The humid night air of Hyderabad hung heavy over the city, carrying with it the faint, chaotic symphony of distant traffic and the rhythmic thrum of the ceiling fans spinning overhead.
Inside the private dining room of one of Banjara Hills' most upscale hotels, however, the world felt suspended in a quiet, golden glow.
Sidanth Deva sat at the head of a round table, the remnants of a heavy dinner scattered before him—empty copper bowls that had held mirchi ka salan, half-eaten naan, and the lingering aroma of authentic Hyderabadi biryani. This was it. The Last Supper, as Arjun had jokingly called it earlier.
His kit bags were already packed and sitting by the door of his room at home. The blue jersey, the heavy willow bats, the pads that had seen the dust of maidans and the lush turf of international stadiums—everything was ready. Tomorrow, he wasn't just Deva, the boy from Hyderabad. Tomorrow, he was reporting to Bengaluru to join the Indian National Squad for the 2011 World Cup.
"Stop staring into space, man," Sameer nudged him, breaking Deva's trance. "You look like you're already facing Brett Lee."
Deva smiled, a crooked, easy grin that had flashed across television screens often in the last few months. "Just thinking. It's actually happening. The squad list... it's real."
"Of course it's real," Feroz chimed in, leaning back and patting his stomach. "Gambhir is out. You are in. The whole country is talking about it. 'The Deva Factor,' they're calling it. No need for a left-hander when you can hit the ball to the parking lot behind the wicketkeeper."
The table erupted in laughter, but Deva felt a familiar flutter in his chest. It wasn't fear—he didn't really do fear—but it was weight. The sheer, crushing, exhilarating weight of expectation.
Just then, a soft knock on the glass door interrupted their banter. The bearer, a young man in a crisp white uniform with a name tag that read 'Raju', stepped inside. He held a leather folder with the bill, but his eyes were wide, fixed squarely on Deva. His hands were trembling slightly.
He approached the table with a reverence usually reserved for deities.
"Excuse me, sir," Raju said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Deva looked up, shifting from 'friend' mode to 'professional' mode instantly. He offered a warm smile. "Yes?"
"Sir. I hope you enjoyed it," Raju stammered, then took a deep breath. "I... I just wanted to say, sir. I am a huge fan. I watched your innings against New Zealand. That scoop shot over fine leg... I have never seen anything like it."
Deva's smile softened into something more genuine. He appreciated these moments. "Thank you, Raju. I'm glad you enjoyed it."
"I have a request, sir," Raju said, reaching into his apron pocket and pulling out a small notepad and a pen. "If you don't mind? It's for my younger brother. He wants to be a cricketer too. He mimics your stance in the gully."
"Of course," Deva said, reaching out. "What's his name?"
"Suresh, sir."
Deva uncapped the pen. The table went silent, his friends watching with proud smirks as Deva scribbled 'To Suresh, Keep watching the ball. Best wishes, Sidanth Deva' on the paper. He signed it with a flourish—the signature that was becoming a brand in itself.
He handed the book back. Raju looked at it as if it were made of gold. "Thank you, sir. Thank you so much."
Raju bowed his head slightly and retreated to process the bill. The transaction was done, the card swiped, the receipt signed. But as Raju returned to hand over the customer copy, he lingered for a second longer than necessary.
He looked Deva in the eye, his expression shifting from fan-boy excitement to a desperate, intense plea.
"Sir," Raju said, his voice firm this time. "Please... bring the Cup home this year. We have waited too long. Do it for us."
The room went quiet. The air conditioning hummed.
Deva looked at the waiter. He saw the hope in the man's eyes. It was the same hope he saw in the security guard at his apartment, the petrol pump attendant, and the millions of faces he saw on TV.
Deva let out a short, breathless laugh. It was a reflex, a way to diffuse the sudden intensity. "I will try, Raju. I promise, we will give it everything we have."
"Thank you, sir. Jai Hind," Raju said, and walked out.
As the door clicked shut, the silence lingered for a beat.
"Man," Arjun exhaled, shaking his head. "That was heavy."
"How many people have said that to you?" Sameer asked, toying with a spoon. "Since the squad was announced? 'Bring it home.' 'Win it for us.'"
Deva rubbed his face with his hands, leaning his elbows on the table. "I don't know. I honestly couldn't keep count. The watchman, the driver, my uncle, the random guy at the traffic signal... it's like a chant. It's everywhere."
"Does it scare you?"
Deva looked at his friends. "No. It doesn't scare me. But it makes you realize... it's not just a game anymore. It's not just hitting a ball. For them, it's everything." He stood up, buttoning his jacket. "Come on. I have an early flight. Let's go."
The drive home was a blur of sodium streetlights and the dark silhouettes of Hyderabad's architecture. Deva sat in the passenger seat, watching the city roll by. This city had raised him. The dusty grounds of Secunderabad, the matting wickets, the humidity—it was all part of his DNA. Leaving it tonight felt different. Usually, he was leaving for a tour. This time, he was leaving for a war campaign.
He arrived home to a quiet house. His parents were asleep, or pretending to be. He crept into his room. He checked his kit bag one last time.
Helmet. Gloves. Pads. The new Nike bats and shoes. Thigh guard.
And on top, folded neatly, the practice jersey. The BCCI logo shone in the dim light.
He slept fitfully, dreaming of crowds roaring, of a white ball spinning against a black sky, of the sound of timber shattering.
Morning came with the smell of brewing coffee and incense. The sun was just beginning to bleed through the curtains when Deva zipped up his suitcase. He showered, dressed in the team travel polo—comfortably loose, dark blue—and walked out to the living room.
His parents were there. His mother, Sesikala, was arranging a small pooja thali. His father, MVikram Deva, sat on the sofa, reading the newspaper. The headline was, inevitably, about the World Cup squad. His own face stared back at him from the sports page alongside Dhoni and Sehwag.
"Ready?" his father asked, folding the paper. There was a stoicism in his father that Deva admired. He never got too high, never got too low.
"Yes, Nanna."
His mother hurried over, the thali in her hand. "Come here, Siddu."
Deva bowed his head. She applied a small tilak of vermilion on his forehead and waved the camphor flame before him. It was an ancient ritual, a shield against the evil eye, a blessing for victory.
"May Goddess Durga give you strength," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Play well. Eat properly. Don't injure yourself."
Deva smiled, touching her feet, then his father's. His father placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"You have worked hard for this, Siddu," his father said. "Don't play for the crowd. Play for yourself. The result will take care of itself."
"I will, Nanna."
Deva straightened up, looking at both of them. They looked older, he realized. The gray in his father's hair, the lines around his mother's eyes. They had sacrificed so much—the early morning drops to the academy, the expensive gear they couldn't really afford back then, the prayers.
"Amma, Nanna," Deva started, his voice firm. "I want you both to come to the matches."
His mother waved her hand dismissively. "Aiyo, no, no. Too much crowd, too much noise. We are happy watching on the TV here."
"No," Deva insisted. "Not this time. This is the World Cup. In India. I want you there. I want you to watch me play live."
Deva said. "I will send the tickets to Arjun. You know, he will take care of everything. He will pick you up, take you to the VIP box, and handle the hotels. You won't have to do anything but sit and watch."
He took his mother's hands. "Please. It matters to me. When I look up at the stands, I want to know you are there."
His parents exchanged a look. The reluctance melted away, replaced by a shy, overwhelming pride.
"Okay," his mother said, her eyes glistening. "If you want us there, we will come."
"We will come," his father agreed, his chest swelling slightly.
The horn of the car blared outside.
"That's Arjun," Deva said. "He's dropping me at the airport."
He grabbed his bags. One last look at the living room. One last look at his parents standing in the doorway, the morning light framing them.
"Vijayibhava (Be Victorious)," his mother called out as he walked to the gate.
The flight to Bengaluru was short, barely enough time to read the in-flight magazine. But as the plane touched down at Kempegowda International Airport, the vibe shifted.
He wasn't Sidanth Deva, the passenger, anymore. He was India's Number 3.
He was met by a BCCI liaison officer at the arrival gate, whisked through a back exit to avoid the mob of paparazzi already camping at the main terminal. A black SUV with tinted windows waited.
As they drove toward the team hotel—the ITC Gardenia—the city of Bengaluru was already painted in blue. Billboards shouting 'Bleed Blue' and 'De Ghuma Ke' lined the highways. Vendors were selling flags at every signal.
The car pulled into the hotel driveway, which was fortified like a fortress. Security guards with metal detectors, police barricades, and a throng of fans screaming behind the ropes.
Deva stepped out, grabbing his kit bag. The flashbulbs went off—pop-pop-pop-pop—a blinding staccato rhythm. He waved briefly, kept his head down, and entered the lobby.
The cool air of the hotel lobby was a relief. And there they were.
---
MS Dhoni was at the reception desk, talking to the manager. Virat Kohli and Suresh Raina were lounging on the sofas, laughing at something on a phone. Yuvraj Singh was walking toward the elevators with Harbhajan.
"There he is!" Virat shouted, spotting Deva. "The Devil himself"
Deva grinned, dropping his bag and embracing Virat. "Shut up, Cheeku."
Dhoni turned around, his face calm as ever. He walked over, extending a hand. "Welcome, Deva. Good to have you."
"Thanks, Mahi bhai."
"Ready to work?"
"Born ready."
Yuvraj walked over, throwing an arm around Deva's shoulder. "You look tired. Heavy dinner in Hyderabad?"
"Something like that," Deva laughed.
"Get used to the noise outside," Yuvraj said, gesturing to the glass doors where the faint sound of chanting fans could still be heard. "I met a guy in the lift. A cleaner. You know what he told me?"
Deva smiled, knowing exactly what was coming. "Let me guess. 'Bring the Cup home'?"
"Exactly," Yuvraj chuckled, shaking his head. "And then Harbhajan's taxi driver told him the same thing. And the receptionist told MS the same thing."
"I got it from a waiter last night," Deva admitted.
The group stood there for a moment in the lobby, a circle of India's best. They were young, they were rich, they were famous. But in that moment, looking at each other, they all shared the same invisible burden. A billion dreams rested on their shoulders.
Dhoni broke the silence, his voice steady. "Everyone is going to say it. Every single day for the next six weeks. We can't stop them. We just have to make sure we actually do it."
He looked at Deva. "Go check into your room. We have a team meeting in an hour. Then nets at the NCA."
Deva nodded, grabbing his room key. "On it."
As he walked toward the elevators, dragging his kit bag, he felt the nerves vanish. He was here. He was with the pack. The speculation was over. The article about Gambhir was old news. The "Left-Hander" debate was noise.
Now, there was only the game.
He stepped into the elevator, pressed the button for the 4th floor, and watched the doors close. As the metal reflected his face, he whispered the words back to himself, a promise to the waiter, to his parents, and to the boy in the mirror.
"Bring it home."