The Grand Ballroom of the JW Marriott in Mumbai was transformed into a galaxy of its own. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto the velvet carpet, and the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, lilies, and the undeniable aura of success.
It was October 30, 2010. The Sahara India Sports Awards.
This wasn't just a cricket function. This was a gathering of India's sporting royalty. Fresh off the historic success of the Commonwealth Games in Delhi earlier that month, the room was buzzing with a different kind of energy. It wasn't just the men in blue; it was the shooters, the wrestlers, the boxers, and the badminton stars who had brought glory to the tricolour.
The heavy oak doors swung open, and Siddanth Deva stepped onto the red carpet.
He had ditched the team blazer. Tonight, he was dressed to kill.
He wore a bespoke, jet-black Italian suit, cut sharp to accentuate his athletic frame. Underneath, a black silk shirt and a slim black tie completed the monochromatic look. His shoes were polished to a mirror shine.
He looked less like a cricketer and more like a hitman from a noir film—sleek, dangerous, and impossibly cool.
The flashbulbs erupted. A wall of white light blinded him for a second.
"Deva! Deva bhai! Look here! Left! Left!"
He gave a small, practiced nod to the cameras and walked into the venue.
Inside, the atmosphere was electric.
To his left, he saw Sushil Kumar, the wrestling champion, laughing with Vijender Singh.
To his right, Saina Nehwal, looking elegant in a saree, was chatting with Abhinav Bindra, the silent sniper.
Bollywood stars were sprinkled like garnish—Ranbir Kapoor, Deepika Padukone, Kareena Kapoor—adding glamour to the grit.
Deva navigated the room, nodding at faces he recognized from TV. He wasn't just a fan anymore; he was a peer. A few people stopped him a manager wanting a meeting, a legendary hockey player congratulating him on the Test series win against Australia. He handled them with the grace.
---
Deva was scanning the room, looking for his chaos-causing teammates, when a familiar voice cut through the ambient jazz music.
"Oye! Young man!"
Deva turned. Seated at a premium table near the stage was a gathering of gods.
Sunil Gavaskar and Ravi Shastri. And sitting with them, looking surprisingly comfortable in a tuxedo, was Virender Sehwag.
It was the Little Master, Sunil Gavaskar, who had called him.
Deva straightened his tie and walked over. The aura around this table was heavy. These were the men who built the house Deva now lived in.
"Good evening, sir," Deva said, bowing slightly to Gavaskar and Shastri. "Good evening, Viru paaji."
"Look at him," Gavaskar beamed, adjusting his glasses. "Dressed like he's going to audit the Mafia. Sharp, son. Very sharp."
Shastri laughed, a booming sound. "Black suits you, young man. You look like you mean business. Just like your batting."
Deva smiled humbly. "Thank you, sir. Just trying to keep up with the standards."
Gavaskar's expression turned serious, paternal. He gestured for Deva to lean in slightly.
"I was commentating on Bangalore Test," Gavaskar said softly. "That 159 against Johnson and Hilfenhaus... it was special. But what I liked most was your stance."
Deva listened intently. When Sunny G spoke about batting, the world stopped.
"People will tell you to change it," Gavaskar continued. "Coaches will say your backlift is too high, or you open your chest too early. Ignore them. Your eye is your strength. You see the ball a fraction earlier than others. Don't let them coach the natural flair out of you. That stillness you have? Keep it."
It was validation from the highest order.
"I will, sir," Deva promised. "I trust my eyes."
"And your hands," Sehwag chimed in, grinning around a mouthful of appetizer. "Just see ball, hit ball. Don't think too much like this old man."
Gavaskar swatted Sehwag's arm playfully. "If he thinks like me, he will score 10,000 runs. If he thinks like you, he will give us heart attacks."
"Either way, he wins matches," Ravi Shastri concluded. "Go on, enjoy the night. The future is bright."
Deva shook their hands again, feeling a surge of pride. He excused himself, leaving the legends to their debates about the old era versus the modern era.
---
He moved deeper into the ballroom, past the buffet spread that smelled of truffle oil and galouti kebabs. Finally, near the back—where the mischief usually happened—he found them.
The "Wolfpack" table.
Suresh Raina, Virat Kohli, Ravindra Jadeja, Rohit Sharma, and Ravichandran Ashwin.
They were a stark contrast to the legends. They were loud, they were laughing, and they were already roasting each other.
"Oh my god," Virat shouted, spotting Deva. He stood up, shielding his eyes theatrically. "Is that Batman? Or is it James Bond? Who invited the secret agent?"
"Sit down, Chiku," Deva grinned, walking up to the table. "You're just jealous because your velvet blazer looks like a sofa cover."
The table erupted. Virat looked down at his maroon velvet jacket, feigning hurt. "This is high fashion, bro! You wouldn't understand. You dress like a bouncer."
"A very expensive bouncer," Rohit Sharma corrected, lazily sipping his drink. "Looking sharp, Sid. Very Matrix."
Deva pulled out a chair next to Raina and sat down. "Good to see you boys. I see Jaddu has discovered hair gel."
Ravindra Jadeja, whose hair was spiked to defying gravity, winked. "Aerodynamics, my friend. Helps me field faster."
"So," Ashwin leaned in, looking scholarly in his spectacles. "I heard Sunny G giving you a lecture. Was it about the elbow position or the head balance?"
"Neither," Deva said, stealing a breadstick from the basket. "He told me to ignore advice from people who overthink. So, basically, he told me to ignore you, Ash."
Ashwin laughed, shaking his head. "Touche."
They settled into the easy rhythm of teammates who spent more time with each other than their families. They talked about the upcoming New Zealand series, the cars they wanted to buy with the match fees, and the beautiful actresses walking around the room.
"Katrina is here," Raina whispered, nudging Virat.
"I know," Virat said, trying to look cool but failing.
"Go say hi," Deva challenged.
"Not yet," Virat adjusted his collar. "Let the moment come to me."
"Coward," Deva laughed.
---
Suddenly, the lights in the ballroom dimmed completely. A hush fell over the crowd. The ambient chatter died down.
A spotlight hit the center stage.
Music swelled—the iconic instrumental theme from Don.
From the wings, a figure walked out. The silhouette was unmistakable. The hair. The walk. The open arms.
Shah Rukh Khan.
The room exploded in applause. Even the stoic athletes clapped enthusiastically. SRK wasn't just an actor; he was an emotion.
He walked to the podium, flashing that dimpled smile that had conquered a billion hearts.
"Namaskar, Good Evening, and Sat Sri Akal!" SRK's voice boomed, rich and charismatic.
"I have hosted many awards," SRK began, leaning on the podium. "Filmfare, IIFA, Zee Cine... usually, I stand in front of people who pretend to be heroes. Actors who need ten takes to land a punch, and stuntmen to jump off buildings."
Laughter rippled through the room.
"But tonight?" SRK looked around, his eyes twinkling. "Tonight, I am nervous. Because tonight, I am standing in front of men and women who don't need retakes. When Vijender takes a punch, he bleeds. When Saina lunges, she feels the pain. When Sachin drives, a nation breathes."
He pointed to the front row.
"I see legends here. I see warriors. We actors... we entertain. But you? You inspire."
The applause was thunderous this time. Genuine.
Deva clapped hard. SRK knew how to work a room.
"This year has been special," SRK continued, pacing the stage. "The Commonwealth Games in Delhi showed the world that India is not just a cricket nation. We are a sports nation!"
He gestured to the wrestlers and shooters.
"101 Medals! Can we hear it for our CWG heroes?"
The cricketers stood up first, leading the ovation for their fellow athletes. It was a beautiful moment of solidarity.
"And of course," SRK grinned, looking at the cricket table. "Our Men in Blue. Number 1 in Tests. Champions of Asia."
"Tonight," SRK said, his voice dropping to a hush. "We honor the sweat. We honor the tears. We honor the glory."
He spread his arms wide, the signature pose.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, as the host, it is my absolute privilege to declare the Sahara India Sports Awards 2010... OPEN!"
---
The lights cut out again. The giant LED screens on stage flickered to life.
A high-octane montage began to play, set to A.R. Rahman's Vande Mataram.
It started with Gagan Narang firing his rifle, the bullseye shattering.
Cut to Saina Nehwal smashing a shuttlecock, her scream of victory echoing.
Cut to Sushil Kumar slamming his opponent onto the mat in Delhi.
Cut to Krishna Poonia hurling the discus to gold.
Then, the cricket.
Sachin Tendulkar's 200 at Gwalior. The bat raised to the heavens.
VVS Laxman shouting at Ojha in Mohali.
And finally, a clip of Siddanth Deva.
It was the century against Pakistan in the Asia Cup. The helmet off, the hair matted, pointing the bat at the crowd.
The montage ended with the Indian flag waving in slow motion.
The lights came back up. The room was emotional. Pride was thick in the air.
Deva looked at Virat. Virat wasn't cracking jokes anymore. He was staring at the screen, eyes burning.
"Goosebumps," Virat whispered.
"Yeah," Deva nodded, adjusting his cufflink. "This is why we do it, Chiku. For the flag."