper, warm and sure against my ear, sent a shiver down my spine: “on the other side of the pitch.”
just like he promised that very day at camp. i think my heart actually burst.
then the chaos swallowed us whole. he was dragged away for the player of the match award, and I was left floating, waiting for my own player of the tournament moment i’d receive later. before i knew it, arshdeep had me in a headlock, laughing and pulling me towards the indian dugout. and that’s when i saw them. our families. whole cluster of the proudest, tear-streaked faces i’ve ever seen.
i went to my parents and sisters first, the hugs tight and wordless. but then, i turned to his parents. i bent down to touch their feet, a gesture of respect that felt more profound than ever. his dad pulled me up into a bear hug almost as tight as shubman’s, immediately launching into a technical breakdown of my innings. i couldn’t help the fond smile; he’s just like my own dad, two men whose lives are written in the language of cricket.
while his dad was talking, i caught komal’s eye. she was wiggling her eyebrows so dramatically i thought they might fly off her face. shahneel, standing beside me, kept “accidentally” nudging me in the waist. a nervous, giddy feeling started bubbling in my stomach. something was up.
and then i saw him. shubman, walking towards us, his potm trophy in hand. his eyes found mine, and he gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod to arshdeep, who, i suddenly realized, had his phone out and was recording. shubman quietly handed his trophy to his dad, then took my hand. “come here,” he murmured, and gently pulled me a few steps away, just enough to create a small, private spotlight for us in the middle of the madness. only arsh and his camera followed.
my eyes dropped to his hands. he was fidgeting, his fingers nervously playing with something in his pocket. my own heart was now hammering against my ribs. i reached out and held his wrist, stilling him. “shubhi? is everything alright?” i asked, my voice barely a whisper.
he took a deep breath, his gaze steadying. “yes,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. he took his hands out of his pockets, but instead of revealing anything, he just held both of my hands in his. “abhay… in the almost fifteen years i’ve known you, you have been my constant. my rock. you were the grumpy boy at breakfast i just had to know, the partner in every dream i’ve ever had, and the love that waited for me after every single match.”
my breath caught. we didn’t do this. we didn’t have grand, emotional speeches in public. i was so thrown that i shot a confused, almost panicked smile over at arshdeep, who just grinned wider behind his phone. i turned to look back at our families, seeking an anchor. and i saw it then — the sisters were holding our teary-eyed mothers upright. our dads had their chins held high, but their bottom lips were trembling. it hit me then, the full weight of the moment. the presence of our families, arsh’s recording… it was a scene i had been desperately praying for in the quiet of my heart for weeks.
but what if i was wrong?
it felt like an eternity before i gathered the courage to turn back to him. and when i did, he was already there. on one knee. a small, velvet box open in his hand, a simple, shining ring nestled inside.
“eight years ago,” he began, his voice clear and strong despite the emotion shining in his eyes, “after our world cup win, we became boyfriends. now, after our t20 world cup win, here i am, on my knee, asking you… will you marry me?”
the world went silent. i didn’t answer. i couldn’t. instead, my knees gave way and i fell to the ground in front of him, my hands coming up to cradle his face, our foreheads pressing together. “are you sure?” i breathed out, the words fragile. “are you sure it’s me you want to spend the rest of your life with?”
his answer was immediate, filled with a certainty that spanned half our lives. “as sure as i was the day i called for you in the cafeteria.”
that was all i needed. i surged forward, capturing his lips with mine in a kiss that held every shared dream, every saved hug, every whispered promise. it was ferocious and tender all at once, the final, public seal on a love story that started with a handshake.
when we finally broke apart, breathless and laughing, a good-natured yell came from the few remaining fans in the crowd: “he still didn’t say yes!”
the tension shattered into pure, complete joy. i pulled back just enough to bring my hand up, holding it out to him. my voice was trembling, but my heart had never been more sure. “i have waited forever to be called your husband, but i didn’t want to burden you. yes. my answer is yes. a thousand times yes.”
he slid the ring onto my finger, and as it settled into place, our families finally broke, rushing towards us in a wave of tears, laughter, and the most overwhelming, loving huddle i’ve ever been a part of. arshdeep stopped recording and jumped on the pile, shouting his congratulations.
so, diary, this is it. the final chapter i get to write to you. i have a feeling i won’t be visiting these pages much anymore. not because i’m not grateful — god, i am. you’ve been the silent keeper of our story since day one. but because i’ve finally found the one person i can tell every single thought to, the one i can pick the brains of for the rest of my life.
my fiancé. my soon-to-be husband. my shubman.
thank you for everything.
all my love,
abhishek.