The mid-morning sun of Hyderabad hit Siddanth Deva like a warm, familiar embrace as he stepped out of the Rajiv Gandhi International Airport. It was 11:00 AM, and the air smelled of heated tarmac, wet earth, and the distinct, spicy aroma of home.
Mumbai had been a tsunami of national pride; London had been a theatre of global conquest. But Hyderabad? Hyderabad was personal.
He wasn't just "The Devil of Cricket" here. He was "Siddu."
Waiting at the arrivals gate wasn't a team of bodyguards or BCCI officials. It was a ragtag group of young men holding a banner that appeared to have been painted just five minutes ago.
WELCOME HOME CHAMPION - MEHDIPATNAM BOYS.
Leading the pack was Arjun, grinning so wide his eyes had disappeared.
"OYE! HERO!" Arjun yelled, ignoring the security line and ducking under the rope.
He tackled Siddanth in a hug that nearly knocked the World Cup winner over.
"Easy, easy!" Siddanth laughed, dropping his kit bag to hug his best friend back. "I need these ribs for the next series."
"Forget your ribs!" Arjun shouted, slapping his back. "Look at you! Gold medal and all! You look expensive!"
Behind Arjun, the rest of the gully cricket gang—Ravi, Sameer, and Feroz—piled on. It was a scrum of sweat, laughter, and brotherhood.
"Come on," Arjun said, grabbing Siddanth's bag. "The chariot awaits."
The "chariot" was a battered, open-top Mahindra Jeep, painted in a shade of orange that was bright enough to be visible from space. It was decorated with marigold garlands so thick they obscured the windshield.
"You guys are ridiculous," Siddanth said, shaking his head as he climbed into the back.
"We are the Deva Fans Association," Arjun declared, jumping into the driver's seat. "We have to maintain standards."
---
The drive from Shamshabad to Mehdipatnam was a blur of honking horns and waving motorcyclists who recognised the Jeep. But the real chaos began when they turned into the narrow lanes of his colony.
As the Jeep rounded the corner near the famous bustling junction, the sound hit them.
Dhum-dhum-dhat-dhum!
Dhum-dhum-dhat-dhum!
The Teen Maar.
It is the heartbeat of Telangana celebrations. A raw, rhythmic, hypnotic drumbeat that forces your feet to move whether you want them to or not.
A band of twelve drummers, dressed in glittering uniforms, was waiting. As they saw the Jeep, they unleashed a wall of sound.
The Jeep stopped. It couldn't go further. The street was packed.
"Get down!" Feroz yelled over the drums. "You have to dance!"
"I danced in Mumbai!" Siddanth protested, laughing.
"That was for TV," Arjun shouted. "This is for the colony! Get down!"
Siddanth hopped off the Jeep. The moment his feet touched the dusty road of his childhood, the crowd roared.
Old shopkeepers left their counters. The chai-wala who used to give him credit for Osmania biscuits was waving a ladle. Kids from the local school were jumping on benches.
The drummers surrounded him. The beat intensified.
Siddanth didn't hold back. He threw his hands up. He did the classic Teen Maar step—the crouch, the shuffle, the raw energy.
He grabbed the hands of a few kids and spun them around. He high-fived the vegetable vendor.
For twenty minutes, the World Cup winner, the man who had terrified Pakistan at Lord's, was just a boy dancing in his street, lost in the rhythm of his home.
It was chaotic. It was loud. It was perfect.
The procession finally inched its way to the gate of the Deva residence.
The house had been freshly painted (Siddanth suspected his dad had done it in the last two days). A massive flex banner hung from the terrace: OUR SON, INDIA'S PRIDE.
Standing at the gate, looking like a gatekeeper to a fortress, was Sesikala Deva.
She wasn't smiling. She looked serious, almost fierce. In her hands, she held a massive, ash-grey pumpkin (gummadikaya). Beside her on a stool was a plate with lemons, red chilies, and a coconut.
Siddanth walked up to the gate, sweat dripping down his face, the garland around his neck itching.
"Amma," he beamed, stepping forward to hug her.
"STOP!" Sesikala commanded, holding out a hand.
Siddanth froze, one foot in the air. The crowd behind him went silent. Even the Teen Maar band stopped drumming.
"Don't cross the threshold," she warned. "You have too much drishti (evil eye) on you. The whole world has been staring at you for two weeks. I am not letting that bad energy into my house."
Siddanth sighed, shooting a helpless look at his father, Vikram, who was standing behind her, grinning and shrugging as if to say, 'You know your mother.'
"Okay, Amma. Do the thing."
Siddanth stood there, the World Champion, hands clasped respectfully in front of him, looking thoroughly sheepish.
Sesikala lifted the heavy pumpkin. She circled it around his head three times clockwise, then three times anti-clockwise, muttering prayers under her breath.
Then, with a surprising amount of strength, she smashed the pumpkin onto the road in front of him.
SPLAT.
The grey ash and orange flesh exploded.
The crowd cheered. The evil eye was officially dead.
Next came the lemons. She crushed them under his feet.
Finally, she applied a thick dot of kajal behind his ear.
She smiled, her face instantly transforming into pure warmth.
She pulled him into a hug. Siddanth melted.
"Welcome home, beta," she whispered.
"Good to be back, Amma."
"Ahem."
A throat cleared loudly nearby.
Siddanth pulled away. Standing right next to the gate, beaming with predatory intent, was Mrs Sharma, their neighbour. She was dressed in her finest silk saree, and standing slightly behind her was her daughter, looking mortified.
"Welcome back, Siddanth!" Mrs Sharma chirped. "Oh, look at you! So tall, so handsome! World Champion!"
"Hello, Aunty," Siddanth said politely.
Mrs. Sharma turned to Sesikala. "Sesi, you must be careful now. He is a big star. Before he goes to Mumbai and starts chasing those Bollywood actresses, you should book him!"
"My Priya just finished her engineering. Top of the class. She makes excellent dal. Why look outside, hanh? A gold medal boy needs a gold medal girl!"
The crowd chuckled. Siddanth felt his ears burning. This was a different kind of bouncer, one he hadn't practiced for in the nets.
Sesikala stepped in front of Siddanth, blocking Mrs. Sharma's view like a protective slip fielder.
"He is eighteen, Sarla," Sesikala said firmly, though with a polite smile. "He is a baby. He has to play many World Cups. Marriage is not even in the dictionary yet. Besides..." she lowered her voice conspiratorially, "his horoscope says he cannot marry until he is twenty-five. Shani is in the seventh house."
(Siddanth knew for a fact his horoscope said no such thing, but he mentally awarded his mother a Man of the Match award for the save).
"Oh, horoscope," Mrs. Sharma deflated. "Well, can't fight the stars. But keep Priya in mind!"
"Come inside, Siddu," Vikram laughed, grabbing his son's arm and pulling him into the safety of the house. "Before the rest of the colony proposes."
---
The door closed. The noise of the drums and the cheers was cut off instantly.
The living room was cool and quiet. The fan whirred overhead.
Siddanth looked around. The old sofa. The TV where they had watched him play. The dining table.
It was so normal. It was perfect.
"Go wash your face," Sesikala ordered, heading straight for the kitchen. "I made it."
Ten minutes later, Siddanth sat at the dining table, fresh and clean.
In front of him was a bowl. Not a small bowl. A serving bowl.
Kheer.
Rich, creamy, loaded with cashews, raisins, and vermicelli, smelling of cardamom and love.
"You promised," Sesikala said, placing a spoon in his hand. "Double portion."
"Amma, my diet..." Siddanth started, purely out of habit.
"No talking back", she said sternly. "In this house, I cook, you eat."
Siddanth took a spoonful.
It tasted like heaven. It tasted better than the champagne at Lord's. It tasted like victory.
Vikram sat opposite him, just watching him eat.
"So," Vikram asked softly. "How does it feel? To be back?"
Siddanth swallowed the kheer. He looked at his parents.
"It feels real, Nanna. Out there... with the cameras and the crowds... it feels like a movie. But this... eating kheer with you... This makes it real."
Vikram smiled, his eyes misty. "You did well, son. You did well."
They sat there for an hour, just talking. Not about cricket stats or run rates, but about the small things. How the neighbour's dog had had puppies. How have the vegetable prices gone up? How Arjun had practically moved into their house during the final to set up the projector.
It was the grounding Siddanth needed.
---
The peace was interrupted at 6:00 PM.
A black government car pulled up outside the gate. A man in a crisp white safari suit walked to the door.
Vikram answered it. He came back looking slightly flustered.
"Siddu," Vikram said. "It's a representative from the Chief Minister's office."
Siddanth wiped his mouth and walked to the door.
The official bowed slightly. "Mr. Siddanth Deva. Congratulations on behalf of the Government of Andhra Pradesh."
"Thank you, sir."
"The Chief Minister, Dr. Y.S. Rajasekhara Reddy, wishes to personally felicitate you. The state is incredibly proud. There will be a grand ceremony at the Lal Bahadur Shastri Stadium in three days. We would be honoured if you could attend."
Lal Bahadur Shastri Stadium. The old hunting ground.
Siddanth nodded. "It would be my honour, sir. Please convey my regards to the CM."
"We will send the itinerary. There will be a cash award, and... I believe a plot of land is being discussed." The official smiled. "The government rewards its heroes."
"Thank you."
The official left.
Vikram looked at Siddanth. "A plot of land? A ceremony with YSR?"
"It's part of the game, Nanna," Siddanth said, closing the door. "But right now... is there any kheer left?"
---
That night, Siddanth lay in his old bed. The posters of Sachin Tendulkar, Dravid and Brett Lee he had put up years ago were still on the wall.
He pulled out the new Omega Seamaster box from his bag. He had given it to his father after dinner. Vikram had cried. He had given the Pashmina to his mother. She had scolded him for spending money, then draped it around herself and refused to take it off.
He picked up his phone. He opened the notes app.
CHECKLIST:
U-19 World Cup: CHECK
IPL Trophy: CHECK
T20 World Cup: CHECK
Crypto Setup: CHECK (Arjun confirmed the GPU installation was underway).
NEXT TARGET:
ICC Champions Trophy Squad
2010 T20 World Cup Squad.
2011 World Cup Squad.
He closed the phone.
The noise from the street had finally died down. The Teen Maar drums were silent.
He was home.