The phone buzzed against the duvet, vibrating with an persistence that demanded attention. Siddanth Deva groaned, rolling over. He had just finished the emotional marathon of texting his mentors and had hoped for maybe ten minutes of silence to stare at the ceiling and process the fact that he was a World Champion.
He picked up the phone. Caller ID: Arjun.
He swiped right. "If the servers are down again, fix it yourself, Mr. CEO. I am retired."
Arjun's laugh crackled through the speaker, sounding crisp and energetic. "Retired at 20? That's a new record, even for you. How is the head? Still spinning?"
"The head is fine," Deva said, sitting up and leaning against the headboard. "The body feels surprisingly good. I think the adrenaline hasn't worn off yet. What's up? You usually don't call before noon unless something is burning."
"Nothing is burning. In fact, everything is on fire in a good way," Arjun said, the sound of keyboard clacking in the background. "Look, I know you want to rest, but the sharks are circling. My inbox has 5,000 emails. Endorsements, interviews, reality shows... someone wants you to inaugurate a mall in Dubai tomorrow."
Deva rubbed his face. "Tell them I'm busy sleeping."
"I told them all to wait," Arjun assured him. "But there is one you can't ignore. Nike called."
Deva paused. Nike. The Swoosh.
"What do they want?"
"They want to upgrade the contract, obviously," Arjun said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But first, they want a photoshoot. Today. They want to capitalize on the victory while the iron is hot. They want 'The World Champion' look for a billboard campaign that goes live in 48 hours."
Deva looked at the World Cup trophy sitting on the pillow next to him. "Today? Arjun, we just finished the match twelve hours ago. The team might have plans tonight."
"I know, I know," Arjun said quickly. "I told them it's a long shot. But think about it, Sid. The IPL starts in five days. You have to join the camp in Hyderabad. Once the IPL circus starts, you won't have time to breathe. And tonight... knowing Yuvraj and Bhajji, the party is going to be wilder than last night. You might not be in a condition to face a camera tomorrow morning."
Deva sighed. His friend was right. The cricket calendar was a relentless beast. The World Cup was the peak, but the IPL was the lucrative valley that followed immediately.
"Okay," Deva said, swinging his legs off the bed. "You have a point. If I do it, how long will it take?"
"They promised me one hour. Tops," Arjun said. "They have a studio set up in Bandra. They just need you to show up, look dangerous, hold a bat, and leave."
Deva stretched his neck, feeling the satisfying crack of vertebrae. "One hour. Fine. Ask them if they can do it this afternoon. Say... 2:00 PM? I'll get it done and be back before the evening plans start."
"Done," Arjun said instantly. "I'll coordinate. A car will be waiting for you at the hotel lobby at 1:30."
"Ok"
---
At 1:30 PM, Deva stepped out of the elevator. He was wearing dark aviators, a plain black tee, and jeans. He tried to look inconspicuous, but at 6'2" with the aura of a man who had just scored a century in a World Cup final, blending in was impossible.
Security guards formed a human chain to get him to the waiting vehicle. It wasn't a standard taxi; it was a sleek, matte-black Audi Q7 with tinted windows dark enough to hide a supernova.
He slipped into the backseat. The door thudded shut, sealing him in silence.
The driver, a middle-aged man in a crisp white uniform, looked in the rearview mirror. His eyes went wide. He gripped the steering wheel tight.
"Good afternoon, sir," the driver said, his voice trembling slightly. "It is... it is an honor."
"Good afternoon," Deva smiled. "Let's go to Bandra."
As the car rolled out of the Taj Mahal Palace driveway, Deva looked out the window. The chaos of the previous night had settled into a collective hangover. The streets were stained with the pink and red dye of gulal. Discarded plastic trumpets and crushed paper cups lined the gutters.
But the energy was still there. People were walking with a spring in their step. Strangers were smiling at each other. Every second car flew an Indian flag.
They passed a giant billboard near Marine Lines. It was an old ad for a soft drink featuring Sachin. Someone had climbed up and draped a garland over it.
Deva leaned back into the leather seat. The [Perfect Rhythm] skill was doing its work. He felt sharp, alert. The fatigue that should have been crushing him was absent. He closed his eyes and visualized the upcoming IPL. New format, new team dynamics, new pressure. The wheel never stopped turning.
---
The car pulled into the gates of Mehboob Studios in Bandra. It was a legendary location, hallowed ground for Bollywood, but today it belonged to Cricket.
A young woman with a clipboard and a headset was waiting. As Deva stepped out, she tapped her earpiece. "The Eagle has landed. I repeat, the Eagle has landed."
Deva chuckled. "Eagle? I thought I was the Devil."
The woman blushed crimson. "Sorry, sir. Production code names. Please, follow me."
She led him through a maze of corridors lined with posters of movie stars. They entered 'Floor 3'.
It was a cavernous space, dark except for a brightly lit white cyclorama in the center. Techno music thumped softly from speakers. A crew of about thirty people—lighting technicians, wardrobe assistants, makeup artists—stopped what they were doing and turned to look.
For a second, nobody moved. They just stared at the boy who had stopped a nation's heart and then restarted it.
Then, a man with a ponytail and thick-rimmed glasses walked forward. It was the Creative Director.
"Siddanth!" he exclaimed, extending a hand. "I am Rohan. First of all... thank you. Just... thank you."
Deva shook his hand. "My pleasure."
"Okay, listen," Rohan switched to professional mode, though his eyes were still gleaming. "We know you're tired. We know you have a party to get to. We are going to make this fast. We don't want 'Pretty Boy' shots today. We want 'The Warrior'. We want the guy who stared down Malinga. We want the grit. The sweat. The Devil."
Deva nodded. "I can do Devil."
"Great. Wardrobe is to your left. We have the new Team India training kit and some Nike streetwear. Let's get you in the chair."
---
Deva sat in the makeup chair. The artist, a lady in her 40s, applied a light layer of powder to reduce the shine.
"I won't cover the dark circles completely," she whispered. "They look... authentic. Like you've been to war."
Deva smiled. "I feel like I have."
He changed into a dark blue Nike compression vest and training shorts. He strapped on his batting pads—not his game pads, but pristine, brand-new Nike ones. He picked up a bat.
He walked onto the white floor.
The lights blasted him. It was hotter than the Mumbai sun.
"Okay, Sid!" Rohan shouted from behind the camera. "Give me the stance. Aggressive. You are waiting for a bouncer."
Deva fell into the stance. It was muscle memory. He tapped the bat. He looked down the lens. He narrowed his eyes. [Predator's Focus] engaged instinctively. The studio vanished. The camera became the bowler.
Click. Click. Click.
The shutter speed was rapid fire.
"Beautiful!" Rohan yelled. "Now, the shot. The pull shot. Freeze at the point of impact!"
Deva swiveled. He held the pose, muscles in his forearms rippling, eyes tracing the imaginary ball.
"Hold it! Hold it! Got it!"
They moved through the repertoire. The cover drive. The cut. The hook.
Then, Rohan walked onto the set.
"Okay, one last setup. We want to recreate The Moment."
Deva raised an eyebrow. "The six?"
"No," Rohan smiled. "The Calma."
Deva laughed. "You guys work fast."
"We saw the tweet. It's viral. It's the image of the decade. We need it in high res."
Deva stood in the center of the lights. He put the bat down. He looked at the camera. He raised his hand, palm open, fingers spread. He pushed the air down.
His face went blank. No smile. No anger. Just absolute, icy control.
The studio went silent. Even the crew felt the weight of that look. It was the look that had silenced screaming Sri Lankans.
Click.
"That's the one," Rohan whispered. "That's the billboard."
---
"And... cut! That's a wrap!"
The lights dimmed. Deva rolled his shoulders, blinking the spots from his eyes. He checked the clock on the wall. 2:55 PM.
"Less than an hour," Deva said. "Impressive."
"We didn't want to waste the Champion's time," Rohan grinned.
Deva walked back to the dressing room to change back into his jeans. When he came out, bag over his shoulder, the atmosphere in the studio had shifted.
The professionalism had evaporated. The crew was no longer a crew; they were fans.
They were standing in a line. Some held cricket balls. Some held bats. Some held napkins.
"Sir?" the makeup artist asked tentatively. "If you don't mind..."
Deva smiled. He dropped his bag. "I don't mind."
He sat on a prop box. The autograph session began.
He signed a lighting gel for a gaffer.
He signed a polaroid for the assistant photographer.
He signed a cricket bat that the caterer had magically produced from the kitchen van.
"You know," a young lighting technician said as Deva signed his cap. "My dad is in the hospital. He had surgery yesterday morning. He made the nurses put the TV on. When you hit the century... he smiled for the first time in a week."
Deva stopped writing. He looked up at the boy. "What's his name?"
"Ashok."
Deva wrote: To Ashok ji, Get well soon. We need you cheering for the next one. - Sid.
The boy took the cap, his eyes watering. "Thank you, sir."
It took another thirty minutes to get through everyone. Deva didn't rush. He took photos. He recorded a small video message for the Director's daughter's birthday.
He realized then that the World Cup wasn't just a trophy made of gold and silver. It was made of these moments. It was made of Ashok in the hospital, of the waiter in the hotel, of these people in the studio.
"Sir, your car is ready," the production assistant said softly.
Deva stood up. "Thanks, guys. Great shoot."
The crew broke into applause. It wasn't the thunder of Wankhede, but it felt just as good.
---
Deva walked out into the afternoon sun. The Audi was waiting.
He got in. The driver looked at him in the mirror.
"Done, sir?"
"Done," Deva said, leaning back and putting his sunglasses on. "Take me to hotel."
As the car navigated the traffic back towards South Mumbai, Deva pulled out his phone. He had a text from MS Dhoni.
Dhoni: Meeting in the lobby at 7. Dress code: Party. Don't be late. And bring your dancing shoes.
Deva grinned. The work was done. The duty was done.
Now, it was time to celebrate with the family. And then... in five days... the IPL would begin. The show must go on.