Date: June 6th, 2011.
Location: Deva Farmhouse, Shamshabad.
Time: 8:15 AM.
The farmhouse was silent, suspended in that delicate, golden hour before the heat of the day truly set in. The birds in the orchard were chirping a low, rhythmic melody, but inside the villa, the air was thick with a different kind of vibration.
It was the smell of camphor and sandalwood.
In the prayer room, a small alcove bathed in the soft glow of oil lamps, Sesikala Deva stood with her hands folded. She wasn't praying for a century today. She wasn't praying for a wicket, or for the safety of her son against a 150kmph bouncer. Today, the prayers were different.
She stood before the idols of Lord Ganesha—the remover of obstacles—and Saraswati, the Goddess of Knowledge. She waved the aarti plate in slow, circular motions, the bells on the plate chiming softly. Her lips moved in a silent chant, reciting the Saraswati Vandana.
"Ya Kundendu Tushara Hara Dhavala..."
For the world outside, Siddanth Deva was a colossus. But here, in this room, under the gaze of his mother and his gods, he was just a boy who had cut it dangerously close with his revision schedule.
Siddanth Deva walked down the stairs.
The transformation was striking. Gone was the swagger of the IPL Captain. Gone were the flashy Nike trainers and the team jersey. He wore a simple, crisp light blue shirt, ironed to perfection, and a pair of dark, unassuming jeans.
In his hand, he didn't hold a bat worth thousands of dollars. He held a clear plastic pouch. Inside it sat the humble tools of the academic trade: three blue pens (the ink flow checked and double-checked), a pencil, a sharpener, an eraser, and the most important document of the day—his Hall Ticket.
He walked to the prayer room and stood respectfully behind his mother. He didn't speak. He just bowed his head.
Sesikala turned. Her eyes were serious, filled with a maternal intensity that eclipsed any cricket coach's pep talk.
"Come," she said gently.
Deva stepped forward. She applied a tilak of vermilion powder on his forehead, pressing her thumb firmly between his eyebrows. It was a seal of protection, a grounding anchor.
Then, she reached for a small silver bowl on the altar. Inside was a mixture of fresh curd and sugar—Dahi-Chini. The ultimate Indian good-luck charm for exams.
"Open your mouth," she commanded.
Deva obliged. The sweet, cool curd hit his tongue.
"For a cool head," she said, her voice softening. "You have studied hard these last few days. I have seen the light on in your room. Now, go and write what you know. Don't worry about the result. Just do your duty."
"Thanks, Amma," Deva smiled, swallowing the curd.
"Don't joke," she admonished, but patted his cheek affectionately. "This is serious business."
Deva walked out of the prayer room into the hallway. Vikram Deva was waiting there, leaning against the doorframe leading to the porch. He was holding his reading glasses in one hand and the morning newspaper in the other.
He looked at his son. He saw the Hall Ticket. He saw the pens.
A small, proud smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Ready?" Vikram asked.
"As ready as I'll ever be," Deva replied, adjusting his backpack. "The Eidetic Memory... uh, I mean, the revision went well."
Vikram chuckled. He walked over and placed a hand on Deva's shoulder. The grip was firm.
"Listen to me, Sid," Vikram said, his tone shifting from father to mentor. "Out there, you are a superstar. People will stare. They might whisper. But inside that exam hall? You are just Hall Ticket Number 120496. The paper doesn't care about your batting average. It doesn't care about your bank balance. It only cares about what is in your head."
"I know, Nanna."
"Good," Vikram nodded. "Show them you can count cost centers as well as you count runs. Don't hit sixes in the answer sheet, just write the answers."
Deva laughed, the tension in his chest easing. "I'll try to keep it on the ground."
He bent down to touch his father's feet. Vikram patted his back, a silent blessing of strength.
"Go," Vikram said. "Write well."
"And don't be late!" Sesikala called out from the prayer room. "The center is in the city. The traffic will be terrible!"
"I'm leaving now, Amma!" Deva shouted back.
Deva walked out onto the porch. The morning sun was bright, casting long shadows across the driveway.
Parked under the shade of the portico was the fleet of the Deva family. It wasn't a lineup of flashy supercars; it was a testament to sensible Indian progression.
There was the pristine white Maruti Swift Dzire, the reliable sedan that screamed 'middle-class success'. Next to it stood the rugged, hulking Tata Sumo Grande, the workhorse of the farm.
The driver, a man named Raju, was already there, polishing the hood of the Swift Dzire with a microfiber cloth.
"Good morning, Anna," Raju said, straightening up and reaching for the door handle. "Ready for the center?"
"Not today, Raju," Deva said.
"Sir?"
Deva walked past the cars. He went to the corner of the garage where a heavy tarp covered a bulky shape. He pulled the tarp off, revealing chrome and black metal.
It was his Royal Enfield Classic 500. The 'Bullet'.
It wasn't the fastest bike, but it had a heartbeat. It had a thump that resonated with the pulse of the streets.
"Sid?" Vikram called out from the porch, frowning. "You're taking the bike? It's hot. Takes the car."
Deva put on his heavy, full-face black helmet. He snapped the visor down. The world turned a tinted shade of grey.
"The exam center is in Mehdipatnam, Nanna," Deva's voice was muffled by the helmet. "The traffic will be a nightmare. In the car, I'll get stuck. And... people might see me. In the car, I am a VIP. On the bike? With this helmet? I am just another student late for an exam."
Vikram paused, then nodded understandingly. "Ride safe. Don't speed."
"I won't," Deva promised.
He swung his leg over the bike. He turned the key. He kicked the starter.
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
The engine roared to life, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through his chest. It felt real. It felt raw.
Deva adjusted his backpack straps. He checked his pocket for the Hall Ticket one last time. He revved the engine, feeling the power of the machine beneath him.
He rolled out of the gates of the farmhouse, the gravel crunching under his tires. He merged onto the highway, the wind hitting his jacket. He accelerated, disappearing into the chaotic, vibrant morning traffic of Hyderabad.
Halfway to Mehdipatnam, Deva pulled over at a pre-arranged spot near a petrol pump. Waiting there, looking anxious, was Sameer.
"You're late," Sameer hissed, looking around nervously. "Is anyone following you?"
"Relax, Sam," Deva said, parking the Bullet. "The Bullet is too loud. It draws attention. Give me the keys to the Pulsar."
Sameer handed over the keys to his battered black Bajaj Pulsar. It was the most common bike in India—the perfect invisibility cloak. "The clutch is a bit loose," Sameer warned. "And don't scratch it. It's my baby."
"I can handle a loose clutch," Deva said, swapping bikes. He handed his helmet to Sameer and took Sameer's scratched-up helmet.
Deva arrived at the exam center in Mehdipatnam at 9:30 AM. He parked the bike amidst hundreds of others. He put on a pair of dark sunglasses and pulled a surgical mask over his face. In the dust and pollution of Hyderabad traffic, a mask wasn't entirely out of place, but combined with the shades, he looked like someone trying very hard not to be seen.
He walked towards the gate. The security guard barely glanced at him, checking his Hall Ticket and waving him through.
He blended in. He was just another anxious student, face covered against the dust, shoulders hunched under the weight of a backpack.
---
Deva walked past the administrative block. He remembered the conversation he had had with the Principal two days ago. He had visited the office late in the evening, sneaking in through the back gate.
Flashback
The Principal, Mr. Rao, a stern man with thick glasses, had nearly dropped his tea cup when Deva removed his mask in the office.
"Siddanth Deva?" Mr. Rao had gasped. "Here?"
"Sir," Deva had pleaded. "I need to write the exams. But if I sit in that hall with my face exposed... there won't be an exam. There will be a press conference. Students will ask for selfies. The invigilator will ask for an autograph."
Mr. Rao had nodded slowly, understanding the chaos that would ensue. "What do you propose?"
"I wear the mask," Deva said. "Tell the invigilator in my allocated room. Tell him it's for... health reasons. Or allergies. Tell him not to ask me to remove it for verification unless absolutely necessary. I will show my ID at the door, but once I sit, I stay covered."
"It is against protocol," Mr. Rao mused, tapping his desk. "But... having a riot on campus is also against protocol. Fine. I will inform the staff. But you come, you write, and you leave. No heroics."
"Just Accounting, Sir," Deva had promised.
Present Day
Deva reached the main notice board. Usually, during regular exams, this area would be a mosh pit of students pushing and shoving. But these were Supplementary Exams—the second chance for those who had failed or missed the main dates. The crowd was sparse, the mood somber.
Deva stood in front of the board, scanning the list for his Hall Ticket number.
120496... Room 204. Second Floor.
He adjusted his backpack. He looked around. A few students were revising frantically from pocket guides. No one looked at him. No one recognized the posture, the height, or the eyes behind the sunglasses.
For the first time in months, Siddanth Deva was invisible.
He walked up the stairs, his footsteps echoing on the concrete. He found Room 204. He showed his Hall Ticket and College ID to the invigilator at the door—a middle-aged man who had been briefed by the Principal.
The invigilator looked at the ID card. Siddanth Deva. He looked up at the masked figure. His eyes widened slightly, a flash of recognition and shock.
Deva put a finger to his lips, over the mask. Shh.
The invigilator nodded, swallowing hard. He gestured to a seat in the third row, near the window.
Deva walked in. He pulled out his chair. He sat down.
He took off his sunglasses but kept the mask firmly on.
He looked at the empty answer booklet.
---
At 9:55 AM, the invigilator stood at the podium. He cleared his throat, trying to look authoritative, though his eyes kept flickering nervously towards the third row where the masked celebrity sat.
"Attention, students," he announced. "Please fill in your Hall Ticket numbers on the OMR sheet. Do not make mistakes. Use a black or blue pen only."
He walked down the aisles, distributing the question papers. When he reached Deva's desk, he placed the paper down gently, almost reverently, before moving to the next student.
The bell rang. 10:00 AM.
Deva flipped the question paper. Cost Accounting.
He scanned the questions.
Q1. Define Marginal Costing and explain its features.
Q2. Calculate the Break-Even Point from the following data...
Deva smiled behind his mask. The blue screen of his [Eidetic Memory] flared to life in his mind's eye. He saw the pages of the textbook he had scanned last night. He saw the formulas written on his whiteboard.
It wasn't just memory; it was a database.
He picked up his pen and began to write. His hand moved across the paper with the fluidity of a cover drive. He wasn't thinking; he was transcribing. The definitions flowed. The calculations balanced perfectly.
The room settled into the quiet scratching of pens. The invigilator, satisfied that no one was talking, sat down in his chair and discreetly pulled out his phone, scrolling through cricket news, ironically unaware that the subject of the news was sitting twenty feet away.
Tug.
Deva felt a sharp pull on the back of his shirt.
He ignored it. He was calculating the overhead variance.
Tug. Tug.
It was persistent. Deva paused. He turned his head slightly to the left.
Sitting behind him was a girl. She wasn't the typical nervous student. She was striking, with long, dark hair cascading down her back and features that were sharp and confident. She wore a simple, elegant salwar kameez, but the way she sat—slouched, tapping her foot impatiently—exuded a restless, tomboyish energy that seemed entirely out of place in a quiet exam hall.
"Psst," she hissed, her voice barely a whisper but laced with command. "Show me answer to Question 3."
Deva stared at her through his mask. Are you serious?
He shook his head firmly and turned back to his paper. He had a reputation to maintain. He was a role model. He didn't cheat.
Poke.
She poked him in the back with her pen. Hard.
Deva sighed. He tried to move his chair forward, but the desk was bolted to the floor.
"Hey," she whispered again, leaning forward. "Don't be selfish. I studied the wrong chapter. Help me out."
Deva closed his eyes for a second. He was the man who stared down Shoaib Akhtar. He was the man who hit 5 sixes off Albie Morkel. And now, he was being bullied by a girl in a supplementary exam.
He couldn't take the poking anymore. It was breaking his focus.
He looked at his answer sheet. He had already finished the first additional sheet.
Deva slid the additional sheet out from under his main booklet. He subtly moved his arm, sliding the paper into the open shelf under his desk. It was perfectly positioned for the person behind him to see if they leaned forward.
He felt the girl lean forward. The poking stopped.
Five minutes passed in blessed silence. Deva continued to write, decimating Question 5.
Kick.
She kicked his chair with her boot.
Deva turned around, eyebrows raised.
"Flip it," she whispered, gesturing with her pen. "I finished that side."
Deva stared at her. The audacity.
He sighed, reached under the desk, and flipped the paper.
Ten minutes later. Kick.
"Next sheet," she demanded softly.
Deva grabbed his next completed sheet and swapped it with the one under the desk. He leaned back slightly, whispering out of the corner of his mouth.
"Change the sentence formation," he hissed. "Don't copy word for word."
"I know, I know," she whispered back, sounding offended. "This isn't my first time copying. Just write faster, you're slow."
Deva blinked. Slow? He was writing at 100 words per minute.
He shook his head and returned to his paper. He looked at the clock. 11:00 AM. He had finished 80% of the paper.
He deliberately skipped a sub-section of a theory answer. He aimed for a solid, respectable 90%. Distinction, but not perfection.
By 11:15 AM, he was done. He had finished a 3-hour exam in 1 hour and 15 minutes.
He put his pen down. He stretched his arms. He wanted to leave. He wanted to get back to the farm, maybe ride his new horse.
He started to pack his pouch.
GRIP.
A hand grabbed the back of his shirt and twisted the fabric tight.
"Where do you think you're going?" the girl hissed, panic returning to her voice. "I'm only on Question 4! Sit down!"
Deva looked at the invigilator, who was now dozing off. He looked at the door, which was freedom. Then he felt the death grip on his shirt.
He sat back down.
"Fine," Deva muttered into his mask. "But hurry up. I have other things to do."
"And I have a degree to save," she retorted, scribbling furiously. "Less talking, more page-turning."
So, Siddanth Deva, the Nawab of Hyderabad, sat in a silent classroom for another two hours, staring at the wall, held hostage by a girl who had no idea whom she was copying from, just waiting for the bell to ring so he could escape the most stressful match of his life.