Time: 5:45 PM.
Location: Living Room, Deva Farmhouse.
The "interview" had moved into dangerous territory. Having exhausted the topics of cricket, injuries, and hypothetical wives, Krithika had turned her investigative gaze towards the past.
She leaned forward, her pen poised over her notepad, looking at Sesikala with wide, innocent eyes.
"Madam," Krithika asked, her voice dripping with professional curiosity. "Our readers love to know about the early days. We know Deva the Icon. But what was he like as a toddler? Was he always this... disciplined? Or was he a troublemaker?"
Deva groaned, sinking lower into the sofa. "Next question. Please."
"Oh, he was very naughty!" Sesikala laughed, ignoring her son completely. "He couldn't sit still. Always running, always climbing trees. I had to tie a bell to his ankle just to know where he was in the house!"
Krithika scribbled furiously. "A bell. fascinating. Like a cat." She shot a smirk at Deva.
"And," Krithika continued, pressing her advantage. "Visuals are very important for a feature article. Do you happen to have any... childhood photos? Maybe him holding a bat? Or wearing a jersey?"
Deva sat up straight. "No. No photos. They are in storage. Dusty. Hard to find."
"Nonsense," Sesikala waved him off, standing up with surprising speed. "They are right in the cupboard. I will bring the album. It has everything."
"Amma, don't—" Deva started, but she was already gone.
He turned to Krithika. "You are enjoying this way too much."
"I am a journalist doing my job, Mr. Deva," she whispered, her eyes dancing. "The public has a right to know."
Sesikala returned with a massive, leather-bound album that looked heavy enough to kill a man. She placed it on the coffee table with a thud.
"Here," Sesikala opened the first page.
Krithika leaned in. "Aww! Look at those cheeks!"
It was a photo of one-year-old Deva, sitting in a tub, covered in soap bubbles, looking confused.
"He was very chubby," Vikram commented from his armchair. "He loved butter."
"Write that down," Krithika muttered. "The Devil loved butter."
She turned the pages. There was Deva at five, holding a cricket bat that was bigger than him.
"See?" Sesikala pointed. "The stance. Even then, he stood like a tiger."
"Cute tiger," Krithika giggled. She pulled out her phone. "May I take a digital copy? For the layout?"
"Of course, beta," Sesikala allowed it.
Krithika snapped a picture of the batting photo. Then she turned the page.
And there it was. The Holy Grail of blackmail material.
It was a photo of three-year-old Siddanth Deva. But he wasn't wearing shorts. He wasn't wearing a cricket kit.
He was wearing a bright pink, frilly frock, with a matching ribbon in his hair. He was crying.
Deva lunged for the album. "NO! THAT PAGE IS CENSORED!"
Sesikala slapped his hand away. "Let her see. It is a sweet memory."
"Why... why is he wearing a frock?" Krithika asked, her voice trembling with suppressed laughter.
"I wanted a daughter," Sesikala admitted shamelessly. "But I got him. So, for one day, I dressed him up. He looked so pretty, didn't he?"
"Beautiful," Krithika choked out. "Absolutely stunning."
While Deva buried his face in his hands, groaning in agony, Krithika's hand moved with the speed of a cobra.
Click.
She took a photo of the frock picture.
Click.
She took a zoomed-in photo of his crying face.
"Okay, enough photos!" Deva slammed the album shut. "The interview is about CRICKET. Not fashion disasters from 1994."
"I think we have enough for the cover," Krithika said, pocketing her phone quickly. "Thank you, Madam. This was... enlightening."
"Whatever," Deva grumbled, standing up on his crutches. "Let's go outside. You wanted to see the farm, right? For... context?"
"Yes," Krithika nodded professionally. "Background research. Agricultural roots."
"Go, go," Vikram waved. "Show her the mangoes. I will watch the news."
Deva grabbed his crutches and hobbled towards the back door. Krithika followed him, clutching her bag which now contained the most valuable digital assets in India.
They walked out onto the back verandah and down the ramp onto the lawn. Deva led her past the kitchen garden, towards the dense mango orchard.
He walked in silence for fifty meters, checking over his shoulder to ensure they were out of sight of the house windows.
They reached the shade of a large banyan tree. Deva stopped. He turned around.
"Delete it," Deva said.
"Delete what?" Krithika asked innocently.
"The photo. The pink frock. Delete it right now."
"I don't know what you are talking about," she grinned, backing away. "I am a journalist. I protect my sources."
Deva dropped one crutch. He hopped forward and grabbed her.
He didn't grab her arm. He reached up and pinched her ear.
"Ouch! Hey!" Krithika yelped.
He twisted it gently, just like a schoolteacher scolding a naughty student.
"You are a menace," Deva growled playfully, twisting it a little more. "You come to my house. You lie to my parents. You eat my snacks. And you steal my dignity."
"Ow! Ow! Okay, sorry!" she laughed, trying to pry his hand away. "Sorry! I surrender!"
"Say 'Deva is the most handsome man in the world'," he demanded, not letting go.
"Never!"
He twisted again.
"Okay! Okay! Deva is handsome! Even in a frock!"
Deva laughed and let go. She rubbed her ear, her face flushed, eyes shining.
"You are violent," she accused him. "I'm going to sue you for assault."
"And I'm going to sue you for trespassing," Deva countered, picking up his crutch. "We are even."
She looked at him. The laughter faded into a comfortable silence.
"You really looked cute," she whispered.
"Don't push it," Deva warned. "Come on. I want to show you Toofan."
They walked deeper into the property. The air here was cooler, smelling of wet earth and livestock.
Deva led her to the stables. Toofan, the Marwari stallion, stuck his head out over the stable door, whinnying softly.
"Oh wow," Krithika breathed. "He's huge."
"He's gentle," Deva said. He opened the stable door and walked in, leaning on his crutch. Toofan nuzzled his shoulder. "This is Toofan. He runs faster than I do."
"Can I... touch him?"
"Yeah. Just flat hand. On the nose."
Krithika reached out tentatively. Toofan sniffed her hand, then allowed her to stroke his velvet nose. Her face lit up with pure, childlike wonder.
Deva watched her. Seeing her here, in his sanctuary, touching his horse... it felt right. It felt like she belonged.
"And over there," Deva pointed to the grazing field. "That's Veeru. The calf my dad lectures."
They walked to the edge of the field. There was a khatia (rope cot) under a tree.
"Sit," Deva said. "My ankle is throbbing."
They sat on the cot. The sun was beginning to touch the horizon, casting long, golden shadows across the fields. The sky was turning a bruised purple.
"This place is amazing," she said softly, using his alias. "It's so... quiet. I can see why you want to live here instead of the city."
"It keeps me sane," Deva admitted, stretching his injured leg out. "In the city, I'm a billboard. Here, I'm just a guy with a broken leg."
"You're not just a guy," she said, looking at him. "You're the guy who built all this."
"We built it," Deva corrected. "My family."
They talked about random things in life, such as new movies, what she ate for breakfast, and what her sister had done that morning.
They watched the sun go down. The crickets started their evening song. The temperature dropped.
Krithika shivered slightly.
Deva noticed. He took off his flannel overshirt (he was wearing a t-shirt underneath) and handed it to her.
"Wear it," he said.
"It will smell like you," she teased.
"It smells like greatness," he retorted.
She put it on. It was huge on her. She pulled the sleeves over her hands and inhaled.
"It smells like... lemongrass," she noted. "And muscle spray."
"Eau de Injury," Deva laughed.
---
The sky was dark now. The security lights of the farmhouse flickered on.
"I should go," Krithika said reluctantly. "My mom thinks I'm at Riya's house. If I'm too late, the cover blows."
"Yeah," Deva nodded. He didn't want her to go. "Let's head back."
They walked back to the house. As they stepped onto the porch, Vikram and Sesikala came out.
"There you are!" Vikram said. "We were worried. What were you doing in the dark?"
Deva froze. Think, Sid. Think.
"We were..." Deva started.
"Working," Krithika interrupted smoothly. She stepped forward, Deva's shirt still draped over her shoulders (which she quickly realized and took off, holding it in her hand).
"Working?" Sesikala asked. "I thought the interview was over."
"It was," Krithika nodded. "But then Mr. Deva... he gave me an opportunity."
She looked at Deva. Her eyes were sparkling with a new lie.
"Mr. Deva was very impressed with my... writing skills," she improvised. "He told me that his company... NEXUS... is looking for content writers. For their new app."
Deva's eyes widened. What is she doing?
"He conducted a preliminary interview," she continued, lying through her teeth with the confidence of a politician. "Right there in the garden. He asked me about a few things on recent developments in the tech world. And... I think I passed?"
She looked at Deva. "Did I pass, Sir?"
Deva stared at her. It was brilliant. It was a reason to come back. It was a reason to call. It legitimized their time together.
"Yes," Deva said, playing along. "You passed. We need... bright minds. The articles need to be written."
"So," Krithika turned to his parents. "He asked me to draft some sample articles. And bring them back for review. In two days."
"Two days?" Vikram asked.
"Yes, Sir. Deadlines," she said seriously. "The tech world moves fast."
"Oh, that is wonderful!" Sesikala clapped her hands. "A job! Siddanth, you are helping her? That is very good."
"I try to help," Deva mumbled.
"So," Krithika looked at Deva. "I will bring the drafts on Wednesday. Is that okay... Sir?"
"Wednesday is fine," Deva nodded, suppressing a smile. "Bring... three drafts."
"I will," she promised.
"I should get going, Sir," Krithika said. "It is late."
"Ride safe, beta," Vikram said. "The highway can be dark."
"I will, Uncle. Thank you for the tea."
Deva picked up his crutches. "I'll see her out."
They walked down the steps to the Scooty. The darkness wrapped around them, creating a private bubble.
Krithika put on her helmet. She straddled the bike.
"Job interview?" Deva whispered. "Really?"
"It worked, didn't it?" she whispered back. "Now I have a reason to come back. Unless you don't want to hire me?"
"I can hire you," Deva said.
She started the engine. The headlight cut a beam through the dark.
"Come here," she said.
Deva hobbled closer. "What?"
"Closer."
He moved a step closer. He was right next to the bike.
"Closer," she commanded softly.
He leaned in. He was a foot away from her face. He could see her eyes through the visor (which was open).
"What is it?" he asked.
She leaned forward. She placed a hand on his shoulder to steady herself.
She pressed her lips to his cheek.
It wasn't like the quick peck at the bus stop. It was slower. Deliberate. Warm.
She pulled back.
"That's for showing me the farm," she whispered.
Deva stood there, stunned. His cheek burned where she had touched him.
She snapped her visor down.
"See you Wednesday, Boss," she said.
She revved the engine and sped off down the driveway, the gravel flying.
Deva stood there for a long time. He touched his cheek. He smiled. A goofy, uncontrollable smile that he was glad his parents couldn't see in the dark.
He watched her tail light disappear onto the main road. Then, the protective instinct kicked in.
He pulled out his phone. He dialed the security cabin.
"Ramu?"
"Yes, Sir?"
"The guest just left. On the Scooty."
"Yes, Sir."
"Take the backup jeep. Follow her. Don't let her see you. Just make sure she reaches the city safely. It's the highway. Trucks are crazy at night."
"Understood, Sir. Following now."
Deva saw the headlights of his security jeep flicker on and follow the purple Scooty down the drive.
He exhaled.
He turned back to the house.
---
Thirty minutes later, Deva was in his room, icing his ankle. His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Headache:I reached safely. Tell your bodyguard in the jeep he can stop following me now. He tailed me all the way to my gate. I felt like the President.
Deva smiled, picturing Ramu's diligent driving.
Me:Just making sure the new 'content writer' is safe. You are a valuable company asset now.
Headache:Stalker. But thanks.
Headache:And Siddanth?
Me:Yeah?
Headache:The shirt smells nice. I might not return it.
Deva grinned at the screen.
Me:Keep it. Consider it a signing bonus.
He put the phone down, the scent of the day still lingering. The fortress was secure, and for the first time, it didn't feel lonely.