Dear Virat,

It feels impossible to articulate everything you mean to me, & yet I feel like I will go mad if I did not at least try. There is really nothing that can truly be said of a Test career like yours, less player, more phenomenon, some days it feels like if I did not see it with my own two eyes, I would almost not believe it. At twelve, you made me realise how the only way to fight is if you can give it your all. At twenty-four today, you have again made me realise how everything worth doing is worth doing right. All of which is to say that I never really believed in a God before you Virat, but the way you almost always pulled miracles out of thin air made me wonder. I did not have any heroes or heroines growing up, but I did have you - someone who always felt too human to be a god, and too godly to be just a human. As cheesy as it sounds, this is why the moniker of king will always be yours — not god enough that you do not fall, but god enough that you always brush your knees to fight again — for what is godhood if not acknowledging that you are human, & yet refusing to let that hold you back?

I have always loved you a little more than I have loved this game, Virat, & I probably always will. For me, before you, cricket was everywhere yet nowhere. You were the centre of gravity who held it together for me. Bit by bit, by watching you, I began to watch this game & the ways in which it plays out on-field & beyond. My love for culture comes from you. My desire to wade deep into social fabrics to unravel how they come together, comes partly from my urge to understand you, & through you, understand myself. It’s funny the many ways in which I feel tied to you—the many ways in which you have shaped me—& you don’t even know me. Some days, that, too, feels like a blessing. There is a gift in this distance: the ability to sit far away & orient myself based on where you stand.

In many ways, perhaps this is why I feel so disoriented today. If you are not there anymore out in whites, building up the world with every stolen single, what remains?

It’s amazing how easily your incredible innings became familiar. In those years before COVID, it sometimes felt like I came back home from school almost everyday to a new record set or shattered. So much so, that I almost took it for granted. Of course you were scoring another century —the sky is blue, and the sun rises every day. No wonder it felt like the ground shifted underneath me when it then set. Some days it feels like I came of age as you stumbled. As I saw your invincibility crack, it felt fitting that my childhood, too, shattered around me.

But even last winter, in the worst of times, you gave me hope. Every single time you came out to bat, I believed you would pull out a miracle. You were not in solid touch, edged and taken etc. had become a constant drone and yet, despite it all, in the worst of moments, it was still you I looked towards to turn the tide.

I don’t really have anything to say except - thank you. Thanks for being passionate and patient. Thanks for being kaleshi and kind. Thank you for the memories, the dreams, the ice-cold focus and the fiery will. The matches won, the matches lost. It’s truly special that your last international Test match saw you standing-in as captain, and your actual last match was back home at Kotla, in front of your home crowd & at the feet of your own pavilion (& on 31 January 2025, the day I turned 24 — another red thread I will carry with me forever).

It has been a privilege to watch you play. My dad used to say, jab dard hadh se zyada badh jaaye, to dawa ban jaata hai. I’ll happily carry the grief of never seeing you in whites again - it only means that, for a few beautiful years there, I was part of something that I loved with my whole soul.

Love, & gratitude,
From a girl who believes in magic because of you