Date: July 10th, 2011.
Location: Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport, Mumbai.
Time: 1:30 PM.
The VIP Lounge was quiet, insulated from the chaos of the main terminal by thick glass and exclusivity. Inside, the air smelled of rich coffee and leather. The Indian Cricket Team, the newly crowned World Champions, were waiting for their flight to London.
This wasn't the raucous, youthful squad of the IPL. This was the Test Team. The heavyweights.
Sachin Tendulkar sat in a corner armchair, reading a book, his spectacles perched on his nose. Even at 1:30 PM, he looked focused.
Rahul Dravid, the Wall, was sipping tea, discussing swing mechanics with VVS Laxman.
MS Dhoni, the Captain, was playing a game on his PSP, looking as relaxed as if he were sitting in his living room in Ranchi.
Zaheer Khan was stretching his hamstrings near the window.
And Siddanth Deva, the youngest member of this elite club, sat by the window, watching the runway lights flicker in the darkness.
He had spent the last week at the National Cricket Academy (NCA) in Bengaluru. It had been a grueling camp. Duncan Fletcher, the new coach, had worked them hard. Deva had spent hours in the nets, perfecting his forward defense, dialing down the T20 aggression, and tuning his bowling radar for the Duke ball.
He felt ready. His [Chanderpaul Template] was at 18% synchronization—enough to give him the patience required for English conditions. His [Perfect Rhythm] skill ensured he was fresh despite the late hour.
His phone buzzed.
Deva pulled his phone out. A smile touched his lips before he even saw the name.
Headache.
He swiped open the message. Krithika watched the telecast of the Kaun Banega Crorepati episode, which was aired last night.
Headache: Deva on KBC
Headache:[Image Attached: A blurry photo of the TV screen showing Deva shaking hands with Amitabh Bachchan].
Headache:He looks good. The jawline is sharp. The hair is set. But seriously, Siddarth... does he only own monochrome clothes?
Headache:Grey blazer. white t-shirt. Even his shoes were white. He looks like a monochrome painting. Tell your 'friend' at the cricket board to tell Deva to wear some colors. Red? Blue? Something alive!
Deva chuckled softly. He looked down at his current outfit. He was wearing the official Team India travel blazer. Navy Blue.
He typed back.
Me:He wears Blue 300 days a year for work. Grey is his holiday color. It's called 'understated elegance'. You wouldn't get it.
Headache:Excuse me? I have great taste. I picked out a neon green nail polish yesterday. THAT is style.
Me:Neon green? You are trying to blind the someone.
Headache:It's called fashion
Headache:Anyway, look at him answering the 50 Lakh question. He looks so smart.
Me:Maybe he had a good study partner too.
Headache:Doubt it. He is a genius. You are a potato. Don't you have land disputes to solve in the village?
Me:Leaving tonight. Signal might be patchy for a while.
Headache:Fine. Don't get eaten by a tiger. And if you see a TV in the jungle, watch the England series. Deva is going to destroy them.
Me:I'll try my best. To watch, I mean.
Headache:Bye, loser.
Me:Bye, Headache.
Deva pocketed the phone. He felt a light tap on his shoulder.
He looked up. Rahul Dravid was standing there.
"Girlfriend?" Dravid asked, a rare, teasing smile on his face.
"No, Paaji," Deva said, sitting up straighter. "Just... a friend who keeps me grounded."
Dravid nodded, sitting in the chair opposite him. "Good. You need grounding. Especially where we are going."
"England," Deva said.
"England," Dravid repeated. The word carried weight. "It's not like the subcontinent, Sid. The ball swings after it passes the bat. The Duke ball stays hard for 60 overs. The clouds change the game in five minutes. You can be set on 50, and one spell from Anderson will make you look like a beginner."
Deva leaned forward. "How do I handle Anderson?"
"You don't handle him," Dravid said simply. "You respect him. You wait. You leave the ball. You play late. In India, you play the ball in front of your eyes. In England, you play it under your nose. Late. Soft hands."
"And bowling?" Deva asked.
"You have pace," Dravid said. "But pace without control in England is just boundaries. Use the seam. Don't try to swing it too much. Let the wobble do the work. And pitch it up. Make them drive."
"Got it."
"It's going to be cold," Dravid warned. "It's going to be windy. The crowd at Lord's isn't loud like Wankhede, but they are knowledgeable. They appreciate good cricket. You won the World Cup, Sid. You won the IPL. But Test cricket in England? That is the final frontier. That is where you earn the 'Legend' tag."
"I'm ready," Deva said, his eyes steeling.
"I know you are," Dravid stood up as the boarding announcement chimed. "Let's go. The flight is boarding."
The team walked to the gate. The media was there, cameras flashing, reporters shouting questions.
"Dhoni! Will we win 4-0?"
"Sachin! 100th Hundred at Lord's?"
"Deva! Are you ready for Jimmy Anderson?"
Deva put on his headphones. He didn't answer. He just walked.
He boarded the plane. He found his seat next to Zaheer Khan.
"Window or aisle?" Zaheer asked.
"Window," Deva said. "I want to see the sunrise."
As the plane taxied, Deva looked out at the lights of Mumbai one last time. He thought about the farm. He thought about the girl on the purple Scooty.
He closed his eyes.
The engines roared. The plane lifted off.
---
Date: July 11th, 2011.
Location: London Heathrow Airport.
Time: 7:00 AM (local time).
The Boeing 777 touched down on the tarmac with a heavy thud, the engines roaring in reverse thrust to slow the metal beast. Inside the cabin, the Indian cricket team stirred from their long-haul slumber.
As the doors opened, the air that rushed in wasn't the humid, spice-laden air of Mumbai. It was crisp, cold, and smelled faintly of aviation fuel and damp concrete.
Siddanth Deva stepped onto the aerobridge. He shivered instinctively. He was wearing his team tracksuit, but the drop from 30°C in Mumbai to a brisk 14°C in London was a shock to the system.
"Welcome to England," Zaheer Khan grunted from behind him, pulling his collar up. "Where summer is a myth and the clouds are permanent."
Deva looked out of the terminal windows as they walked towards immigration. The sky was a slate-grey canvas, low and menacing. It looked like swing bowling weather.
The reception at arrivals was different, too. There were no dhol players. No screaming mobs breaking barricades. A few dozen dedicated Indian expats were waiting with flags, cheering politely as the team walked out.
"Sachin! Dhoni! Deva!"
They waved, signed a few autographs, and boarded the luxury coach waiting at the curb.
Virat Kohli sat next to Deva. He looked wrecked. His eyes were puffy, his hair a mess.
"I hate flying," Kohli groaned, leaning his head against the window. "My body thinks it's 12:30 PM. My watch says 7 AM. I feel like a zombie."
Deva looked at his own reflection in the window. He felt... fantastic.
[Skill Active: Perfect Rhythm]
[Status: Circadian Cycle Adjusted to GMT.]
[Energy Level: 100%.]
"I feel great," Deva said, opening a packet of nuts. "Ready to bowl."
Kohli glared at him. "You are a mutant. Seriously. Do you even sleep?"
"I sleep efficiently," Deva smirked.
The bus wound its way through the morning traffic of London. The red double-decker buses, the black cabs, the Victorian architecture—it was a world away from the chaotic vibrance of India. Deva watched the city wake up. It felt orderly. Disciplined. Just like the cricket team they were about to face.
---
Date: July 12th, 2011.
Location: Lord's Cricket Ground (Nursery Nets).
Time: 10:00 AM.
The hotel check-in at St. James' Court had been smooth. Most of the team had crashed immediately, fighting the jet lag. Deva had spent the day exploring Central London on foot (incognito in a hoodie), soaking in the atmosphere.
But now, it was business.
The team bus entered the Grace Gates of Lord's. The Home of Cricket.
Deva stepped off the bus and looked at the iconic red brick pavilion. He saw the slope. He saw the spaceship-like Media Centre. It was hallowed ground. Every cricketer dreamt of playing here; few conquered it.
"Stop staring," MS Dhoni said, walking past him with his kit bag. "It's just a ground. 22 yards. Don't let the history intimidate you."
"Not intimidated, Skipper," Deva said, gripping his kit bag. "Just respecting the battlefield."
They moved to the Nursery Ground at the back for practice. The grass was lush and emerald green. The air was heavy with moisture.
Duncan Fletcher, the new coach (a Zimbabwean with a stern face), gathered them.
"Right, lads," Fletcher said, his voice clipped. "Conditions are different. The Duke ball has a pronounced seam. It stays harder for longer. It swings past the bat. Adjust your lengths. Batters, play late. Bowlers, pitch it up. Let's get to work."
Deva marked his run-up in the net designated for the fast bowlers. He was given a brand new red Duke ball. It felt different in his hand—darker, slightly smaller feel, the seam standing up proud like a ridge.
Rahul Dravid walked into the net. The Wall.
Deva took a deep breath. Bowling to Dravid in England was the ultimate test.
"Let's see what you've got, Sid," Dravid nodded, taking his guard.
Ball 1: Deva ran in. He didn't go for 150kmph. He bowled a good length delivery, aiming for the top of off stump. 138 kmph.
The ball landed and moved away late. Beautiful shape.
Dravid leaned forward, soft hands, and defended it dead under his eyes.
"Good shape," Dravid commented. "A bit fuller."
Ball 2: Deva pitched it up.
Dravid drove. But the ball swung back in this time. It took the inside half of the bat.
"Better," Dravid said.
Deva bowled for thirty minutes. He bowled to Dravid, then Laxman, then Sachin.
It was a humbling experience. In the IPL, a slightly loose ball was hit for six. Here, a slightly loose ball was driven through covers for four, or worse, left alone with disdain.
Sachin was particularly brutal on anything short.
Deva tried a bouncer.
Sachin rocked back and upper-cut it over the slip cordon.
"Don't bowl short here unless it's at the throat, Sid," Sachin advised. "The ball sits up nicely on this surface."
Deva adjusted. He activated his [Predator's Focus]. He visualized the seam position. He focused on the 'wobble seam' delivery Zaheer had taught him.
Ball 45: Deva to Sachin.
Full. Angling in. It wobbled in the air.
Sachin played for the inswing. The ball straightened.
Whizz.
It beat the outside edge by a millimeter.
Sachin stepped out of the crease and nodded. "That's the one. That's the wicket-taker. Bowl that 100 times, and you'll get 5 wickets."
Deva wiped the sweat from his forehead. It was cold, but he was sweating. Test cricket was hard work.
After bowling, it was time to bat.
Deva padded up. He put on his helmet. He walked into the batting net.
Facing him were Ishant Sharma and Sreesanth. Both were tall, fast, and swinging the ball miles in these conditions.
Deva took his stance.
[System Activation: Shivnarine Chanderpaul Template - 18% Sync][Attribute Selected: The Wall of Guyana - Defensive Technique]
He didn't adopt the idiosyncratic open-chested stance of the West Indian legend—that would mess with his own mechanics too much. Instead, he channeled the mindset and the hand-eye coordination. He softened his grip. He focused on watching the ball until the very last millisecond, playing it right under his nose.
Ishant ran in. 140kmph outswinger.
Deva didn't try to drive. He shuffled across. He waited. He killed the bounce with soft hands, dropping the ball dead at his feet.
Thud.
"Boring!" Virat Kohli, watching from the back of the net, yelled. "Since when do you block like that? Hit it!"
Deva ignored him.
Sreesanth bowled a wicked inswinger. Deva used the technique to play inside the line. He didn't push at it. He let the ball come to him. He tucked his bat behind his pad. The ball missed off stump by an inch.
[Skill Active: Eidetic Memory]Recall: Dravid's advice. "Play late."
Deva played late. He didn't chase the wide ones. He didn't flash. He blocked. He left. He blocked again. It wasn't about style; it was about survival.
For 40 minutes, Deva didn't hit a single boundary. He just survived.
Ishant got frustrated. "Come on, Sid! Flash at one! Give me a chance!"
"Test cricket is boring, Lambu," Deva grinned, defending another ball dead with the patience of a saint. "Boring wins sessions."
Duncan Fletcher watched from behind the net, arms crossed. He turned to Dhoni.
"The boy adapts fast," Fletcher murmured. "Yesterday he was an IPL superstar. Today he looks like a grinder. He has the temperament."
Dhoni smiled, peeling an orange (he always seemed to be eating fruit). "He's not a grinder, coach. He's just loading the gun. Wait till he gets set."
Deva finished his session. He walked out, unstrapping his pads. He felt good. The Duke ball was dangerous, but it wasn't a mystery. It followed the laws of physics. And Deva knew physics.
He sat on the grass, watching the grey clouds swirl over Lord's.
First practice done. Acclimatization in progress.
The warm-up game against Somerset was in two days. That would be the real test. But as he looked at the famous slope of the ground, Deva felt that familiar itch—the itch to conquer.
"Hello, London," he whispered. "Let's play."