Date: May 27th, 2012.
Location: Deva Farmhouse, Shamshabad.
Event: Watching the IPL 2012 Final (CSK vs KKR).
Siddanth Deva sat on his plush living room sofa, feeling completely rejuvenated.
It was the final of the fifth edition of the Indian Premier League. Chennai Super Kings taking on the Kolkata Knight Riders at the M.A. Chidambaram Stadium.
"It hurts to watch," Arjun said, sitting next to Deva with a slice of pizza in hand. "Deccan looked completely toothless without you."
"They lacked a plan," Deva taking a sip of his protein shake. "You can have all the talent in the world, but in T20s, if you panic between overs 14 and 20, you die. We panicked."
But tonight wasn't about the Chargers. It was about the ghosts of 2011.
On the screen, KKR was chasing a massive 191 set by CSK. Manvinder Bisla was playing the innings of a lifetime, smashing the Chennai spinners to all parts of the ground. The equation had come down to 20 runs off the last two overs. It looked like KKR was destined to lift their maiden trophy.
In the original timeline—the one Deva remembered from his past life—Bisla's heroics, followed by Manoj Tiwary's late boundaries, had sealed the title for Gautam Gambhir's men.
But time travel is a tricky business. A pebble thrown into a river changes the course of the water downstream. Deva's actions in 2011—snatching the trophy from MS Dhoni's grasp with an impossible chase—had created a butterfly effect.
MS Dhoni won't be defated abck to back.
Over 19: The Masterstroke
Instead of giving the 19th over to Ben Hilfenhaus, who was struggling, Dhoni tossed the ball to Ravichandran Ashwin.
It was a massive gamble. Ashwin against the set Jacques Kallis and Manoj Tiwary.
Ashwin bowled flat, fast, and wide. Kallis reached for it, trying to clear extra cover, and sliced it straight to Ravindra Jadeja.
Two balls later, Ashwin bowled the carrom ball. Tiwary didn't pick it. Clean bowled.
"He changed the script," Deva whispered, leaning forward, his eyes wide. "Mahi bhai changed the bowling rotation."
Over 20: The Choke
With two new batsmen at the crease and 16 runs needed, Dwayne Bravo bowled the final over. He nailed five consecutive yorkers. Shakib Al Hasan swung and missed.
Chennai Super Kings won by 9 runs.
The screen showed MS Dhoni being mobbed by Suresh Raina and Albie Morkel. He hadn't just won the match; he had exorcised the ghost of the previous year's final.
"They did it," Arjun said, shaking his head. "Back-to-back champions. Well, almost back-to-back, thanks to you. Dhoni is unbelievable under pressure."
Deva smiled, the King had reclaimed his throne. Now, it was time for the Devil to get back to work.
---
Date: June 2nd, 2012.
Location: Deva Farmhouse.
With no international cricket scheduled for the Indian team until late July, Deva found himself with an abundance of something he rarely had: free time. And Siddanth Deva did not do well with idle hands.
If he couldn't dominate on the cricket pitch, he was going to dominate the server room.
For the first week of June, Deva locked himself in his study. He ordered a mountain of heavy textbooks online: Advanced C++ Programming, Java Concurrency in Practice, Android OS Architecture, and UI/UX Design Principles. He also ordered books on Mandarin Chinese, knowing he would soon have to deal directly with original equipment manufacturers (OEMs) in Shenzhen.
He sat at his desk, opened the first 800-page manual, and let the System go to work.
[Skill Activated: Eidetic Memory]
His eyes scanned the pages, absorbing the complex syntax, memory management protocols, and object-oriented frameworks. He didn't just read; he recorded. Whole blocks of code were seared into his brain.
But memorizing code wasn't enough; he needed to understand the underlying logic natively. That was where his other skill came into play.
[Skill Activated: Tower of Babel]
[Target Medium: Programming Syntax (Java, C++, Python)]
The [Tower of Babel] was originally designed to help him learn human languages. But at its core, code was just another language—a strict set of rules, verbs, and syntax used to communicate with a machine.
As Deva read the textbooks, the System bridged the gap. The lines of code stopped looking like abstract mathematics and started reading like plain English. He could "speak" to the computer.
Two days later, he called Arjun.
"Send me the latest build of BoltOS and the core repository," Deva instructed over the phone.
"Why?" Arjun asked, confused. "The UI rendering pipeline is a mess right now. Karthik and the team are pulling their hair out trying to fix the micro-stutters. When you swipe to the app drawer, the frame rate drops to 45 FPS. It doesn't feel like a premium flagship."
"I know a guy," Deva lied smoothly. "An expert in Android OS-level programming. He works remotely and owes me a favor. Send it over, I'll have him look at it."
Once the files arrived, Deva locked his study door. He pulled the keyboard toward him, cracking his knuckles. He spent the whole day deep in the matrix. The issue was in the memory allocation during the animation state. The team was instantiating new bitmap objects every time a user swiped, burning through memory.
Deva systematically deleted the redundant blocks of code, rewriting the core loop from scratch in incredibly lean syntax. He cached the bitmaps and forced hardware acceleration onto the GPU layer instead of relying on the CPU.
[System Prompt: Optimization Complete. Redundancy reduced by 40%.]
A few days later, he sent the optimized repository back to Arjun.
When Karthik loaded the new build at the NEXUS office and restarted a prototype phone, the result was staggering. He swiped the screen, and it felt like glass. The app drawer flew open at a buttery-smooth 60 frames per second. The micro-stutters were entirely gone.
"Who is this guy?" Karthik asked Arjun over the phone, staring at the clean, perfect code in absolute awe.
"I have no idea," Arjun replied, shaking his head.
---
Date: June 10th, 2012.
The 'War Room' on the top floor of NEXUS was buzzing. Deva, visiting the office for a catch-up, sat in the central chair, wearing a headset, furiously clicking his mouse.
"Karthik, he's flanking left! Behind the blue container!" Deva shouted into the mic.
"Got him, Boss! Throwing a frag grenade!"
A loud digital explosion echoed through Deva's headset, followed by a satisfying PING. The screen flashed in bold, golden letters: WINNER WINNER CHICKEN DINNER!
Deva took off his headset, running a hand through his hair, a massive grin on his face. He high-fived Karthik.
"Okay, that was smooth," Deva said, spinning his chair around. "The server tick rate held up perfectly during the final circle engagement. The hit registration feels crisp."
Karthik nodded. "The Beta 1.0 build of Project Battlegrounds (PUBG) is solid, Sid. We squashed the major bugs where the Dacia buggies would spontaneously launch into orbit. The ballistics on the Kar98k have been adjusted for bullet drop exactly how you requested."
"What about the player count?" Arjun asked, walking into the room with a tablet.
"We tested a full 100-player lobby on the localized servers," Karthik reported. "Zero rubber-banding. The parachute drop phase is optimized."
Arjun said, a spark of excitement in his eyes. "I have a bigger idea for the launch. We shouldn't just release it quietly. We should introduce Project Battlegrounds at a major gaming convention in the US. E3 or PAX. Set up a massive booth, run a live tournament, and get the western gaming community on board early. It'll create global hype."
Deva stood up, looking at the large monitor displaying the gameplay analytics. "A convention in the US? I like it. Book the floor space. Let's show them what we've built."
Arjun smiled. "Consider it done. What about the casual division?"
Arjun tapped his tablet again. "Candy Crush Saga just crossed $20 million in monthly recurring revenue. The new levels you suggested—the chocolate mountains—are frustrating players so much that they are buying 'hammer boosters' by the thousands."
"We are funding an empire with virtual candy," Deva chuckled.
"Which brings us to the bad news," Arjun said, his smile fading. He gestured for Deva to follow him into his private CEO cabin.
Once the door was closed, Arjun unlocked a safe behind his desk and pulled out a sleek, matte-black rectangular device. He placed it on the mahogany table.
It was the final, pre-production prototype of the Bolt 1 smartphone.
Deva picked it up. Thanks to his "expert friend's" coding intervention, the UI was flawless. It felt cold, premium, and perfectly balanced.
"It's perfect," Deva said. "So what's the bad news?"
Arjun sighed heavily. "The phone is perfect. The manufacturing plan is stalled. We don't have a factory."
Deva frowned, putting the phone down. "What happened? I thought we filed the paperwork for the 10-acre plot near the Shamshabad airport for the assembly plant? We have the cash ready."
"We have the cash, Sid, but we don't have a functional government," Arjun rubbed his temples. "The Telangana agitation is at its absolute peak. The strikes, the Million March, the bandhs... the state administration in Andhra Pradesh is completely paralyzed."
Deva knew this. He had seen the burnt buses and the massive rallies on the news. The demand for a separate state of Telangana had brought Hyderabad to a standstill on multiple occasions.
"The Chief Minister's office isn't signing off on any new Special Economic Zone (SEZ) land allocations," Arjun explained. "No bureaucrat wants to put their signature on a massive land deal when the state borders might literally be redrawn next year. They told our fixers to 'wait until the political situation stabilizes'."
"Wait?" Deva's voice hardened. "We can't wait. Technology ages like milk, Arjun. In six months, Samsung and Apple will have the next generation out. The Bolt 1 is a flagship killer now. If we delay the launch to 2013, we are launching outdated hardware."
"I know," Arjun said, frustrated. "But we can't build a factory in the cloud. The Chinese OEM is ready to ship the components. We need a physical space to assemble, box, and distribute."
Deva stood up, pacing the length of the office. His [Cricketing Brain] kicked in. When the pitch is unplayable, you don't keep trying to drive through the covers. You change your stance. You improvise.
"Forget the government land," Deva said, stopping abruptly. "We are trying to play a classic Test match innings when we need a T20 slog."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning we don't build a factory from scratch," Deva pointed at Arjun. "That takes two years anyway. We lease. We find an existing, massive industrial warehouse on the outskirts. Patancheru, Medchal, or even farther out on the Mumbai highway. We lease a massive shed, we retrofit it with clean rooms, anti-static flooring, and assembly lines. We bypass the land acquisition bureaucracy entirely."
Arjun blinked, processing the pivot. "A retrofitted warehouse? It won't look as glamorous as a glass-fronted NEXUS manufacturing hub."
"I don't care about glamour; I care about speed," Deva stated flatly. "Bolt means speed. The consumers don't care if the phone was assembled in a custom-built SEZ or a retrofitted shed, as long as it works perfectly and costs 12,999 Rupees. Find a struggling logistics company or a defunct textile mill. Offer them three years of lease upfront in cash. The politicians can't stop a private lease agreement."
Arjun slowly nodded, a grin spreading across his face. "Private lease. No government red tape. We just bring in the HVAC contractors and the assembly robotics. It's dirty, it's scrappy... but it works."
"Make the calls today," Deva ordered. "I want this phone in the hands of Indian college students before the end of the year."
---
Date: June 15th, 2012.
Time: 5:30 AM.
Siddanth Deva sat in the driver's seat of his car, parked in a quiet, mist-covered lane near the Secunderabad cantonment area. He was wearing a plain grey hoodie and jeans, the heater running low to ward off the early morning chill.
Suddenly, the passenger side door opened. A figure slipped in, bringing the crisp morning air and the scent of jasmine into the utilitarian interior of the SUV.
Krithika slammed the door shut, letting out a dramatic, sleepy yawn. She was wearing a cozy oversized sweater over her jeans, her hair tied in a messy bun.
"It is a criminal offense to be awake at this hour," she declared, buckling her seatbelt before leaning over to give him a soft, familiar kiss on the cheek. "Morning."
"Morning," Deva chuckled, putting the car into gear and pulling out of the alley. "You said you wanted a peaceful drive. Peace means beating the Hyderabad traffic. And beating the traffic means 5:30 AM."
"I meant 8:00 AM," she grumbled, kicking her shoes off and pulling her feet onto the seat. "But fine. I am awake. Where are we going for breakfast?"
"Highway dhaba," Deva promised. "Fresh parathas. Hot chai. And zero cameras."
"I approve," she smiled, resting her head comfortably against the window.
The drive out of the city was peaceful. The chaotic neon lights of Hyderabad were switched off, replaced by the soft, pastel hues of the impending sunrise. Deva cracked the windows open, letting the cool morning breeze fill the cabin.
He reached over and clicked the stereo dial. The soft static of the FM radio gave way to a gentle acoustic guitar riff and soothing synth keys. It was a timeless classic from the movie Criminal. An SP Balasubrahmanyam and K.S. Chithra duet.
As the deep, velvety voice of SPB floated through the speakers, Deva began tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in perfect rhythm.
"Telusa manasa... idhi enati anubandhamo..." (Do you know, oh heart... from which lifetime this bond exists...)
To Krithika's complete surprise, he started singing along softly. His low baritone caught the male lead's verses with an easy, effortless grace.
"Kalisina e kshanana... adigindi madi moolana..." (The moment we met... a corner of my heart asked...)
Krithika turned her head, looking at him with an amused and deeply affectionate smile spreading across her face. The "Devil of Cricket" casually singing a romantic 90s Telugu melody in a Tata Sumo at dawn was a contrast she couldn't help but adore.
She closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the seat, and seamlessly picked up the female lines when Chithra's voice chimed in.
"Telusa manasa... idhi enati anubandhamo..." she sang, her voice sweet, unselfconscious, and filling the enclosed space of the car perfectly.
They didn't look at each other. They just watched the empty highway unfurl before them through the windshield, trading the poetic verses back and forth.
"Needala ninu ventadana..." (Shall I follow you like a shadow...) Deva sang, his voice dropping slightly as he stole a quick, sidelong glance at her.
"Kougili lo ninnu bandhinchana..." (Shall I lock you in an embrace...) she answered smoothly, a slight, warm blush rising to her cheeks as the lyrical promise hung in the crisp morning air.
Their voices blended effortlessly with the vintage track, turning the SUV into a private, moving concert. It was a comfortable, perfect synchronicity that went far beyond shared secrets or stolen dates. To Krithika, he was just her boyfriend, the guy singing classic melodies with her while the rest of the world slept.
As the song faded out into a gentle instrumental outro, Deva reached over and turned the volume down slightly.
"So," Deva asked, breaking the comfortable silence. "How is the MBA prep going?"
"Terrible," she groaned, the romantic spell breaking into everyday reality as she rubbed her eyes. "Quantitative Aptitude is going to be the end of me. Why do I need to calculate the speed of two trains crossing each other?"
"Because logistics are important," Deva teased.
"And don't talk about studies now. I just want to relax!" she grumbled, reaching over and resting her hand lightly on his arm.
Deva exhaled a breath, glancing down at her hand on his arm. He covered it with his own, his thumb tracing over her knuckles.
She smiled, intertwining her fingers with his.
They arrived at a roadside Dhaba on the Medak highway just as the sun crested the horizon, painting the sky in brilliant strokes of gold and orange. The air was crisp, and the smell of woodsmoke and roasting spices from the outdoor clay ovens was intoxicating.
Deva parked the Sumo near the edge of the lot, facing the open green fields away from the main seating area. He slipped on a baseball cap, though at this hour, the only other patrons were a few groggy truck drivers drinking tea by their lorries.
"Stay here," Deva instructed. "I'll grab the food."
"Get extra butter," Krithika commanded, rolling down the window to let the fresh air in. "And make sure the chai is strong."
"Yes, ma'am."
Deva walked to the counter, enjoying the complete anonymity of the dawn. He grabbed a tray loaded with piping hot aloo parathas, generous dollops of white butter melting over them, and two steaming clay cups of Irani chai.
He walked back to the car. Instead of sitting inside, they hopped onto the broad hood of the Sumo, using the windshield as a backrest, plates balanced carefully on their laps.
"Oh my god," Krithika groaned, closing her eyes as she took her first bite. "This is... this is heaven. Definitely worth waking up at 5 AM for."
"Told you," Deva laughed, taking a careful sip of the sweet, scalding tea.
They ate in a comfortable, companionable silence, watching the morning mist slowly lift off the adjacent agricultural fields. The highway began to wake up, a few early cars whizzing past, but right there on the hood of the car, they were insulated in their own private bubble.
"You know," Krithika said softly, resting her head on his shoulder as she finished her tea. "I love this."
"The parathas?" Deva teased, wrapping a warm arm around her.
"No, idiot," she smiled, lightly punching his chest. "This. Us. Just sitting here without a hundred people staring at you. No press, no board meetings, no screaming crowds. Just a normal morning."
Deva kissed the top of her head, pulling her a little closer. He understood exactly what she meant. His life was a whirlwind of expectations, flashbulbs, and high-stakes decisions. But here, with her, the noise faded away entirely.
"Me too," he said quietly, looking out at the rising sun. "It's perfect."
They sat there for a long time, watching the daylight wash over the landscape, perfectly content in the quiet warmth of the morning and each other's company.
---
Date: July 18th, 2012.
Location: Rajiv Gandhi International Airport, Hyderabad.
The weeks of peace were officially over. The bags were packed. The India travel kit was on.
Deva stood near the VIP departure gate. He had said his goodbyes to his parents at the farmhouse. Arjun had given him a thumbs-up, confirming that the warehouse lease in Medchal was active and the assembly line machinery was successfully installed. Bolt 1 was moving from a dream to reality.
He pulled out his phone.
Me: Boarding the flight to Chennai for the camp. Then Colombo.
Headache: Have a safe flight. And score runs.
Me: Yes, Coach. I'll call you when I land.
Headache: You better. Now go be the Devil. Make them cry.
Deva smiled. He locked the phone and slid it into his pocket.
He walked through the sliding doors, the camera flashes instantly erupting from the waiting press corps. The microphones were thrust towards him.
"Siddanth! Are you ready for the tour?"
"Vice-Captain! What is your message to the Sri Lankan team?"
Deva didn't stop walking. He didn't look down. He didn't respond to the questions he just continued to walk.