It’s the 2015 IPL. Mumbai Indians have just lost their first four games in a row. In a pretty desperate move to shuffle things up, a boy is handed out a debut against RCB. Lanky, relatively unheard of, carrying an air of flamboyance, and all of 22. We’re told he’s an all-rounder.

He walks in with seven balls to spare. The second ball he faces is cleanly whipped way over deep mid-wicket. The fifth goes even further into the crowd at Chinnaswamy. Okay, message noted. There’s something in those arms.

Five games and another defeat later, MI simply have to win everything. CSK at Chepauk are up next, and on the field, the boy is manning the boundary. By end of it, he has a sharp running catch, a sliding grab, and a low one against his name. Message noted, the boy’s a serious livewire.

A couple of hours later in the evening, with the equation down to 34 off 17 balls, he walks out to bat. Two singles, a dot, and another two singles later, it’s gotten progressively worse for MI. 30 now are needed off 12. What follows is carnage. What follows is history. The boy is defined for life. Three sixes in four balls, a knock of 21 off eight, and from the jaws of defeat, MI have snuck home. Message noted, he’s calm, he fights, and he loves the big stage.

Over the following seven seasons, he is that multipurpose cog in the Mumbai Indians winning wheel that when needed opens the bowling, bowls at the death, bats when the asking rates are touching the sky, bats when the ship needs anchoring, forms a fortress at long-on.

He was our pride. His smile was our joy. Those steely eyes were our hope. His celebrations were our tonic. 

The boy is now a man.

And the man is returning home, more decorated, more celebrated, more revered.

#HardikSwagat. Welcome back to Mumbai Indians, HP!