The euphoria of Lord's had settled into a comfortable, buzzing hum in the back of Siddanth's mind. It was June 22, 2009. The day before the team flew back to the madness that awaited them in India.
London was surprisingly sunny, a rare treat that seemed to validate their victory. The team management had given the players a "free day"—no curfew, no practice, just be back at the hotel by dinner.
10:00 AM. Tottenham Court Road.
"Why are we here?" Rohit Sharma groaned, adjusting his sunglasses. He looked like a movie star trying to be incognito, wearing a beanie that was entirely unnecessary in the June sun. "Bond Street has the Guccis. This street has... wires."
"Because Arjun needs a present," Siddanth said, checking a list on his phone. "And you need to walk off the champagne."
Ravindra Jadeja, walking on Siddanth's other side, was eating a croissant he had acquired from somewhere. Jadeja said, pointing at a display of digital cameras. "Can we buy a camera?"
"Yes," Siddanth said, steering them into a massive electronics retailer.
The store smelled of ozone and plastic. Rows of laptops and components lined the shelves.
Siddanth walked straight to the components section. The clerk, a bored-looking teenager with a nose ring, looked up.
"Help you, mate?"
"I need graphics cards," Siddanth said. "NVIDIA GeForce GTX 295. Or the ATI Radeon HD 4890. Whichever you have in stock."
"How many?"
"Four. Of each."
Rohit lowered his sunglasses. "Sid. Are you building a spaceship? What is Arjun going to do with eight graphics cards? Play Solitaire in 4D?"
Siddanth smiled. He knew exactly what they were for. Bitcoin mining was currently done on CPUs, but the shift to GPUs was coming. When it did, Arjun would be ready to mine blocks faster than anyone in India.
"He's into... high-end gaming," Siddanth lied smoothly. "Crysis. You know, heavy graphics."
The clerk looked at Siddanth. Then he looked closer. His eyes widened.
"Wait. You look like..."
"Just the card, please," Siddanth said, flashing a charming smile and sliding his credit card across the counter. "And quick. We have other places to visit."
They left the store ten minutes later, Siddanth carrying two heavy bags of hardware worth a small fortune. To Rohit and Jadeja, it looked like junk. To Siddanth, it was the foundation of a billion-dollar empire.
11:30 AM. Harrods.
The mood shifted from geeky to glamorous. They took a cab to Knightsbridge. Harrods loomed like a palace.
"Now this," Rohit said, breathing in the scent of expensive perfume in the lobby, "is more like it."
They wandered through the halls. Siddanth had a mission.
He went to the watch department.
He bought a classic Omega Seamaster—understated, durable, timeless—for his father, Vikram. The man had worn the same HMT watch for thirty years. It was time for an upgrade.
Then, the scarf department. A pure Cashmere Pashmina, soft as a cloud, in a deep maroon for his mother, Sesikala.
"You're a good son," Jadeja said, looking at the price tag on the shawl and whistling. "My mom just wants me to bring her the World Cup medal. It's cheaper."
Siddanth grinned. "Why not both? Here, let me buy one for your mother."
As they left Harrods, laden with bags, the London traffic was gridlocked.
"I'm not sitting in a cab," Rohit declared. "I need air. Let's walk through the park."
1:00 PM. Regent's Park.
Regent's Park was a sprawling expanse of green, dotted with rose gardens and open fields. It was filled with Londoners enjoying their lunch break—suits sitting on the grass, tourists feeding ducks, and... the distinctive sound of leather on willow. Or rather, tennis ball on plastic.
In a clearing near the center of the park, a game was in progress.
It was a motley crew. A mix of British-Indian kids, likely bunking school, and a few local English boys. The stumps were a plastic crate. The bat was a taped-up Harrow drive.
Siddanth, Rohit, and Jadeja stopped on the path, watching from behind a line of trees.
"Look at that action," Jadeja chuckled, pointing at a chubby kid bowling spin. "Chucking. Definitely chucking. ICC would ban him."
"He's ten, Jaddu," Rohit laughed. "Let him live."
The batsman, a lanky boy wearing a 'Tendulkar 10' jersey, slogged the ball. It flew high, clearing the 'boundary' (a line of backpacks) and landing right at Siddanth's feet.
"Oi! Can we have the ball back, mate?" the bowler shouted.
Siddanth picked up the tennis ball. It felt light, fuzzy.
He looked at Rohit. Rohit looked at Jadeja. A silent communication passed between them. The universal language of cricketers who miss the simplicity of the game.
"One over?" Siddanth whispered.
"One over," Rohit agreed, a mischievous glint in his eye.
Siddanth pulled his hood down slightly, but not enough to reveal his face fully. He walked towards the kids, tossing the ball in the air.
"Good shot," Siddanth said to the batsman. "Who's winning?"
"India, obviously," the kid said, puffing his chest out. "We're chasing 40."
Siddanth reached the 'pitch'. He looked at the bowler. "Mind if I have a go? My friends reckon they can bat."
The kids looked skeptical. Three grown men crashing their game?
"Can you bowl?" the chubby kid asked suspiciously.
"A little," Siddanth said.
He handed his shopping bags to Jadeja. He marked a short run-up.
Rohit Sharma walked to the batting end. He picked up the taped-up bat. He tapped it on the ground.
He took a left-handed stance. Just to make it fair.
Siddanth ran in. He didn't bowl pace. He bowled left-arm orthodox spin, imitating Jadeja's action perfectly.
He flighted the ball.
Rohit, batting wrong-handed, tried to slog-sweep. He missed completely. The ball hit the crate with a loud THWACK.
"OUT!" the kids screamed in unison.
"Golden duck!" the bowler laughed, pointing at Rohit. "You're rubbish, mate!"
Rohit looked genuinely offended. "The pitch is uneven! It turned square!"
"Walk, old man!" the batsman shouted.
Rohit walked back, grumbling. "I hate tennis balls. No bounce."
"My turn," Jadeja announced. He handed the bags to Rohit.
Jadeja took the bat. He took his stance (left-handed, his natural side).
"I will show you how it is done," Jadeja told the kids. "Watch the ball disappear."
The bowler—the chubby kid—ran in. He bowled a slow, looping full toss.
Jadeja's eyes lit up. He saw glory. He saw a six over the trees.
He swung hard.
He mistimed it.
The ball went straight up. Vertical.
It hung in the air for an eternity.
A small boy, maybe seven years old, wearing glasses, ran underneath it. He wobbled. He stuck his hands out.
The ball stuck.
"CAUGHT!"
The kids went berserk. They were high-fiving the little boy.
Jadeja stood there, bat frozen in the follow-through, his mouth open.
"I... I let him catch it," Jadeja lied weakly. "For morale."
"Sure you did," Siddanth laughed, walking past him to take the bat.
Siddanth took his stance.
The bowler ran in again.
Siddanth didn't hit a six. He waited. He played a perfect, textbook forward defense. The ball rolled back to the bowler.
"Boring!" the kids shouted.
Next ball. Siddanth played the Dilscoop. He went down on one knee and ramped the ball over his own head.
The kids gasped. That was a TV shot.
The bowler frowned. He looked closer at Siddanth. He looked at the stance. He looked at the way Siddanth tapped the bat.
Then, he looked at Jadeja, whose sunglasses had slipped down.
Then, he looked at Rohit, who had taken off his beanie to wipe his sweat.
The chubby kid's eyes widened to the size of saucers.
"Wait," he whispered.
He pointed a shaking finger at Siddanth.
"You... you're the Devil."
Siddanth froze. He lowered the bat. He pulled down his hood and smiled.
"You caught me, mate."
The silence in the park lasted for exactly one second.
Then—
"OMG! IT'S HIM! IT'S DEVA!"
"ROHIT SHARMA! IT'S ROHIT SHARMA!"
"JADEJA!"
The game dissolved into chaos. The kids swarmed them. The reserve players, the scorers, the random people walking dogs—everyone converged.
"Sign my bat! Sign my bat!"
"Did you really hit 188?"
"Can I touch your arm?"
Siddanth laughed, ruffling the hair of the kid who had bowled to him. "You got good spin, buddy. Keep practicing."
He signed the taped-up bat. Rohit signed the plastic crate. Jadeja signed the little boy's forehead (at the boy's insistence).
"Ice cream," Rohit said.
They spotted an ice cream van parked near the gate.
"Alright!" Siddanth shouted over the noise. "Ice cream for everyone! On Jadeja!"
"What?" Jadeja protested. "Why me?"
"Because you got out to a seven-year-old," Rohit said, patting his back. "Penalty."
They marched the Pied Piper army of kids to the van. Siddanth bought twenty '99 Flakes'.
For ten minutes, they stood there, eating ice cream with a bunch of awe-struck kids in the middle of London. No security, no barriers. Just cricket and sugar.
"This," Siddanth said, licking melting vanilla off his thumb, "is better than the champagne."
"Much better," Rohit agreed.
But then, a black cab pulled up, and a group of Indian tourists spotted them. They started screaming.
"Run?" Jadeja suggested.
"Run," Siddanth agreed.
They waved goodbye to the kids—who were now the most popular children in London—grabbed their shopping bags, and sprinted towards the park exit, vanishing into the London Underground like superheroes returning to their secret identities.
---
The next morning. Heathrow Airport, Terminal 4.
The team was gathered at the gate. The trophies were packed in special cases. The mood was a mix of exhaustion and excitement. They were going home.
Siddanth sat by the window of the Boeing 777, looking out at the grey tarmac.
He had come to England as a promising talent. He was leaving as a legend.
Rohit sat down next to him, buckling his belt.
"Ready for the madness?" Rohit asked.
"What madness?"
"Mumbai airport," Rohit grimaced. "Dad called. He said there are already people camping outside the terminal. It's going to be 2007 all over again. Maybe bigger."
Siddanth leaned back.
"Let them come," he said softly. "We earned it."