Into Day 25

It just had to go to the 25th day.

This series, with its aching limbs and second winds, its fourth-innings chaos and final-session drama, was never going to end prematurely. Not quietly. Not painlessly. Not without sending everyone involved into one more evening of dreaming up possibilities.

And yet, for most of the fourth day at The Oval, it looked like we would not get there.

The clouds hung around simply minding their business, playing spectator, not conspirator, as England whittled a target of 374 down to two digits. Harry Brook, blazing and brash, had just brought up his 10th Test hundred - the 20th of this fever-dream series. The ball before, he'd drilled Washington Sundar through the covers where Akash Deep, resigned and weary, left-footed the ball onto his own right knee and into the ropes.

Watching on from his post near the Vauxhall End, Mohammed Siraj looked up at the heavens and then simply hunched over, hands on knees, upper body swaying like a metronome worn down by rhythm. He had just been instructed to limber up for another spell in a series he's played with every fibre of muscle, nerve and skill. But now the air felt heavy, not just with cloud, but with inevitability. It summed up the mood. As the late afternoon shadows stretched across South London on the 24th day of the series, departure lounge syndrome had finally kicked in. India had checked in. Bags zipped. Boarding passes printed.

Siraj might have been the energiser bunny of the team for six weeks straight, but even batteries have breaking points. He had pushed all kinds of boundaries - physical, mental, emotional - across five unforgiving Tests, his great skill glinting through the fatigue as he led the wicket charts. Until one boundary pushed back. Just before Lunch, as he settled under a swirling high ball from Brook at the shortest boundary, the cruel twist arrived. Siraj took it clean, then took a step onto the boundary cushion. Six. Reprieve. Another micro-moment lost in a series composed of them. Brook, who had walked in with England needing 268 more to win, made 111 and walked out with only 73 to go.

That target was down to 57 a few overs later when the pause came. Officially, it was Tea. But it felt more like time for champagne corks to pop. For reel montages to be stitched and music tracks laid. For closing credits to begin rolling, spliced with highlights from all four Tests before.

Except, India decided they still had some featuring to do in those aforementioned clips.

As the Oval swelled with a celebratory hum, serenading Joe Root's 39th Test hundred, Prasidh Krishna and Siraj slipped into rhythm again. Another spell. One more charge. It shouldn't have been happening, not with three fast bowlers having already bent their backs through the bulk of the day. Where they should have been browsing duty-free aisles, India's fast bowlers stayed rooted in duty, searching not for souvenirs, but for spoils.

Jacob Bethell, perhaps eager to fast-forward through the closing ceremonies, came down the track to Prasidh and lost his stumps. One flash, one miss, one timber gone. The Indian section of the Sunday sell-out roared into life. At mid-on, when not doubling up as elder brother and guide to Prasidh, Siraj took on a third role, that of crowd conductor. Arms raised, head nodding, he orchestrated the energy. And all of it, the noise, the theatre, the resistance, moved to his rhythm.

He was now in his 42nd spell of the series. This one would stretch to eight overs. He had already delivered another eight-over spell, and a six-over burst on the day. Almost ridiculously, his average speed in this one was 136.7 kph. For context: his averages across the four previous Tests had read 135.12, 135.64, 136.26 and 136.13 respectively.

The ball - over 70 overs old now - was swinging 0.8 degrees on average. Not a massive jump from the 0.71 of the afternoon, but enough. The seam movement was nearly identical. And yet, something had changed. Balls that had been pinging off the middle of Root and Brook's blades were now thudding into pads. Runs were being eked out in leg-byes amid LBW shouts and DRS calls. The boundaries had dried. The haze had thickened as even the clouds moved in for a closer look. This was theatre of the absurd, dramatised further by the floodlights slicing through the gloom to create a spotlight.

And then, amid it all, Root fell.

Root, who had seemed destined to see it home. Root, who had been the calm through the storm. Nicked off to a Prasidh outswinger he should've put away. Gone for 105. He punched his bat on the way out, furious. Up in the stands, Bethell watched on nervously, now comprehending the possible implications of his charge. When England were 150 away, the target felt within arm's reach. At 37, it appeared to stretch beyond grasp.

Siraj and Prasidh still kept charging in, manufacturing their own adrenaline. The next three overs yielded just two runs. Surely, this spell, this impasse, couldn't last forever. Something had to give. For that somethings had to be taken: the light meter came on during an umpire's review for a bump-ball. It had gone dark, properly dark. The players were led off the field. Moments later, the heavens opened: a short, sharp downpour that felt both too much and perfectly timed.

By the time the rain relented, the ground had already taken on too much water. The cutoff of 6.42 PM loomed, and the calculation was clear: there would be no restart. And then, in a twist worthy of the day, after the call-off was met with boos, the sun returned, suddenly and mockingly bright. As if the gods had yanked the curtain halfway down, then paused. Mid-act. For dramatic effect. It was nearly biblical. A match racing through its pulsating final movement, then frozen in time. Suspended. Held for the 25th day.

Christmas falls on the 25th. Maybe that's what tomorrow is, one last gift. One final twist in a series that has already given everything: collapses and counterattacks, broken toes and brave hearts, heroes and heartbreaks, the sublime and the surreal. And now, with 24 days behind them, a man in a sling waits in the dressing room with his pads on. Another stands at the top of his mark, body aching, eyes burning, ready to go again. Nothing about this has been simple. Nothing ever was.

England need 35. India need four. England will have the heavy roller. India, a second new ball. The script is unfinished. Both sides are still chasing the ending they want, not the one that seemed inevitable.

One last morning then. One last miracle. The 25th day awaits.