The clock on the bedside table read 9:00 PM. Inside Room 502, however, the atmosphere was grim.
Siddanth Deva, the man who had tamed Lasith Malinga and shattered Yusuf Pathan's stump, was currently being defeated by a far more formidable opponent: Cost Accounting.
He sat at the mahogany desk, the lamp cast a harsh spotlight on the open textbook. "Methods of Absorption Costing." The words danced on the page, mocking him. He had missed his regular exams due to the World Cup (a valid excuse, one would think), which meant he was staring down the barrel of Supplementary Exams in June.
He rubbed his temples. "If the overhead absorption rate is calculated on labor hours..." he muttered, clicking his pen nervously. "Why does the variance analysis make no sense?"
He adjusted his reading glasses—fake ones he wore only while studying because he felt they made him look smarter—and bent over the book again. He was determined. He would finish Chapter 4 tonight if it killed him.
Ding-Dong.
Deva ignored it.
Ding-Dong. Ding-Dong. Bang-Bang-Bang.
"Sid! Open up! We know you're in there!"
Deva sighed, the sound of a deflating tire. He knew that voice. It was the voice of distraction.
He walked to the door and pulled it open.
Pragyan Ojha stood there, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Flanking him were Ishant Sharma (Lambu) and Shikhar Dhawan (Gabbar). They were holding bags of chips, bottles of cola, and radiating an energy that was entirely incompatible with studying.
"FIFA Night!" Ojha shouted, pushing past Deva before he could even speak. "I practiced. I am ready to destroy you. Where is the console?"
Ishant and Dhawan followed, laughing. "Oye, Sid," Dhawan said, twisting his mustache. "You played well yesterday, but today you lose. I am taking Barcelona."
Deva stood by the door, hand still on the handle. "Guys, not tonight."
The three of them stopped. They looked at Deva. They looked at the TV, which was off. Then they looked at the desk.
The desk was a mess of papers, open books, and sticky notes.
Ojha walked over to the desk. He picked up the thick textbook.
"Cost... Accounting?" Ojha read the title, his face scrunching up in confusion. He looked at Deva. "Sid, what is this? Are you doing the team's taxes?"
"I have exams in June," Deva said, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. "Supplementary. I haven't studied in six months. Mom will kill me if I fail."
There was a moment of silence as the three senior pros processed this. They saw Deva as the 'Devil'—the 6-foot-2 monster who hit 100-meter sixes. Seeing him fretting over a college textbook was a jarring reminder of reality.
"Oh," Ishant said, his eyes widening. "Right. You're... you're still a kid. I forgot."
"My 20th birthday is just around the corner, Lambu," Deva rolled his eyes.
Dhawan chuckled, putting an arm around Deva. "Aww, look at our Vice-Captain. So responsible. But Sid, listen. The brain needs rest. You can't just study after a match. One game. Just to relax."
"No," Deva said firmly. "I have to finish Absorption Costing. It's the devil's topic."
"Okay, okay," Ojha raised his hands in surrender. "We respect the hustle. We won't disturb you."
He walked over to the TV cabinet and plugged in his own controller. "But we are bored. Ishant's room AC is broken, and Dhawan's room smells like hair gel. We will play here. You study. We will be quiet as mice."
Deva looked at them suspiciously. "Quiet?"
"Pin drop silence," Dhawan promised, ripping open a packet of chips with a loud POP.
Deva sighed. "Fine. But keep the volume down. If I hear one shout, you're out."
"Deal," Ojha grinned, booting up the PS3.
---
Deva returned to his desk. He put his fingers in his ears and tried to focus on the definition of 'Prime Cost'.
Behind him, the game began.
Minute 1:
The only sounds were the clicking of buttons and the soft commentary from the TV. Deva read three sentences. Progress.
Minute 5:
"Oh!" Ishant whispered loudly. "Good pass."
"Thanks," Ojha whispered back.
Deva frowned but kept reading.
Minute 12:
"Pass it! Pass it to Messi!" Dhawan hissed.
"I'm trying! The defender is blocking!" Ojha hissed back.
Click-click-click-click. The button mashing was getting aggressive.
Minute 18:
"AREY YAAR!" Ishant shouted, forgetting the rule. "How did he miss that? Open goal!"
"Shh!" Dhawan slapped his arm. "The scholar is reading."
Deva gripped his pen tighter. Direct Material Cost plus Direct Labor Cost equals...
Minute 24:
Ojha (playing Real Madrid) pulled off a skill move. He skipped past Dhawan's defender. He was through on goal.
"Ohhohoho!" Ojha couldn't help himself. "Look at Ronaldo! Look at the silky feet!"
"Tackle him!" Ishant screamed. "Break his legs!"
CRUNCH. (Sound of a slide tackle on TV).
WHISTLE. (Referee).
"RED CARD?!" Dhawan yelled, standing up. "Ref is blind! That was all ball!"
"That was murder, Shikhar!" Ojha laughed. "Penalty!"
Deva squeezed his eyes shut. Prime Cost plus Factory Overheads equals...
"GOALLLLLLLLL!" Ojha screamed, jumping on the bed.
Deva's pen snapped. Ink leaked onto his finger.
He took a deep breath. Ignore them. Focus. You are the Iceman. You have Predator's Focus.
He tried to activate the skill. But [Predator's Focus] was designed to filter out crowd noise, not the specific, annoying commentary of his teammates analyzing a virtual offside trap.
"Look at the replay," Ishant analyzed loudly. "See? He was offside. This game is rigged."
"Don't cry, Lambu," Ojha teased. "Accept the defeat."
Minute 35:
The score was 2-1. The tension in the room was palpable. Even Deva found himself reading the same sentence four times without understanding a word. His ears were swiveling backwards like a radar dish.
Why did Dhawan sub off Xavi? That's a tactical error. Deva thought, then shook his head. No. Focus. Accounting.
"Sid!" Ojha called out. "Just look at this replay. Just one look. Tell me if this was a foul."
"I am studying," Deva gritted out.
"Just one look, judge! We need a third umpire!"
Deva turned around. He looked at the screen. It was a blatant dive.
"Simulation," Deva said. "Yellow card for diving."
"See!" Ishant pointed. "Even the genius says it's fake!"
"Okay, back to books," Deva said, turning around. But the connection was broken. The equations were gone. Replaced by the urge to correct Dhawan's terrible defensive formation.
---
It happened at 09:20 PM.
Dhawan missed a sitter. A simple tap-in. He hit the post.
"HOW?!" Dhawan screamed, throwing a cushion at the TV. "This controller is broken! The analog stick is drifting!"
"It's not the controller, it's the operator," Ojha gloated. "You just suck, Jatt-ji."
"I challenge anyone to score with this controller!" Dhawan declared.
Deva slammed his book shut. The sound echoed in the room like a gunshot.
The three players froze. They looked at the desk.
Deva stood up. He walked slowly towards the bed. He picked up the 'broken' controller. He looked at Dhawan.
"One game," Deva said, his voice cold. "I play one game. I show you how to score. And then you all leave. Immediately."
The three intruders exchanged glances. A wicked grin spread across Ojha's face. The trap had sprung.
"Done," Ojha said quickly. "2 vs 2. Me and Ishant vs You and Shikhar. One game. Loser leaves."
"Deal," Deva sat down on the floor, crossing his legs. He cracked his knuckles. "Pick your team."
---
Match 1: Chelsea (Deva/Dhawan) vs Manchester United (Ojha/Ishant)
Deva was rusty. His fingers, used to gripping a bat handle, felt stiff on the plastic buttons. Dhawan was a liability, constantly running his defenders out of position.
Ojha, who had clearly been practicing in secret, played a possession game. Ishant was the enforcer, slide-tackling anything that moved.
Result: Manchester United won 2-0.
"Well," Ojha stood up, dusting his hands. "Good game. I guess you should go back to studying now, loser."
Deva stared at the screen. The defeat burned. It burned more than losing a wicket.
"Sit down," Deva said quietly.
"But you said one game..."
"Rematch," Deva commanded. "Change teams. I want Real Madrid."
Dhawan looked at Deva's face. He knew that look. It was the same look he had before hitting Malinga for three fours. "Sit down, guys," Dhawan whispered. "He's serious."
Match 2: Real Madrid (Deva/Dhawan) vs Barcelona (Ojha/Ishant)
This time, Deva didn't pass to Dhawan. He went solo. He dribbled. He skilled. He used Ronaldo like a weapon of mass destruction.
He scored in the 10th minute.
He scored in the 40th minute.
He scored a bicycle kick in the 80th minute.
Result: Real Madrid won 3-0.
Deva put the controller down. "There. Honor restored. Now get out."
"Whoa, whoa," Ishant objected. "1-1. Series is tied. You can't leave on a tie. Where is the competitive spirit?"
"Best of 3?" Ojha suggested innocently. "Decider?"
Deva looked at the clock. 9:45 PM. He looked at his book. Absorption Costing could wait another 15 minutes.
"Fine," Deva said. "Best of 3. But Shikhar, if you pass to the opponent one more time, I will make you run 20 laps tomorrow."
Match 3 (The Decider):
It went to penalties. The tension was higher than the IPL final.
Deva stepped up for the final penalty. He tried a Panenka. The goalkeeper didn't move. Ideally caught.
Result: Ojha/Ishant won on penalties.
Ojha jumped around the room screaming. "CHAMPIONS! WE BEAT THE WORLD CUP WINNER!"
Deva's eyes narrowed. The gamer rage was bubbling. "No," he said. "That was luck. Best of 5."
"Sid, your exams..." Dhawan tried to warn.
"Best. Of. Five," Deva hissed. "Pick up the controller."
Part 5
The thing about FIFA is that it distorts the space-time continuum. A "12-minute match" actually takes 20 minutes with replays, celebrations, and tactical adjustments.
10:30 PM: The series was tied 2-2.
11:15 AM: Room service arrived with pizzas. They ate while playing, grease staining the controllers.
12:00 AM: Deva scored a last-minute winner and ran a lap around the hotel room, shushing Ojha.
12:45 AM: Ishant fell asleep on the floor, but woke up when Deva shouted at a referee decision.
They played 10 matches.
The score was 5-5.
Deva was wide awake. The [Perfect Rhythm] skill was keeping his energy levels unnaturally high, while the others were fading. His eyes were glued to the screen, bloodshot not from fatigue, but from intensity.
"Next game," Deva said, selecting his team. "I'm trying Bayern Munich."
Ojha yawned, a massive, jaw-cracking yawn. He threw his controller onto the sofa.
"I'm done, yaar," Ojha groaned. "My thumbs are numb. My eyes are burning. I can't see the ball anymore."
"We have training at 8," Dhawan reminded, looking at his watch in horror. "It's 1 AM. Lehmann will kill us."
"One more," Deva insisted. "Tie-breaker. Sudden death."
"No," Ishant stood up, stretching his long limbs. "We declare the series drawn. The trophy is shared."
"You can't share a trophy!" Deva argued.
"We just did," Ojha said, walking to the door. "Goodnight, Sid. Thanks for the pizza. Good luck with... what was it? Cost Accounting?"
The three of them stumbled out of the room, leaving a trail of empty bottles and chip packets.
"Cowards!" Deva shouted after them. "Run away!"
The door clicked shut.
---
Deva stood in the middle of the room. The TV screen hummed with the FIFA menu music—that catchy, upbeat soundtrack that now sounded like a funeral dirge.
He looked around. The room was a disaster zone.
He looked at the clock. 1:15 AM.
He looked at the desk. The textbook was exactly where he had left it four hours ago. Open to Page 42.
The silence of the room crashed down on him. The adrenaline of the gaming session evaporated instantly, replaced by the cold, hard realization of procrastination.
"Four hours," Deva whispered to himself. "I played for four hours."
He walked to the desk. He sat down. He picked up the pen. The ink had dried on the nib.
He looked at the heading: "Calculation of Machine Hour Rate."
It looked like alien hieroglyphs. His brain, so sharp at reading pixelated movements on a screen, was now refusing to process numbers.
He put his head in his hands.
"I am an idiot," he groaned. "I have the self-control of a toddler."
He thought about the morning. Training at 8. Which meant waking up at 7. Which meant 5 hours of sleep. Thanks to [Perfect Rhythm], he would be physically fresh. But mentally? Mentally, he felt the guilt of a thousand unread pages.
He stood up and walked to the door. He yanked it open.
The corridor was empty, but he knew they were just down the hall.
"BASTARDS!" Deva shouted into the empty hallway.
From behind the door of Room 504 (Ojha's room), he heard a muffled, high-pitched giggle. Then Ishant's distinct cackle.
They were listening. They had planned this. It was sabotage.
Deva slammed the door shut. He locked it. He marched back to the desk.
He turned on the table lamp. He put on his 'serious' glasses.
"System," he muttered. "Activate [Predator's Focus]. Target: This stupid book."
[System Message: Predator's Focus activated. Good luck, Scholar.]
The room faded away. The smell of pizza faded away. The regret was pushed into a box.
There was only the book.
Deva started reading. He would sleep when the chapter was done. Even if it took all night. Because the Devil didn't lose. Not to Malinga, and certainly not to Absorption Costing.