You Were Almost Mine

Chepauk Cricket Stadium, Chennai

ROHAN

Do you know what’s more entertaining than watching cricket? Playing it.

“India needs four runs off the last ball, and Rohan is on strike,” the commentator said.

I took my position as the bowler started his run-up and delivered a yorker.

I pulled my bat back and flicked it at the last second.

Boom.

A boundary through the off side.

The crowd erupted. We had won the match — and beaten Australia in a bilateral series.

Aarav sprinted towards me from the non-striker’s end and pulled me into a quick hug before settling for a fist bump.

Teammates flooded the field. We shook hands with the opposition, smiles stretched wide across exhausted faces.

Soon after, Aarav was announced Man of the Match — no surprise there.

Who scores 51 off just 14 balls?

“Bro, today you played like a highlight reel,” I said as we walked back toward the locker room.

“Yeah… just waiting for the coach to pause it on my midfield,” he replied, making me laugh.

“And congrats on your third consecutive fifty,” Aarav added.

“These stats will definitely take you to the Indian team.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“That’s what we’ve been working towards since childhood.

The day I debut for India will be the happiest day of my life.”

We headed straight to the showers while the rest of the team stayed back, still riding the high of the win.

After a long shower, I returned to the locker room.

“Rohan, there’s a small cake-cutting ceremony for the win. Come soon,” Aarav said before leaving.

His love for cakes was legendary — he’d even opened a cake shop recently.

I switched on my phone, already smiling, ready to call Mom and tell her we’d pulled it off.

That’s when I saw it. Twelve missed calls. All from the same unknown number.

I usually ignored unknown calls, but this felt different. I called back.

“Hi, I’m returning a call. I have multiple missed calls from this number,” I said.

“Good evening. Are you Rohan Krishna?” a woman asked.

“Yes.”

“We need you to come to Lifeline Hospital immediately.”

My heart started racing. “What? Why? What happened?”

“I’m afraid it’s your mother.

She met with an accident a couple of hours ago.”

The world spun around me.

I don’t remember ending the call. I only remember calling the driver and asking him to come to the stadium exit.

I jumped out of the car the moment we reached the hospital and ran toward the reception.

“I’m Rohan. Devika. Devika Lakshmi,” I said — that was all I could manage before the lump in my throat stopped me.

“Go straight. Third cabin on the left. Meet Dr. Suresh.”

I ran, dodging people, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

Dr. Suresh looked up as I entered.

“Doctor… Devika Lakshmi,” I said.

He paused.

“We tried everything we could,” he said quietly. “But we couldn’t save her.”

My chest tightened.

“Where is she?” I whispered.

“Mortuary. It’s an RTA case, so a post-mortem is mandatory. The FIR has been filed. You’ll receive the body after the procedure." He left the room.

I sat on the steps outside the mortuary doors. They said I could see her only after the post-mortem.

Tears slipped down without resistance as memories of my mother flooded my mind — her voice, her hands, the way she always waited for my calls after matches.

I pulled out my phone and opened a contact I hadn’t called in months.

Dad. He answered on the second ring.

“Hello, Rohan.”

“Mom… Mom has passed away,” I said, my voice breaking.

“What? When?”

“A couple of hours ago. She met with an accident.”

Silence.

“Can you… can you come?” I asked.

“I’m in New York for an important business meeting, Rohan,” he said. “I can’t come right now.”

“But Mom—”

“Come on, Rohan. You’re not a child anymore. You can handle this.”

“I have to go. I’ll call you later.” he said before hanging the call.

I stared at my phone.

And for the first time in my life,

I understood what it meant to be completely alone.