Date: June 10th, 2011 (Friday Night).
Location: Deva Farmhouse, Shamshabad.
Time: 9:00 PM.
The farmhouse was enveloped in silence, save for the rhythmic humming of the air conditioner and the occasional rustle of leaves outside the window. Siddanth Deva sat at his study desk, bathed in the warm glow of a table lamp. The subject for the night was Auditing, a subject so dry it made the Sahara Desert look like a water park.
"Vouching is the backbone of Auditing," Deva read, suppressing a yawn ๐ฅฑ. He was using his [Eidetic Memory] to scan the pages, storing the definitions of 'Internal Check' and 'Verification' into his mental hard drive, but even superpowers couldn't make the topic interesting.
Ping. ๐ฒ
His phone, resting on top of a stack of notes, lit up. It wasn't a call. It was a notification from Flash Messenger.
Deva glanced at the screen.
New Message from: The Headache.
He smirked ๐. He had saved Krithika's number under that name immediately after their juice date. He picked up the phone, swiping to unlock.
Headache:Oye hero. Are you there? ๐
Deva typed back with one hand, spinning his pen with the other.
Me:Yes, I am there.
Headache:What are you doing? ๐ค
Me:Reading for the exam. Unlike someone. ๐
The reply came instantly. She typed fast.
Headache:What is that supposed to mean?? ๐ก๐ค
Me:Just giving you general information. Auditing standards don't memorize themselves. ๐ค
There was a pause. The 'typing' indicator bobbed for a while. Then:
Headache:Hey. Are you also a Deva fan? ๐
Deva frowned. He froze.ย
Me:How do you know? ๐คจ
Headache:Looked at your Display Picture. Nice pic. ๐๏ธ๐ธ
Deva clicked on his own profile. He had forgotten. His DP wasn't a selfie. It was a high-resolution shot taken from the stands during the World Cup Finalโa wide-angle shot of him lifting the cup with the sea of fans in the background
He exhaled. Safe. ๐
Me:Yeah. Big fan of his. I watch every game. Most of the time live in the stadium. ๐
Headache:Live? In the stadium? Every match? ๐คฏ
Headache:Wait. Tickets are expensive. Flights are expensive. You come on a bike to come to exams but you fly to World Cup finals? You must be secretly very rich, Siddarth Reddy. ๐ธ๐ฐ๐ง
Deva winced. She was sharp. He needed a cover story, fast.
Me:Not really rich. I have connections. ๐ค
Headache:What kind of connections? Mafia? ๐ถ๏ธ๐ซ
Me:My friend works in the Cricket Management Board. Low level admin. But he gets complimentary tickets for IPL and Indian matches. So me and my friends go for free. We sleep in cheap hotels. ๐จ๐
Headache:Wow. I wish I had someone connected like that. My dad just complains about the electricity bill. ๐๐บ
Headache:So... since you have 'connections'... did you meet him? Anytime? ๐คฉ
Deva looked at the screen. Did I meet him? He looked in the mirror across the room.
He decided to have some fun. He wanted to see how much of a "fan" she really was. ๐
Me:Yeah. I met him lots of times. My friend introduced him to me after the matches.
Headache:OMG! ๐ฑ๐ฑ๐ฑ Tell me! How is he? Is he as intense as he looks? Is he nice? โจ
Deva typed slowly, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.
Me:To be honest? He is very arrogant. Does a lot of show off. Walks around like he owns the place. ๐
He hit send. He waited.
Headache:...
Headache:WHAT?! ๐คฌ
Headache:What do you mean arrogant?? He is so sweet! Look at him in the presentation ceremonies! He is so calm! ๐
Deva decided to double down. He wanted to see her reaction if he criticized his own game.
Me:It's not just the attitude. Look at his bowling. He bowls way too many bouncers. He almost took Dilshan's head off in the final. It's unnecessary aggression. It's bullying. That's why I call him arrogant. ๐ค
Headache:Bullying?? Are you mad? It's called Fast Bowling, Siddarth! It's intimidation! ๐ฅ๐
Headache:He is a warrior! โ๏ธ Do you want him to bowl lollipops so the batsman can hit him? ๐ญ If the batsman is scared, that is their problem, not his! He doesn't play to make friends, he plays to win! ๐
Headache:You sound like those boring old commentators. "Oh, pitch it up, son." Boring! ๐ด Deva brings the fire! You clearly don't understand cricket. ๐โ
Deva laughed out loud. She was defending him against himself with more passion than his own coach.
Me:Okay, okay. Relax. I'm just saying he has a temper. Remember the Pakistan match? ๐ต๐ฐ
Headache:They tried to tackle him! That was self-defense! I would have hit them with the bat! ๐๐ฅ He just stopped after a few words. He is a saint compared to me. ๐โจ
Deva realized he might have pushed the "Siddarth is a hater" narrative too far. He needed to de-escalate before she decided to kick his chair again during the Auditing exam.
Me:Fine. He is a saint. Maybe I just caught him on a bad day. ๐ณ๏ธ
Headache:Exactly. Don't make statements like that. You are lucky to meet him. Ungrateful. ๐ค
Me:Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. ๐๐โโ๏ธ
Headache:Hmph. ๐
Deva felt a strange urge to make it up to her. Not just because she was his exam partner, but because... well, it was nice to be defended so passionately by someone who didn't know he was listening.
Me:How about making it even?
Headache:How? ๐ค
Me:India is playing in Hyderabad in October. ODI series. I will ask my friend for tickets. For you. ๐ซ
There was a long pause.
Headache:Serious? ๐ณ
Me:Serious. Where do you want them?
Headache:REALLY?? ๐คฉ๐คฉ๐คฉ
Headache:Okay, if you are serious... can you get me tickets near the boundary? Close to the dressing room? I want to see them up close. I want to see if Deva is actually arrogant or if you are just blind. ๐๐
Deva chuckled.
Me:Sure. Boundary line. Next to the dressing room. Consider it done. โ
Headache:Thanks! You are actually useful sometimes.
Me:I try. So... what are you doing right now? Besides yelling at me?
Headache:I am at Paradise right now. Waiting for my Biryani to be served. ๐คค๐ The smell is killing me!
Me:Paradise? Really? ๐คข You actually went there?
Headache:What's wrong with Paradise? ๐ช It's legendary!
Me:It's overrated. Too much oil. It's for tourists. If you want real flavor, go to Bawarchi. Or Shadab. ๐ฅ๐ฅ
Headache:Shadab is all the way in Old City! Who goes that far at 9 PM? And Paradise is an emotion, okay? Don't insult my dinner. ๐คโ
Me:Actually, the best Biryani is homemade. My mom makes it. Nothing beats that. ๐ก๐ฉโ๐ณ
Headache:Homemade? Ugh. Boring. You need the street grease for the flavor. Wait... are you eating homemade biryani right now?
Me:No. Just sitting here. Drinking turmeric milk.
Headache:Turmeric milk? Haldi Doodh? On a Friday night? ๐
Me:It's good for... immunity. And recovery. My mom made it. ๐ฅ
Headache:Mama's boy. Confirmed. ๐ถ๐ผ I knew it. Delicate jaw, expensive watch, homemade Haldi Doodh. You are soft, Siddarth Reddy. ๐งธ
Deva grinned. Soft. If only she knew.
Me:Maybe. But at least I have good health. ๐
Headache:Whatever. My Biryani is here! ๐ Just don't forget Tuesday. 9:30 AM. Water Cooler. Be there or die. โ ๏ธ๐
Me:Goodnight, Headache. ๐ค๐ด
Headache:Goodnight, Mama's Boy. ๐ผ๐
Deva put the phone down, still smiling. He looked at the Auditing textbook. It suddenly seemed a little less boring.
He had promised tickets to his own match to a girl who defended him against himself.
"Life," Deva whispered, picking up his highlighter, "is getting very complicated."ย
But he liked it.
---
The days between the exams melted into a strange, rhythmic blur. For the rest of the world, June was just another hot summer month. For the Indian cricket team in the West Indies, it was a grueling tour of slow pitches and humid days.
But for Siddanth Deva, June became defined by the vibration of his phone.
The texts from "The Headache" became the background score of his life in Shamshabad. What started as a transactional relationship based on academic survival quickly mutated into something... else.
At first, it was strictly business.
June 13th, 10:00 PM (Before Income Tax Exam)
Headache:Section 80C limit? Quick.
Me:1 Lakh. Don't forget PPF and LIC.
Headache:You are a nerd, Siddarth. A useful nerd, but a nerd.
But then, the boundaries blurred. The doubts became rarer, replaced by random observations, complaints about the heat, and roasting sessions.
June 15th, 2:00 PM
Headache:Just saw a guy on a Pulsar wearing neon green shoes. Reminded me of your fake Tag Heuer. Was it you?
Me:I am at home, eating lunch. And my shoes are black.
Headache:Sure. Probably eating boiled spinach, Mama's Boy.
Me:Mutton curry, actually.
Headache:I hate you. I am eating curd rice.
Deva found himself checking his phone more often than he checked the cricket scores. There was a thrill in being "Siddarth Reddy," the slightly rich, slightly delicate student. It was an escape from the crushing weight of being "The Devil." With her, he didn't have to talk about strike rates or endorsements. He just had to defend his choice of footwear.
---
It was a Tuesday evening. The sun was setting over the mango orchards.
Deva was sitting at the kitchen island, waiting for his protein shake. His mother, Sesikala, was chopping vegetables for dinner. Vikram was reading a magazine in the living room nearby.
Ping.
Deva picked up his phone.
Headache:I just watched the highlights of the IPL Final again. Seriously, how does Deva hit that reverse shot? It defies physics. I tried to do it with a broom in my room and broke a vase. My mom is going to kill me.
Deva snorted. He pictured the fierce, terrifying Krithika swinging a broom at a vase. A goofy, uncontrollable smile spread across his face. He typed back.
Me:Maybe stick to sweeping the floor, not the ball. Leave the cricket to the professionals.
Headache:Shut up. I have natural talent. I am the Deva of my street.
Deva let out a short laugh, shaking his head at the screen.
"Siddanth?"
Deva looked up. Sesikala had stopped chopping. She was leaning against the counter, watching him with narrowed eyes. Vikram had lowered his magazine.
"What?" Deva asked, still grinning.
"You are smiling at your phone," Sesikala observed. "Like a fool."
"I am not," Deva denied, locking his phone screen. "Just... checking messages."
"Who is messaging you?" Vikram asked, walking into the kitchen.ย
Deva takes a sip of water to hide his expression. "It's just... the team group chat. The boys in the West Indies."
"Oh?" Sesikala raised an eyebrow. "What did they say that is so funny?"
Deva's mind raced. He couldn't say 'A girl broke a vase trying to copy my batting style.'
"Uh... Ishant," Deva improvised. "He... he fell in the swimming pool again. While holding a plate of chicken. It's a mess."
"Show us," Vikram said, extending his hand. "I want to see."
Deva pulled the phone back. "No, Dad. It's... there are bad words. Dressing room language. You wouldn't understand the context. It's an inside joke."
"Inside joke," Sesikala repeated slowly. She looked at Vikram. They exchanged a look that parents have exchanged since the beginning of time. The 'Our son is lying but he looks happy so we will let it slide' look.
"Okay," Sesikala said, turning back to the vegetables. "Tell 'Ishant' not to waste food. And wash your hands for dinner."
Deva exhaled, grabbing his protein shake and retreating to his room.
Ping.
Headache:Are you laughing at me? I swear, Siddarth, if you are laughing, I will find you and I will kill you.
Deva laughed again. He couldn't help it.
---
Tuesday: Auditing.
Deva was late. The traffic at Mehdipatnam junction had been a nightmare, and for once, the [Perfect Rhythm] couldn't help him navigate a gridlock. He jogged up the stairs to the second floor, checking his watch. 9:45 AM.
He reached the water cooler. He was breathless, his mask slightly askew.
Krithika was already there, leaning against the wall. But she wasn't looking at the clock, tapping her foot impatiently as he expected.
She was scrolling on her phone, a small, serene smile on her face.
"Sorry," Deva panted, adjusting his cap. "Traffic."
She didn't look up immediately. She swiped one last time, then lifted her head. She turned her phone screen towards him.
"Look."
Deva blinked. It was her wallpaper.
It was a high-resolution image of Siddanth Deva. He was in the Indian jersey, mid-action, his left hand pushing the air down. The 'Calma' celebration. The lighting was perfect, the sweat on his forehead visible, the intensity in his eyes captured in 1080p.
Deva stared at his own face. It felt surreal.
"Good one," Deva managed to say, his voice flat.
"Right?" she beamed, pulling the phone back to admire it herself. "It took me forever to find this quality. Most of the ones online are pixelated trash. I had to scroll on my desktop for like an hour on this fan forum to get the high-res version. Look at the veins in his arm. Art."
Deva shifted awkwardly. "Right. Art."
"Anyway," she pocketed the phone, the fan-girl mode switching off instantly, replaced by the exam commander. "You're late. We have ten minutes. Did you read everything?"
"Yes," Deva nodded.ย
"Good. Because I didn't. Let's go."
They walked into the exam hall. Same seats. Same invigilator (who gave Deva a discreet thumbs up).
The routine was established.
Deva wrote.
Kick.
Deva slid the paper.
Krithika copied.
By 12:30 PM, they walked out of the hall, the heat of the afternoon hitting them.
"That wasn't so bad," Krithika said, cracking her knuckles. "Thanks, partner."
"No problem," Deva said, adjusting his sunglasses. He turned to leave, aiming for the parking lot.
"Hold on," Krithika said, grabbing his backpack strap. "Where is the fire? It's juice time."
Deva hesitated. "I really shouldโ"
"Mosambi juice," she interrupted, already walking towards the 'Ganesh Juice Center'. "Come on. I need to vent."
Deva sighed and followed her. They ordered their usualโMosambi for him (no ice), Cold Coffee for her. They stood under the awning, shielding themselves from the sun.
"Vent about what?" Deva asked, sipping through his straw under the mask. "The paper was easy."
"Not the paper, idiot," she snapped, her face darkening. "The match. Yesterday."
Deva stiffened. India vs West Indies, 4th ODI. Played on June 13th. India had collapsed.
"Oh," Deva said carefully. "Yeah. We lost."
"Lost? We surrendered!" Krithika exclaimed, waving her hands. "146 all out? Are you kidding me? Rohit Sharma gets 39 and then throws it away. Raina scores 10. Even Tiwary failed. It was pathetic. West Indies made 249 and we couldn't even get to 150? Against Sammy's bowling?"
Deva flinched. "The pitch was tricky," he defended weakly. "Bounce was uneven."
"Excuses!" she scoffed. "Do you think Deva would have complained about the pitch? No! He would have smashed Sammy out of the park. If he were there, we would chase 249 in 40 overs."
She took a furious sip of her coffee. "It's so frustrating watching them struggle. The youth team has no backbone without him. They panic. Deva doesn't panic. Did you see the IPL final? 8% win chance, and he wins it. Yesterday we had a chance, and we folded."
Deva looked down at his shoes. It was strange, hearing his own value being explained to him by a girl in a juice shop. It was a guilt trip he hadn't expected.
Deva mumbled. "He had personal reasons."
"Yeah, 'Personal Reasons'," she made air quotes. "Probably shooting an ad or buying a yacht. Or maybe he just needed a break. I don't blame him, honestly. He carried the team for two months. But still... it hurts to watch India lose like that."
She looked at him, her eyes softening. "Sorry. I get emotional about cricket. You probably don't care."
"I care," Deva said softly. "I really do."
"Good," she finished her drink.ย
Her face darkened again as she looked at her watch. "Don't celebrate yet. Next up is Income Tax. Thursday. That is the monster. If we survive that, we survive anything."
Deva nodded. Income Tax. The bouncer of the syllabus.
"Go home," she commanded. "Start reading. If you don't know the tax slabs, don't bother showing up."
She waved and walked towards her purple Scooty Pep+ parked by the curb. She put on her helmet and kicked the stand up. Deva waited, hands in his pockets, watching her.
She sat on the scooty, revved the engine once, but didn't leave. She looked at him, a mischievous smile spreading across her face.
"So," Krithika asked, raising an eyebrow. "How do I pay you back?"
Deva blinked. "Pay me back?"
"For the juice. For the copying. For listening to my cricket rant. I'm a modern woman, Siddarth. I don't like debts."
Deva looked at her. The sunlight reflected off her helmet visor.
"How about a movie?" Deva asked, surprising himself.
Krithika tilted her head. "A movie? With you?"
"Unless you see someone else standing here," Deva shrugged.
"Which movie?" she asked, testing him.
Deva thought quickly. "Pirates of the Caribbean. On Stranger Tides."
Krithika's face lit up. "Jack Sparrow? I love him."
"Who doesn't?" Deva smiled behind his mask. "He's the only pirate with style."
"Okay," she nodded decisively. "You have good taste in movies. Terrible taste in watches, but good taste in movies. Tell me when and where, and I will come."
"Done," Deva said. "I'll text you the details."
"Don't be late, Hero," she warned, pointing a finger at him.
She revved the engine again and zoomed off into the Mehdipatnam traffic, weaving through the auto-rickshaws with practiced ease.
Deva watched her go, the dust settling around his canvas shoes. He took a deep breath. He had a date. With a girl who thought he was a broke student named Siddarth Reddy.
"System," he whispered. "Do you have a guide for 'How not to get caught on a date'?"
There was no response.
He chuckled, walking back to his Pulsar.
The Income Tax exam was coming, but for the first time, he was looking forward to what came after.