The Taj Krishna in Banjara Hills, Hyderabad, stood like a white citadel against the scorching April sun. It was a familiar sight for Siddanth Deva, but today, stepping out of his car, the context had shifted.
Four days ago, he was a national hero in Mumbai. Today, he was an employee reporting for duty.
He wasn't wearing the sky-blue of India. He was wearing a grey polo shirt with the Charging Bull logo of the Deccan Chargers embroidered on the chest. The transition from "Nation's Son" to "Franchise Asset" was abrupt, but Deva adjusted his sunglasses and embraced it.
Standing near the lobby entrance, leaning against a pillar, and checking his phone was a familiar face.
Pragyan Ojha. The left-arm spinner, his teammate, and the only other remnant of the old guard.
Deva walked up behind him and tapped his shoulder. "Excuse me, sir. I am looking for the 'Retained Players Club'. I heard the membership is very exclusive."
Ojha turned around, a wide grin splitting his face. He pulled Deva into a hug. "Too exclusive, bhai! It's just you and me! They fired everyone else! I feel like a survivor in a zombie movie."
Deva laughed, pulling back. "Gilchrist gone. Symonds gone. Rohit gone. It's a massacre, Ojha."
"It's a reboot," Ojha corrected, picking up his kit bag. "Management wants a fresh start. And apparently, they think we are the only two worth keeping."
"Hope so," Deva joked. "Come on. Let's check in. I need to beat you at FIFA before the team meeting."
"In your dreams," Ojha scoffed as they walked into the cool lobby. "I've been practicing. I learned how to defend against your Ronaldo."
---
The check-in was smooth—the hotel staff treated Deva like royalty, upgrading him to a suite without him even asking. Once they were settled in Deva's room, the priorities were established immediately.
Food.
PlayStation.
"Two Chicken Club Sandwiches, one Grilled Fish, and... actually, send a small portion of Biryani. Just for tasting," Deva ordered on the phone.
"Tasting?" Ojha raised an eyebrow, connecting the HDMI cable to the TV. "I heard you ate half of Shamshabad yesterday."
"Recovery carbs," Deva defended, pulling his PS3 controller out of his bag. "Okay, load it up. Real Madrid vs Barcelona. El Clásico."
For the next two hours, the room echoed with the sounds of button-mashing, groans, and insults.
"Foul! That was a foul!" Ojha screamed as Deva's Pepe slide-tackled Messi.
"All ball, ref!" Deva laughed, sprinting down the wing with Cristiano Ronaldo. "Look at the pace! You can't stop him!"
Deva played FIFA the same way he batted—aggressive, direct, and slightly disrespectful. He scored a goal in the 89th minute, did a backflip celebration in the game, and paused it just to annoy Ojha.
"You are the worst winner in history," Ojha muttered, throwing his controller on the bed.
"Winning is a habit, Pragyan," Deva grinned, taking a bite of the sandwich. "Get used to it. We need to win a lot this season."
A knock on the door interrupted the rematch. It was the team liaison officer.
"Gentlemen," the officer said. "Meeting in the Crystal Ballroom in 15 minutes. Everyone is gathering."
Deva turned off the console. His face shifted from playful to focused.
"Let's go," Deva said, grabbing his team cap. "Time to meet the new family."
---
The Crystal Ballroom was buzzing with the low hum of nervous conversation. The Deccan Chargers squad for 2011 was a strange mix of international stars and domestic hopefuls.
Deva walked in with Ojha. The room went quiet for a split second.
The domestic players—youngsters who had been watching the World Cup on TV just days ago—stared at Deva with wide eyes. To them, he wasn't just a teammate; he was the guy who hit Malinga for three fours in an over.
Deva broke the tension. He walked straight to Ishant Sharma, the lanky pacer.
"Lambu!" Deva called out. "Good to see you."
Ishant smiled, shaking his hand. "World Champion! You look fresh."
Deva moved through the room, shaking hands. He greeted Shikhar Dhawan, the mustache-twirling opener from Delhi. He high-fived Amit Mishra. He nodded respectfully to Jean-Paul Duminy, the South African lefty.
Then, he saw him. The speed demon.
Dale Steyn.
The South African pacer was sitting in the corner, looking menacing even while drinking coffee. His veins popped out of his forearms.
Deva walked up to him. "Dale."
Steyn looked up. A slow smile spread across his face. He stood up—he was wiry but radiated power. "The Devil. I watched the finals. That scoop off Wahab... you're a madman."
"Coming from you, that's a compliment," Deva smiled. "Glad you're on my side this time. I don't fancy facing you in the nets."
"Oh, I'll be coming for you in the nets, mate," Steyn winked. "Iron sharpens iron."
---
The room settled as the Team Manager, a suave man in a blazer, walked up to the podium.
"Welcome, gentlemen," the Manager began. "Welcome to the Deccan Chargers. We have a new squad, a new logo, and a new energy. We are the Bulls. We charge."
He gestured to the man standing beside him—a stout, cheerful Australian.
"I don't think he needs an introduction. Our Head Coach, the legend, Darren Lehmann."
Boof (Lehmann) stepped up. "Cheers, lads. Keep it simple. Play hard, have a beer afterwards, and win games. That's the philosophy. We have the talent in this room to lift the trophy."
Lehmann paused, looking around the room.
"Now, leadership. A ship needs a captain. And we have one of the best thinkers in the game."
Kumar Sangakkara walked onto the stage.
The room applauded. It was a surreal moment for Deva. Five days ago, he was plotting Sangakkara's downfall in the World Cup Final. He had watched Dhoni catch him. He had seen the heartbreak in Sangakkara's eyes at the presentation.
Now, Sangakkara was wearing the Deccan Chargers jersey. He walked with the grace of a statesman, smiling warmly. He shook hands with Lehmann.
"Our Captain for the season, Kumar Sangakkara!" the Manager announced.
Sangakkara took the mic. "Thank you. It is an honor. I see a lot of familiar faces here. Some friends, some... recent nightmares." He looked directly at Deva, his eyes crinkling with a smile. The room chuckled.
"But that is cricket," Sangakkara continued. "Today, we wear the same colors. We have one goal."
The Manager stepped back in. "And to support Kumar, we have decided to appoint a Vice-Captain. Someone who represents the spirit of this city. Someone who has just proven that he can handle the biggest pressure stages in the world."
Deva straightened up. He knew this was coming, but hearing it official felt different.
"Our Vice-Captain... Siddanth Deva. Please, join us on stage."
Deva walked up. The applause was louder this time—raucous cheers from the domestic boys, respectful clapping from the seniors.
He stood next to Sangakkara. The Sri Lankan legend extended a hand. Deva took it.
"Welcome aboard, skip," Deva said softly.
"Good to have you on my side for once, Sid," Sangakkara whispered back.
---
They were handed microphones.
Sangakkara: "I won't speak long. You know my style. I back my players. I want us to be smart. T20 is a game of moments. If we win the small moments, the big picture takes care of itself. Let's enjoy our cricket."
He passed the mic to Deva.
Deva looked at the squad. He saw potential. He saw Steyn's fire, Dhawan's flair, Mishra's guile.
"Hi everyone," Deva said. "Most of you know me. I'm from here. This city... Hyderabad... it loves cricket. But it demands passion. They don't care if we lose, as long as we fight. In 2009, we won the title. Last year was tough. This year... with this group... I don't see why we can't bring the cup back to the Deccan."
He looked at Steyn. "We have the fastest bowler in the world."
He looked at Sangakkara. "We have the smartest brain in the world."
He looked at the youngsters. "And we have hungry tigers waiting to hunt."
"I am here to serve the team," Deva concluded. "Batting, bowling, fielding, carrying drinks—whatever it takes to win. Let's make this stadium our fortress. Let's make them fear the Bull."
"Here, here!" Steyn shouted from the back.
Lehmann clapped his hands. "Right! That's the spirit! Go rest up. The bus leaves at 8:00 AM sharp tomorrow for the Rajiv Gandhi International Stadium. Training starts. And bring your running shoes. Deva needs someone to race against."
The meeting dispersed. The players mingled, forming little groups. The ice was broken.
Deva stood on the stage for a moment longer, looking at the room. The World Cup was the past. The IPL was the future. And the Bull was ready to charge.
---
The banquet hall of the Taj Krishna was bathed in warm, amber light. The clinking of silverware against porcelain provided a rhythmic backdrop to the murmur of diverse accents filling the room. It was the first official team dinner of the Deccan Chargers for the 2011 season, and the atmosphere was a curious blend of first-day-of-school awkwardness and professional camaraderie.
Tables were scattered around the room. The domestic Indian players—mostly young, uncapped talents—had naturally gravitated towards one side, their plates piled high with familiar curries, speaking in hushed Hindi and Telugu. The support staff occupied another large circular table, discussing logistics and net schedules.
In the center of the room, however, was the table that drew the most covert glances.
Siddanth Deva, the Vice-Captain and local boy, sat with the international contingent. To his left was Jean-Paul (JP) Duminy, the elegant South African left-hander. Across from him sat the Australian duo: Cameron White, the burly Victorian power-hitter, and Dan Christian, the globe-trotting all-rounder known for his finishing prowess.
Deva wasn't eating yet. He was watching the others navigate the buffet.
"Mate," Dan Christian said, poking a fork suspiciously at a piece of Paneer Tikka. "Is this the red stuff that burns your tongue off, or the red stuff that tastes like tomato sauce?"
Deva laughed, leaning forward. "That's Paneer Tikka, Dan. It's mild. Safe zone. If you see anything dark brown or green, that's the danger zone. That's the Gongura pickle. Do not touch that unless you have a fire extinguisher handy."
Cameron White, who had already loaded his plate with Butter Chicken, grinned. "I love a bit of spice. We get decent curry in Melbourne, you know."
"Melbourne curry is a scented candle compared to Hyderabad curry, Cam," Deva teased. "You'll find out."
As the dinner progressed, the conversation drifted away from cricket. They had all played enough cricket to know that talking about strike rates and field placements at dinner was the quickest way to ruin a meal.
Instead, they talked about sport. The universal language.
"So, Sid," JP Duminy asked, cutting his naan with precision. "I heard you're into parkour? And Muay Thai? That's an unusual mix for a cricketer. Usually, we just stick to golf on off-days."
"Golf is too slow for me, JP," Deva admitted, taking a sip of water. "I need movement. Parkour... it teaches you how to fall. How to land without breaking your ankles. It helps in the field when you're diving on the boundary."
"I played a bit of Aussie Rules Football (AFL) growing up," Cameron White chimed in. "Now that is a sport. No pads, no helmets. Just bodies colliding at full speed. Cricket feels like a gentleman's walk in the park compared to a footy match."
"Rugby is the real man's game," Duminy countered with a smirk. " The Springboks. That's physical chess. You take a hit, you get up. No appealing to the umpire because someone touched your shoulder."
Deva listened, fascinated. He loved this part of the IPL—the cross-pollination of cultures.
"I watch a lot of Football," Deva said. "European football. The stamina those guys have... running 12 kilometers in 90 minutes. I think cricket is evolving that way. T20 requires that kind of explosive energy now."
"Speaking of explosive," Dan Christian pointed his fork at Deva. "That 263. I watched the highlights in the hotel room in Sydney. Mate, honestly... was it a video game? Did you have cheat codes on?"
Deva chuckled, looking down at his plate. "The ball was just coming on to the bat nicely, Dan. One of those days."
"One of those days?" Christian shook his head, laughing. "If I have 'one of those days', I score 40 off 20. You scored 263. We are not the same species."
The table erupted in laughter. The ice wasn't just broken; it was melted.
---
As the main course was cleared and desserts arrived (Deva skipped the sweets, sticking to fruit, mindful of his 'bloated' experience at home), the conversation shifted to the city outside the hotel walls.
"We're here for six weeks," Duminy said. "Apart from the stadium and the hotel, what is there to see? I don't want to just sit in my room watching movies."
Deva's eyes lit up. He sat up straighter. This was his turf.
"Gentlemen," Deva announced, spreading his hands. "You are in the City of Pearls. The City of Nizams. You cannot leave without seeing the history."
"History is good," White nodded. "What do you recommend?"
"First, Golconda Fort," Deva listed. "It's massive. The acoustics are incredible. If you clap your hands at the entrance gate, you can hear it at the top of the citadel, a kilometer away. It was their security system before CCTV."
"Impressive," Duminy noted.
"Then, Charminar," Deva continued. "It's chaotic, it's crowded, but it's the heart of the city. We have to go early morning, maybe 5 AM, otherwise we'll get mobbed. But the view from the top is worth it."
"And Ramoji Film City," Deva added. "It's the largest film studio complex in the world. Bigger than Hollywood studios. They have sets for everything—airports, railway stations, gardens, palaces. It's surreal."
"And food?" Christian asked, patting his stomach. "Besides the fiery pickle?"
Deva grinned. "Okay, write this down. Or just follow me when we have a free evening."
"Biryani," Deva started, his voice taking on a reverent tone. "Not the hotel stuff. Real Hyderabadi Dum Biryani. We'll go to Paradise or Bawarchi. It's not food; it's an emotion. Rice, meat, spices, slow-cooked in a sealed pot."
"I'm in," White said immediately.
"Then, Haleem," Deva said. "It's usually a Ramadan special, but you can find it in some places. It's a stew made of wheat, barley, meat, and lentils. It looks like a paste, but it tastes like heaven. High protein, good for recovery."
"And for the sweet tooth?" Duminy asked.
"Double ka Meetha," Deva said. "Bread pudding, fried in ghee, soaked in saffron milk and sugar syrup. It will give you diabetes just by looking at it, but it's worth it. And Osmania Biscuits with Irani Chai."
"Irani Chai?"
"Tea. Very creamy, very sweet. You drink it at a roadside cafe at 4 AM after a night out. That is the Hyderabad experience."
The three international stars looked at Deva. They saw the passion in his eyes. "You're a good tour guide, Sid," Christian smiled. "I think this season is going to be fun."
---
Dinner concluded, but the night was young. The adrenaline of arrival and the caffeine from the post-dinner coffee had everyone buzzing.
"So," Deva said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Who plays pool?"
The three Australians/South Africans exchanged glances.
"Pool?" Cameron White smirked. "Mate, I grew up in a pub. I practically lived on a pool table."
"Snooker is big in South Africa," Duminy said quietly, unbuttoning his cuffs. "I know my way around the angles."
"Dan?" Deva asked.
"I'm average," Christian shrugged. "But I'm lucky."
"Great," Deva stood up. "The rec room is on the 2nd floor. Loser buys the first round of Irani Chai tomorrow."
They took the elevator down. The recreation room at the Taj was plush, with low lighting, leather armchairs, and two pristine snooker tables.
They racked the balls.
Game 1: Cameron White vs Siddanth Deva
White broke. It was a powerful break, scattering the reds. He potted a red, then a black. He moved around the table with confidence, chalking his cue like a pro. He scored a quick 22 before missing a tricky cut on the pink.
"Your turn, Vice-Captain," White said, stepping back.
Deva walked to the table. He picked up a cue, checking the weight. He leaned over.
He potted a red.
He screwed the cue ball back perfectly for the blue.
He potted the blue.
He cleared three reds and three colors.
He wasn't flashy. He was geometric. He played the angles perfectly.
"You've played before," White noted, watching Deva sink a long straight pot.
"Physics," Deva muttered, potting the green. "Angle of incidence equals angle of reflection."
Deva won the first frame comfortably.
Game 2: JP Duminy vs Dan Christian
This was a tighter affair. Duminy was methodical, playing safety shots, trapping Christian behind the baulk colors. Christian, true to his word, was lucky. He fluked a red, then smashed the brown into the middle pocket with way too much power.
"That's just agricultural," Duminy sighed as Christian potted the game-winning pink.
"Scoreboard doesn't ask how, JP," Christian laughed. "It just asks how many."
---
It was 11:30 PM. The tie-breaker. Deva vs Dan Christian.
The table was messy. One red was blocking the black. The pink was hugging the cushion.
Deva needed the black to win. But he was snookered behind the yellow.
He walked around the table. He studied the angles.
"You're stuck, mate," Christian said, leaning on his cue. "You have to hit three cushions to touch that black."
Deva smiled. "Watch."
He leaned over. He didn't aim at the cushions. He aimed at the jump.
He elevated the butt of his cue. He struck the cue ball downwards with force.
The white ball jumped over the yellow. It landed with a soft thud, spun backwards due to the intense backspin, kissed the black gently, and rolled it towards the corner pocket.
The black ball hovered on the lip... and dropped.
Plop.
Silence in the room.
"Get out," Cameron White said, his jaw dropping. "Get out of here. You did not just play a jump-shot massé in a friendly game."
Deva stood up, chalking his cue casually. "I watched a lot of Ronnie O'Sullivan videos on YouTube."
"That wasn't YouTube," Duminy shook his head, impressed. "That was pure hand-eye coordination. You really are a freak, aren't you?"
Deva laughed, racking his cue. "I just got lucky, Dan. Like you said."
They ordered a round of sparkling water (athletes, after all). They sat in the leather armchairs, the competition forgotten.
"Seriously, though," Christian said, looking at Deva. "The team looks good. But the pressure... playing at home, defending the legacy... how are you handling it? You're 20, Sid."
Deva took a sip of his water. He looked at the three veterans.
"I have you guys," Deva said simply. "I might be the Vice-Captain, and I might have scored some runs last week. But you guys have played all over the world. Whitey, you've captained Victoria. JP, you've faced the best. Dan, you've won T20 titles. I'm going to be leaning on you. Heavily."
He leaned forward. "The local boys... the domestic players... they are scared of you. They are in awe. My job is to bridge that gap. Your job is to lead them. If Ishant is struggling, Dale needs to talk to him. If our middle order panics, JP, you need to calm them down. I can't do it alone. Sangakkara can't do it alone."
Cameron White nodded, his expression serious. "We got your back, mate. We're here to win."
"And to eat Biryani," Duminy added.
"Mostly for the Biryani," Christian agreed.
Deva stood up. "Then it's settled. We train hard tomorrow. We eat hard tomorrow night. And in five days... we unleash the Bull."
"Deal," White said, clinking his glass against Deva's.
They walked out of the room together, laughter echoing in the hallway. They weren't just teammates anymore. They were a unit. And as Deva walked back to his suite, he knew that while the World Cup was a national duty, the IPL was going to be one hell of a ride.