Date: October 14th, 2011.
Location: Rajiv Gandhi International Stadium, Dressing Room.
Time: 10:45 PM.
The match was over, the trophy was collected, but for Siddanth Deva, the real trial had just begun. He had barely walked into the sanctuary of the dressing room, fingers fumbling to unbutton his sweat-soaked jersey, when he found his path physically blocked.
It wasn't the media clamoring for a quote. It wasn't the coach with a tactical debrief. It was something far worse: the 'Council of Chaos'.
Virat Kohli sat perched on a massage table, swinging his legs with the rhythmic menace of a pendulum, a wicked, knowing grin splitting his face.
Suresh Raina was leaning casually against a locker, arms crossed, looking like a disappointed school principal.
Ravindra Jadeja was standing in the middle, twirling a cricket ball in his fingers, looking every bit the Bond villain plotting his next move.
"Door band kar," (Close the door) Kohli commanded the kit man, his voice leaving no room for argument. The poor guy dropped a towel, nodded terrifiedly, and fled the scene, sealing Deva inside.
Deva sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. He dropped his kit bag with a thud. "Here we go. Make it quick, I'm tired."
"So," Jadeja started, stepping forward slowly, savoring the moment. "We have seen cover drives that split the field. We have seen helicopter shots that defy gravity. We have seen stumps cartwheeling. But today... today, gentlemen, we saw a new shot entered into the manual."
He grabbed Raina's hand, bowed dramatically low like a Shakespearean actor, and planted a loud, wet kiss on his knuckles. "The 'Romeo Scoop'. A shot played exclusively off the field."
The room erupted. Raina batted his eyelashes, feigning a swoon. "Oh, Siddanth! You are so charming! Take me away to your castle!"
"Shut up, Jaddu," Deva chuckled, though his ears were burning. He tried to sidestep them towards the showers. "She's just a fan. A very... enthusiastic fan."
"A fan?" Kohli jumped off the table, moving with cat-like speed to block him again. "Bhai, listen to me. I have fans. Sachin paaji has devotees. We sign bats. We take selfies. We smile and wave. We do not walk to the boundary, ignore the entire match presentation, and perform a romantic scene from Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge while the cameras are rolling!"
"I didn't ignore the game," Deva defended weakly, knowing he had no leg to stand on. "It was post-match. The game was done."
"Who is she?" Raina asked, nudging him in the ribs with his elbow. "Is she the 'Headache' you are always texting in the bus? The one who supposedly made you miss the West Indies tour?"
Deva froze. He had underestimated them. These guys were sharper than they looked; they noticed every time he smiled at his phone screen.
"She didn't make me miss the tour. Exams did. B.Com doesn't pass itself."
"Exams," Kohli scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Right. And I am a monk who took a vow of silence. Sid, you winked at her. On national television. In High Definition. Should I buy sweets?'"
Deva groaned, burying his face in his hands. The situation was spiraling. "It's complicated, Cheeku. She... she didn't know who I was."
The three stared at him. The room went dead silent.
"She didn't know... you are Siddanth Deva?" Jadeja asked slowly, pronouncing each syllable as if testing a foreign language. "Does she live under a rock? Or in a cave on Mars?"
"Long story," Deva said, grabbing his towel like a shield. "I'll tell you later. Right now, I need a shower to wash off this sweat and the shame, and I need to figure out if she's going to kill me or marry me."
"If she kills you, can I have your bat? The one you scored the century with?" Raina asked practically.
"Get out," Deva laughed, throwing a sweaty sock at him.
He escaped into the shower area, turning the water to freezing cold, but he could still hear Kohli shouting over the sound of the spray. "Don't worry, Romeo! We will sing at the Sangeet! I'll do the Bhangra solo!"
---
Location: Taj Krishna, Hyderabad.
Time: 11:30 PM.
The post-match party was in full swing downstairs. The bass from the DJ was vibrating through the floorboards, but Siddanth Deva had slipped away early, dodging further questions from the team and the relentless media.
He lay on his kingsize bed in the suite, staring blankly at the ceiling patterns. The adrenaline of the 179* was fading, replaced by a different kind of anxiety—a hollow, gnawing feeling in his stomach.
He held his phone in his hand. It felt heavier than his bat.
He had called "Headache" (Krithika) twice.
Both times, it rang out completely. No answer. No decline. Just the long, lonely tone of a call going ignored.
He opened the chat window. The grey bubbles mocked him.
Me:Hey. You okay?
(Sent 10:45 PM)
Me:Sorry about the surprise. I couldn't tell you before. It wasn't malicious.
(Sent 11:00 PM)
No blue ticks. No "typing..." indicator. Just the grey void of being ghosted.
Deva sat up, running a hand through his damp hair. He was used to bowlers trying to ignore him, used to crowds going silent when he got out, but this silence felt personal. He knew she was probably in shock. He knew she was probably replaying every embarrassing thing she had ever said to him—calling him a loser, kicking his chair in the exam hall, making him buy juice while he drank it through a mask like a weirdo.
He needed to break the tension. He needed to stop being "Deva the Cricket Devil" who was unapproachable and go back to being "Siddarth," the annoying guy she loved to hate.
He had to bridge the gap between the pedestal she had put him on and the ground where they stood.
He smirked. He knew exactly which button to push. It was childish, it was annoying, and it was perfect.
---
Location: Krithika's Bedroom, Secunderabad.
Krithika was sitting on her bed, her knees pulled up to her chest, wrapped in a blanket like a cocoon of misery. Her phone lay on the duvet like a live grenade that might explode at any moment.
She had been staring at it for an hour. The contact name "The Devil" (which she had renamed from Siddarth ten minutes ago in a fit of rage) mocked her from the screen.
Her brain was a chaotic loop of memories.
Siddarth is Deva.
I told Deva he has no soul.
I told Deva he has a chipmunk face and needs a nanny.
I made Deva wait for me while I fought with my sister over a kurta.
She buried her face in her knees, letting out a muffled scream. The embarrassment was a physical weight, pressing down on her chest. How could she ever talk to him again? He was probably laughing at her with Dhoni right now. They were probably watching replays of her waving that stupid neon sign.
Buzz.
She flinched. She looked at the screen. A new message.
The Devil:Shorty.
She frowned. Shorty?
Buzz.
The Devil:Shorty.
Buzz.
The Devil:Shorty.
Buzz.
The Devil:Shorty.
It kept coming. The phone was vibrating across the bed sheet, dancing towards the edge. Ten messages in ten seconds. All the same word. Relentless.
The Devil:Shorty.
Something snapped in Krithika. The awe, the shock, the embarrassment—it all evaporated in a flash of pure, red-hot irritation. The "Devil of Cricket" was spamming her like a bored teenager.
She grabbed the phone, her fingers trembling with indignation. Her thumbs flew across the keyboard.
Headache:WHO THE HELL ARE YOU CALLING SHORTY?? 🤬😤
Headache:I am 5'6"! That is above average for an Indian girl! You are just a freakishly tall giant! Stop comparing everyone to yourself!
Deva, back in his hotel room, burst out laughing. The sound echoed in the empty suite. She wasn't scared anymore; she was mad. Mad was good. Mad he could work with.
Me:Okay sorry for calling you shorty, Shorty. 😜
Headache:STOP IT!
Headache:Is this it? Is this the famous 'Devil's Charm'? Is this how the Man of the Tournament flirts with girls? By spamming them like a telemarketer selling loans?
Headache:Pathetic. You have zero game. Negative game. You have more game with a wooden stump than with a human woman.
Deva grinned. She was back. The fire was back. He settled into the pillows.
Me:I don't need game. I have a cover drive. 🏏
Headache:Your cover drive won't save you from a block list. 🚫 One more word and you are blocked forever.
Deva winced. Okay, too far. She meant it.
Me:Wait. Don't block. I'm sorry. Really.
Me:I wanted to tell you. But I couldn't. The exams... I needed to be normal for a bit. If I came as Deva, there would be no water cooler chats. No juice. No movies. It would have just been... noise.
There was a long pause. Deva watched the screen, waiting for the bubbles.
Headache:You lied about the wisdom teeth. That was low. I actually felt bad for your swollen face. I bought you mosambi juice!
Me:It was a creative lie. I needed a reason for the mask. And the juice was good.
Headache:It was a terrible lie. I should have failed you in Logic just for that. You took advantage of my kindness.
Me:Sorry for taking advantage of your kindness, I will do whatever you want to make it up to you. Name it. Any favor.
The 'typing' bubbles appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again. She was thinking. She was calculating.
Headache:Whatever I want?
Me:Within legal limits. Yes.
Headache:Okay. I want reparations for the emotional distress and the money I wasted on buying popcorn for a millionaire.
Headache:IPL Tickets. Next season. All the home games in Hyderabad. For me, Anjali, Riya, and Kavya.
Headache:And not just stands. VIP Box. With food. Good food. Not those stale samosas they sell outside.
Deva chuckled. She drove a hard bargain. She wasn't asking for money or fame; she wanted snacks and seats.
Me:Done. Season Pass. VIP Box. Unlimited Biryani. I'll have the chef make it personally.
Headache:And...
Me:And?
Headache:And you have to admit that I am better at Tekken than you.
Me:I can't do that. It ruins my 'Invincible' image.
Headache:Siddarth... do you want to be blocked?
Me:Fine. You are the Tekken Queen. I bow to your button-mashing skills. Happy?
Headache:Very.
Me:So... have you cooled down? Are we good?
Headache:A little. I am still processing that I bullied the Man of the Tournament into helping me in exams. It feels illegal.
Me:You gave me sound reasons to help you.
Headache:Yeah well, don't expect me to salute you now. You are still the guy who wears fake watches in my phone contacts.
Me:It was real! That was a limited edition Tag!
Headache:Sure it was. Go to sleep, Hero. You have a series to win. And I have to explain to my dad why I'm smiling at my phone.
Me:Goodnight, Shorty.
Headache:I hate you.
Me:No you don't.
Deva put the phone on his chest, closing his eyes. The secret was out. The barrier was down. And miraculously, nothing had changed. She still treated him like an idiot.
And that was exactly what he needed.