The flight from Mumbai to Hyderabad was a short one—barely ninety minutes—but for Siddanth Deva, it felt like traveling between two different planets.
Mumbai was the Planet of Chaos. It was the city where he had become a god, where the streets were paved with confetti and hysteria. As the plane taxied on the runway at Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport, Deva looked out of the window. He could still see the banners fluttering on the highway: THANK YOU DEVA.
But Hyderabad... Hyderabad was home. It was the Planet of Roots.
He adjusted his seat, pulling his cap lower. He was traveling business class, but even here, fellow passengers were stealing glances, whispering behind their hands. The air hostess had already asked for a selfie "for her nephew" three times.
Deva closed his eyes, letting the hum of the engines drown out the whispers. His mind shifted gears. The World Cup was done. The Blue jersey was folded and packed away in his kit bag, smelling of champagne and sweat.
Now, the calendar flipped.
The Indian Premier League.
In five days, the carnival would restart. But this time, he wouldn't be wearing blue. He would be wearing the charging bull of the Deccan Chargers.
He thought about the contract lying on his desk back at the hotel. The franchise had been ruthless in their retention strategy. They had released almost everyone—legends like Gilchrist, Gibbs, and Symonds were back in the auction pool. The management wanted a clean slate.
Except for two names.
Pragyan Ojha.
And Siddanth Deva.
They had retained him for 11 Crores.
Deva smiled faintly. It was a massive sum for a 20-year-old, but he was familiar with the economics. After the 955 runs in the World Cup? After the 263? If he had gone into the auction, the gavel wouldn't have stopped before 20 Crores. Teams like Mumbai Indians or RCB would have broken the bank.
But he had stayed. Hyderabad was his city. The Deccan Chargers were his tribe. He wanted to build a legacy here, not just be a mercenary.
11 Crores, he thought. Dad won't know what to do with that many zeros.
---
The plane touched down at the Rajiv Gandhi International Airport in Shamshabad. The heat hit him as he stepped onto the aerobridge—a dry, searing heat distinct from Mumbai's humidity. It smelled of dust and rocks. It smelled like home.
He bypassed the main exit, escorted by CISF personnel to a private gate to avoid the mob that had inevitably gathered at arrivals.
Waiting there, leaning against a modest TATA Sumo Grande, was Vikram Deva.
His father looked different. He wasn't wearing the crisp suit from the President's Box. He was wearing a simple cotton shirt and trousers, his sleeves rolled up. He looked relaxed, stripped of the tension that had gripped him for the last six weeks.
"Nanna," Deva said, dropping his kit bag.
Vikram didn't say a word. He walked over and hugged his son. It wasn't the frantic, tearful hug of the stadium. It was a firm, grounding embrace. A father reclaiming his son from the world.
"Welcome back, Champion," Vikram said, his voice steady.
They got into the car. Vikram drove. No chauffeur. Just father and son.
As they merged onto the highway leading towards their farmhouse in Shamshabad, Deva noticed the lack of official fanfare. There were no government convoys, no state ministers waiting with garlands.
"It's quiet," Deva observed, looking at the passing landscape.
Vikram sighed, keeping his eyes on the road. "The state is boiling, Sid. The Telangana agitation is at its peak. Strikes, bandhs every other day. The government is paralyzed. They wanted to organize a parade for you, but the police commissioner said they couldn't guarantee security with the political protests happening in the city center."
Deva nodded. He knew the situation. The demand for a separate Telangana state had turned Hyderabad into a political battleground.
"It's better this way," Deva said, leaning back. "I don't need a parade. I just need sleep."
"That's good," Vikram smiled. "Because your mother has other plans. And by plans, I mean food."
They turned off the main highway onto a private road lined with neem trees. The dust kicked up behind the car.
As the car rolled through the gates, the workers stopped what they were doing. They ran towards the driveway, waving their hats and spades.
"Deva Baba! Deva Baba!"
Deva rolled down the window, waving at them. These were people who worked here.
---
The car stopped at the porch. The front door swung open before the engine even died.
Sesikala stood there. She was wearing her best silk saree, decked in gold jewelry as if she were attending a wedding. In her hands, she held a silver thali with a lit lamp, kumkum, and flowers.
Deva stepped out. He took off his shoes instinctively.
Sesikala didn't speak. Her eyes were welling up again. She performed the aarti, circling the plate around his face to ward off the nazar (evil eye). She applied a tilak of red powder on his forehead and threw a pinch of rice over his shoulders.
Then, she dropped the plate (safely on a side table) and grabbed his face.
"You look thin," she declared.
Deva laughed out loud. "Amma, I am 85 kilos of muscle. I just won the World Cup. I am the fittest player in the team."
"Cheeks have gone inside," she argued, pinching him hard. "Hotel food. Rubbish. No oil, no ghee. Just boiled grass. I saw you on TV. You looked hungry."
"I was hungry for runs, Amma," Deva joked, hugging her.
"Runs don't fill the stomach," she stated with the absolute logic of an Indian mother. "Go. Wash. Fresh up. Lunch is on the table."
Deva walked into the house. The cool granite floor felt good under his feet. The house smelled of incense and... spices. A lot of spices. The aroma was so potent it was almost visible.
He went to his room—a massive suite on the first floor overlooking the nets. He took a quick shower, washing off the travel grime. He changed into a loose kurta and pyjamas. He checked his phone.
Notification:Deccan Chargers Management: Welcome back to Hyderabad, Sid. Camp starts on the 5th. Rest up. We have a title to win.
---
When Deva walked down to the dining room, he stopped in his tracks.
The dining table, which seated twelve people, was full. Not with people, but with bowls.
There were huge copper vessels of Hyderabadi Mutton Biryani, the steam rising in fragrant clouds.
There was Mirchi ka Salan, the green chillies swimming in a rich peanut and sesame gravy.
There was Bagara Baingan.
There was Chicken 65, bright red and garnished with curry leaves.
There was Gongura Mutton, the sorrel leaves giving it that distinct tangy kick.
There was Apollo Fish.
And for the veg options (because Sesikala believed in balance), there was Dal Tadka, Paneer Butter Masala, and three types of Raita.
And in the center, a tower of Double ka Meetha and Qubani ka Meetha for dessert.
Deva looked around the empty room. He looked at his mother who was bringing in a basket of hot butter naans.
"Amma," Deva asked, looking towards the door. "Who is coming?"
"Who?" Sesikala asked, buttering a naan with intensity.
"The guests. The relatives. Is Arjun coming? Are the neighbors coming?"
"No one is coming," Sesikala said, placing the basket in front of his chair. "I told security not to let anyone in for two days. You need rest."
Deva pointed at the table. "Then... who is this for? Is there a wedding I forgot about?"
Sesikala looked at the table, then at him. She looked confused. "It's for you."
"Amma!" Deva exclaimed. "There is enough food here to feed the entire Deccan Chargers squad! Including the support staff!"
"Quiet," she scolded, piling biryani onto his plate until it formed a mountain. "You haven't eaten properly in two months. I saw that diet chart the physio gave you. 'Steamed broccoli'. 'Grilled chicken'. That is food for sick people. You are a World Champion. You need strength."
She put a piece of mutton on his plate. "Eat."
Deva looked at his father for help. Vikram was sitting at the head of the table, sipping buttermilk, suppressing a grin.
"Don't look at me, son," Vikram said. "She started cooking at 4 AM. She threatened to fire the cook if he interfered. You are on your own."
Deva sighed, picking up a spoon. He took a bite of the biryani.
The flavor exploded in his mouth. The saffron, the tender meat, the perfect blend of spices. It tasted like childhood. It tasted like comfort.
"It's good," Deva groaned. "It's so good."
"Of course it's good," Sesikala said, watching him like a hawk. "Eat the Chicken 65. It's fresh."
Deva ate. And he ate.
He finished the first serving. Sesikala refilled it before he could protest.
He finished the second. She added fish.
He finished the fish. She poured the Gongura Mutton.
"Amma, please," Deva pleaded, holding his stomach. "My abs... they are crying. I have a photoshoot... wait, no, I finished that. But I have IPL!"
"IPL is in five days," she dismissed. "You can run it off. Eat the sweet."
She pushed the bowl of Qubani ka Meetha (stewed apricots with custard) towards him.
Deva surrendered. He ate the dessert.
By the end of the meal, Siddanth Deva, the supreme athlete, could barely move his chair back. He felt bloated, heavy, and incredibly happy.
"I need a crane to lift me," Deva muttered, patting his stomach.
"Go sleep," Sesikala commanded, satisfied. "I will make tea at 5."
"Tea?" Deva whispered in horror. "I can't ingest liquid for a week."
"Go."
Deva waddled towards the living room. He collapsed onto the massive leather sofa. He looked out of the glass doors at his farm. The sun was high over Shamshabad. The workers were toiling in the fields.
He closed his eyes. The roar of the Wankhede was a distant memory. The pressure of the chase was gone.
Here, he wasn't the Devil. He wasn't the Player of the Tournament. He was just a boy who had been overfed by his mother.
And for the first time in months, he fell asleep without setting an alarm.