The heavy monsoon clouds hung low over Hyderabad, filtering the August sunlight into a soft, diffused grey. In the modest bedroom of the Deva residence in Mehdipatnam, the ceiling fan whirred with a rhythmic click-hum-click-hum that was more effective than any white noise machine in a five-star hotel.
Siddanth Deva lay sprawled on his bed, one leg hanging off the edge. He was home.
The Tri-Nation series in Sri Lanka had ended on a sour note. After the high of the Asia Cup, the team had looked tired. In the final against Sri Lanka at Dambulla, they had crumbled. Sri Lanka had scored 299, and India had been bowled out for 195. It was a humbling defeat, a reminder that momentum in cricket is as fragile as glass.
But here at home, the scoreboard didn't matter.
He checked the time on his phone. 10:30 AM.
He had slept for twelve hours straight.
He stretched, feeling the stiffness in his lower back—the legacy of diving around on the hard Sri Lankan outfields.
"Siddu! Are you going to sleep until the afternoon?"
His mother's voice floated in from the kitchen, accompanied by the smell of tempering mustard seeds and curry leaves.
Deva smiled. He rolled out of bed, grabbed a towel, and walked out.
His father, Vikram, was sitting in the cane chair in the living room, meticulously cutting out a news article with a pair of scissors.
"What are you doing, Nanna?" Deva yawned.
Vikram said, not looking up. "Just saving this article. The Deccan Chronicle says you were the only 'bright spot' in the final loss. 60 runs and 2 wickets."
"We lost by 100 runs, Nanna. There are no bright spots," Deva muttered, walking to the washbasin.
"Rubbish," Vikram said, pasting the clipping into a thick scrapbook. "Stats are stats."
---
By noon, the family was ready.
It was a Tuesday. Sesikala had insisted on visiting the Ujjaini Mahankali Temple in Secunderabad.
"You need blessings," she had declared. "The evil eye is strong. Look at that loss in the final. Clearly, someone cursed the team."
Deva didn't argue. In an Indian household, superstition beats logic every time.
They took the car. Deva insisted on driving, wearing a cap and large aviator sunglasses, hoping to pass as just another driver. Vikram sat in the front, looking nervous.
"It's a Tuesday, Siddu. It will be crowded," Vikram warned.
"It'll be quick," Deva said. "In and out."
They navigated the chaotic traffic of Paradise Circle and entered Secunderabad. The streets were narrow, bustling with shops selling flowers, coconuts, and incense.
As they pulled up near the temple arch, the crowd was thick.
Deva parked the car in a side lane.
"Amma, keep your head down. Let's move fast," Deva whispered.
They stepped out.
For exactly thirty seconds, they were anonymous.
Then, a young boy selling garlands looked up. His eyes went wide.
"DEVA!" the boy screamed. "DEVIL!"
It was like dropping a match into a drum of petrol.
Heads turned.
"Deva bhai!"
"Autograph! Autograph!"
"Deva is here!"
Within moments, the narrow lane was blocked. People were running from the shops. A crowd of fifty became two hundred in the blink of an eye. They were pushing, shoving, trying to touch him, trying to grab his hand.
Sesikala looked terrified, clutching her saree pallu. Vikram tried to shield her.
"Back! Please, back!" Vikram shouted, his voice drowned out by the roar.
Deva stopped moving. He put his arms around his parents, creating a human shield.
"Amma, hold my hand," Deva said calmly.
Just as the crush threatened to become dangerous, a whistle pierced the air.
"Move! Move back!"
Three policemen, lathis in hand, waded through the crowd. The local Station House Officer (SHO), a burly man with a thick mustache, recognized the situation immediately.
"Make way!" the SHO bellowed, pushing the crowd back. "Give them space!"
The police formed a cordon around the family.
"Deva sir," the SHO saluted quickly. "Come with us. VIP gate."
"Thank you," Deva exhaled, guiding his parents through the human tunnel created by the cops.
They were ushered into the temple through the side entrance, bypassing the winding queues. Inside the sanctum, the noise of the street faded, replaced by the ringing of bells and the chanting of priests.
The head priest recognized him and performed a quick archana. He placed a vermillion tilak on Deva's forehead.
"May Goddess Mahankali protect you," the priest said, handing him a coconut.
Deva closed his eyes. He prayed for the safety of the two people standing next to him.
The exit was swift. The police escorted them back to the car. The crowd was still there, chanting his name, banging on the car windows as they drove off.
Deva rolled down the window an inch as they pulled away.
"Thank you, Inspector!" he shouted to the SHO.
The policeman waved, smiling, looking like he had just won the lottery of stories to tell at the station.
---
Back in Mehdipatnam, the silence of the house felt heavy.
They sat on the floor in the living room for lunch.
Sesikala was quiet. She ate mechanically.
"The dal is good, Amma," Deva said, trying to break the ice.
Sesikala put her plate down.
"Did you see that?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "Did you see how they pushed your father? One man almost knocked me over just to take a photo with you."
Deva stopped eating. "I know, Amma. I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault, Siddanth," she said, looking at the window. "But I can't even buy vegetables anymore. Yesterday, I opened the gate to get milk, and there were three boys standing there with cameras. They asked me, 'Aunty, is Deva inside? Can we see his room?'"
She looked at him, distressed. "Strangers asking to see my son's room. It's not safe. I feel like a prisoner in my own house. I have to keep the curtains drawn all day."
Vikram sighed, mixing his rice. "It's the price of fame, Sesi. He is a national hero."
"I don't care about fame!" she snapped. "I care about peace. What if someone climbs the wall? What if they hurt us?"
Deva took a sip of water. He looked at his father, then his mother.
"I told you," Deva said softly.
"Don't start," Vikram warned.
"No, I will start," Deva said firmly. "I told you six months ago. Mehdipatnam is too crowded. The colony is open. We need to move. I told you I wanted to buy a place with security. A place with walls."
"And leave our home?" Sesikala countered, though her argument lacked its usual fire. "Your Grandfather built this house brick by brick."
"And now the world is at the brickwall," Deva said. "Ma, today was the temple. Tomorrow it will be the grocery store. It won't stop. It will get worse. The World Cup is coming. If we win that... this lane will be jammed for a month."
Sesikala fell silent. She knew he was right. The fear she felt at the temple—the claustrophobia—was a glimpse of their new reality.
Deva saw her resolve crumbling. He decided not to push the "Shamshabad Fortress" reveal just yet. He needed to let the seed of necessity grow a bit more.
"Okay," Deva said, changing his tone. "Let's forget it for now. Eat. The food is getting cold."
He served himself some more curry.
"So," Deva said brightly. "I have 20 days off. The Australia series doesn't start until late September. I am all yours. No cricket. No shoots."
Sesikala wiped her hands on a napkin. Her face softened.
"20 days?"
"Yes."
"We should go to Tirupati," she said suddenly. "It has been three years. We promised Lord Venkateswara we would come if you made it to the Indian team. We never went."
Vikram looked up. "Tirupati? Now? It will be packed."
"He has VIP status now," Sesikala pointed out. "We can get a special darshan letter. I want to go. We need to fulfill the vow."
Deva smiled. "Done. Tirupati it is. I'll ask Arjun if he can arrange the travel and the accommodation. We can take a flight to Renigunta."
"Train," Vikram said. "I like the train."
"Dad," Deva laughed. "If I get on a train, the Railway Minister will have to resign because of the stampede. We are flying."
---
Late afternoon settled over the house.
Vikram went for his nap. Sesikala was watching a serial on TV with the volume low.
Deva walked out to the small verandah. He sat on the swing, pushing it gently with his foot.
Through the iron bars of the gate, he could see them.
Two teenagers on a bike, parked across the street. They were just staring at the house. Waiting.
A car slowed down, the driver pointing at the gate, explaining to his passenger, "That's where Deva lives."
It was a zoo. And he was the exhibit.
His phone buzzed. It was Arjun.
"Yo. How's the vacation?"
Deva typed back:
"Temple was a riot. Amma is freaking out about the crowds. She wants to go to Tirupati."
Arjun: "Tirupati is good. Spiritual detox. Also, good timing. The interior work at Shamshabad is 100% done. The furniture arrived yesterday. When you come back from Tirupati... I think it's time to show them."
Deva looked at the gate again. He saw his mother walk past the window inside, checking to see if the curtains were closed.
"Yeah," Deva typed. "It's time."
---
Around 5:00 PM, the doorbell didn't ring, but a pebble hit the balcony window.
Deva looked up.
It was Sameer, standing on the terrace of the adjacent building.
"Oye! Hero!" Sameer whispered loudly. "Come up!"
Deva grinned. He grabbed a bat from the corner of his room and climbed the internal stairs to the terrace.
The sun was setting, painting the Hyderabad sky in bruised purples.
Sameer and Feroz were there, holding a taped tennis ball.
"We can't play on the street anymore because of your 'fans'," Feroz grumbled. "So terrace cricket it is. One bounce out. Hitting the water tank is six."
"Rules accepted," Deva said, rolling up his sleeves.
For the next hour, there were no cameras. No commentators. No pressure.
Just three childhood friends playing cricket on a rooftop, surrounded by drying clothes and water tanks.
Deva batted left-handed to give them a chance. He still smashed a plastic ball into the neighbor's balcony.
"Out!" Sameer yelled. "Neighbor's house is out!"
"That was a six!" Deva argued. "It cleared the boundary!"
"Go get it then," Feroz laughed. "Aunty will scream at you."
"If I go," Deva smirked, "She'll give me laddus."
"Show off," Sameer threw a towel at him.
They sat on the parapet wall as darkness fell, drinking chai that Feroz had smuggled up in a flask.
"So," Sameer asked. "What's next? After the break?"
"Australia," Deva said, looking at the city lights. "Test series. Ponting is coming."
"You gonna smash him?"
"I'm gonna try."
Deva looked down at his own house. He saw the light in the kitchen turn on.
He felt a strange pang of nostalgia. This house, this terrace, this colony—it made him.
But you can't grow a banyan tree in a flower pot.
"I'm moving them soon," Deva told his friends quietly. "To the new place."
"They agreed?"
"Not yet. But they will."
He finished his chai.
"I better go down. Amma is planning the Tirupati trip. She's probably packing suitcases already."
Deva climbed down the stairs, leaving the cool breeze of the terrace for the warmth of his home.
He walked into the living room.
Sesikala was indeed making a list.
"Siddanth," she looked up. "Do we need to carry woolens for Tirumala? It gets cold at night on the hill."
"Yes, Amma. Pack the sweaters."
He sat down next to her, resting his head on her shoulder.
"Amma?"
"Hmm?"
"After Tirupati... trust me. Everything will be fine."
She patted his cheek, not knowing what he meant, but trusting him anyway.
"As long as we are together," she said. "Everything is fine."
Deva closed his eyes.
20 days of peace. He would soak up every second of it.
Because when he put that blue jersey back on, the world would come rushing in again.
But for now, he was just a son, planning a pilgrimage with his parents.