The weeks following the T20 World Cup triumph were a blur of flashbulbs, greasepaint, and the unfamiliar stiffness of starched formal wear. Siddanth Deva, the "Devil of Cricket," was now a commodity as much as he was an athlete.
The Deccan Cements shoot took place at Ramoji Film City.
The director positioned Siddanth against a backdrop of a storm-lashed coastline. Siddanth wore a sharp, charcoal-grey suit, standing immovable while wind machines blasted him.
The tagline was simple: "Some things are built to last. Deccan Cements."
Then came the local brands. A prominent Hyderabad jewelry chain wanted him for their festival campaign. A TMT steel bar company wanted his face on every billboard in Andhra Pradesh. Siddanth and Arjun, operating out of their "War Room" (Arjun's bedroom), negotiated hard. They signed two-year deals that flooded the bank account with liquid cash, all of which was promptly funnelled into the stock market portfolio—Nvidia, MRF, and HDFC—and the humming Bitcoin rig in the corner.
But the glamour was a distraction. In his mind, Siddanth knew that fame was a byproduct, not the goal. The goal was on the field.
Then, the call came.
The Compaq Cup. A tri-series in Sri Lanka involving India, Sri Lanka, and New Zealand.
It was ODI cricket—the 50-over format.
Siddanth was selected.
Colombo, Sri Lanka. September 2009.
The humid, tropical heat of Colombo hit them the moment the aircraft doors opened. It was a wet, heavy heat that instantly stuck your shirt to your back.
As the team walked down the tarmac towards the terminal, Virat Kohli fell into step beside Siddanth.
Virat was laughing, shaking his head.
"I still can't believe I fell for it," Virat said, adjusting his backpack. "I actually touched his feet, Sid. Right in the middle of the locker room."
Siddanth grinned. "Yuvi-pa?"
"Yuvi-pa and Bhajji-pa," Virat groaned. "It was my first day in the dressing room properly. Yuvi comes up to me, face completely serious, and says, 'Chiku, you know the tradition, right? Before you can sit, you have to seek the blessings of the God.' I asked which God. He pointed at Sachin paaji."
Siddanth burst out laughing. "And you went for it?"
"I was terrified!" Virat admitted. "I walked up to Sachin paaji, who was just minding his own business, taping his bat. I bent down and touched his feet. Sachin paaji jumped back like I had electrocuted him. He looked at me and asked, 'Kya kar raha hai yaar?' (What are you doing?). Then I heard the laughter from the back of the room. Yuvi was rolling on the floor."
"Classic," Siddanth chuckled. "They did the same to me during my first time, but in the canteen."
Virat laughed, clapping Siddanth's shoulder. "At least we aren't alone. Hazing is part of the process, I guess."
"It means they like you," Siddanth said as they entered the air-conditioned terminal. "If they ignore you, that's when you worry."
---
They checked into the Taj Samudra, a sprawling hotel overlooking the Indian Ocean.
Their room was spacious, with two beds and a balcony that offered a view of the Galle Face Green.
They dropped their bags. The humidity had made the travel clothes uncomfortable.
"Let's walk for a while," Siddanth said. "Let's get some fresh air. Clear the head."
They walked along the promenade as the sun set, turning the ocean a bruised purple. They didn't talk much about cricket. They talked about cars, about the insane reception in Mumbai, about how life had changed in three months.
Virat was still the brash, chubby-cheeked boy from Delhi. Siddanth was the calm anchor.
That night, the team dinner was a loud affair. Dhoni was relaxed, cracking jokes with Raina. Harbhajan was teaching Gary Kirsten Hindi swear words (telling him they meant "Good Morning").
Siddanth ate sensibly—grilled fish and vegetables. Virat loaded his plate with butter naan and paneer.
Siddanth watched him but didn't say anything. Not yet.
---
The next morning, the heat was oppressive.
The practice session was intense. Gary Kirsten was a taskmaster. He had them running laps until their lungs burned.
Then, the nets.
Siddanth took a ball. He didn't want to bowl to a batsman immediately.
He found an empty net on the far side. He placed a single stump at the batting end.
He marked his run-up.
He ran in.
Thwack.
The base of the stump.
He walked back.
He ran in.
Thwack.
The base of the stump.
He did this for thirty minutes. Yorker. Yorker. Wide Yorker. Slower Yorker.
He was in a trance. The muscle memory was being encoded deep into his nervous system.
Zaheer Khan watched him from the sidelines, nodding in approval. "Good discipline, Sid. The shiny toy is speed, but the weapon is accuracy."
After the solo session, Siddanth moved to the main nets. He bowled to Yuvraj Singh.
Yuvraj tried to hit him. Siddanth followed him with a bouncer that whistled past his nose.
"Oye!" Yuvraj yelled, laughing. "Save that for the Lankans!"
On the other side, Virat was batting.
---
By 1:00 PM, practice was over. They were drenched, exhausted, and starving.
They took the bus back to the hotel.
"I'm famished," Virat announced as they entered the room. "I could eat a horse."
"Order for both of us?" Siddanth said, grabbing his towel. "I need to scrub this humidity off me. It feels like I'm wearing a second skin."
"Done," Virat said, grabbing the room service menu with the enthusiasm of a scholar finding a rare manuscript. "Leave it to me."
Siddanth went into the bathroom. He stood under the cold shower for ten minutes, letting the water cool his core temperature. He thought about the upcoming match. Sri Lanka at home was a beast. Mendis, Murali, Jayasuriya. It would be a test of his temperament.
He stepped out, drying his hair with a towel.
"Food here yet?" he asked, walking into the main room.
He stopped.
The round dining table in the corner of the room was groaning.
There were three silver cloches covering large platters. There was a basket of naan. There were bowls of dal, gravy, and rice. There was a plate of something fried. And two bottles of Coke.
Virat was sitting there, clicking through channels on the TV, looking very pleased with himself.
"Timing is perfect," Virat grinned. "Just arrived."
Siddanth walked to the table. He lifted a lid.
Butter Chicken. Rich, creamy, orange, swimming in oil.
He lifted another.
Mutton Rogan Josh.
He looked at the fried plate. Chicken 65.
Then there was Grilled Chicken Breast.
Siddanth stared at the food. Then he looked at Virat.
"Chiku," Siddanth said slowly. "Is the rest of the team coming here?"
"No," Virat said, tearing a piece of naan. "This is for us. We practiced hard! Need to refuel."
Siddanth pulled out a chair and sat down. He didn't serve himself immediately.
He looked at the food he had ordered for himself (which, thankfully, was on a separate tray).
Virat heaped his plate with naan and butter chicken. He took a massive bite, closing his eyes. "Heaven. The Taj makes the best butter chicken."
Siddanth served himself the grilled chicken. He took a bite of it.
He watched Virat eat. The Delhi boy was devouring the food with genuine love. He wasn't just eating; he was celebrating.
After they finished eating, they both sat in silence.
"Chiku," Siddanth said softly.
"Hmm?" Virat asked, mouth full.
"You want to be the best, right?"
The tone of Siddanth's voice wasn't accusing, but it was heavy.
"Of course," Virat said. "I want to play for India for 20 years. I want to be a legend."
"You won't be," Siddanth said.
The room went silent. The hum of the AC seemed to get louder.
Virat frowned, a flash of irritation in his eyes. "What do you mean?"
Siddanth pointed at the dishes remaining in the bowls.
"That," Siddanth said. "That is holding you back."
Virat looked at his butter chicken. "It's just lunch, Sid. We burn it off."
"Do we?" Siddanth leaned forward. "Look at the international standard, Chiku. Look at the Australians. Look at Ponting. Look at Michael Clarke. Look at Ronaldo in football. Do you see them eating this?"
He gestured to the oily gravy.
"You have more talent in your little finger than half the team," Siddanth continued, his voice earnest. "I see you in the nets. Your cover drive... It's better than mine. Your wrists are magic. But in the field? After an hour, you are breathing hard. Your movement to the ball... It's a fraction of a second slow."
Virat went quiet. He looked defensive. "I'm not unfit."
"You're not unfit for now," Siddanth corrected. "You're unfit for greatness."
He took a sip of water.
"In cricket, especially ODI and Test cricket, it's not just about hitting the ball. It's about recovering between runs. It's about being as fresh in the 49th over as you are in the 1st. If you eat this..." he pointed to the naan, "your body is running on diesel. It's heavy. It's sluggish. You need to be a Ferrari, Chiku. You need jet fuel."
Virat looked at his plate. Then he looked at Siddanth's plate—the boring, dry chicken and salad.
He looked at Siddanth's arms—lean, vascular, defined.
"I saw you in the final," Virat said quietly. "You ran twos like you were sprinting a 100m dash. Even after scoring 150 runs."
"Because I treat my body like a temple," Siddanth said. "Not a dustbin."
It was a harsh line. But it landed.
Virat stared at the butter chicken. The grease suddenly looked less appetising. He thought about the times he had felt sluggish in the field. He thought about getting out in the 30s because his concentration lapsed—often a result of physical fatigue.
"So..." Virat poked a piece of paneer. "I have to eat that?" He pointed to Siddanth's food.
Siddanth smiled. "Not just that. But you have to cut the junk. No sugar. No fried food. No wheat if you can avoid it. High protein. Good fats."
He stood up and walked to his kit bag. He pulled out a notebook.
"I have a plan," Siddanth said. "I wasn't going to show you, but since we are roommates..."
He opened the notebook. It was detailed. The knowledge of sports science, combined with the training regimen.
"This is the blueprint," Siddanth said, sliding the notebook to Virat. "Gym work. Deadlifts. Squats. Olympic lifts. Not for bodybuilding, but for explosive power. And the diet chart."
Virat picked up the notebook. He read the first page.
GOAL: BECOME THE FITTEST CRICKETER IN THE WORLD.
Virat looked up. His eyes had changed. The playful boy was gone; the intense competitor was waking up.
"If I do this..." Virat asked, "will I play like you?"
"You'll play better than me," Siddanth said honestly. "Because you're a better batsman than me, Chiku. I have power. You have class. If you add this fitness to your class... You will rule world cricket for two decades."
Virat looked at the notebook again.
He stood up.
He picked up the bottle of Coke. He walked to the bathroom and poured it down the sink.
He came back and sat down.
"Okay," Virat said. "I'm in."
Siddanth grinned.
---
For the next hour, they didn't watch TV. Siddanth became the professor.
"It starts with the core," Siddanth explained. "All your power comes from there. If your core is weak, your back goes. Ask Sehwag bhai."
"Weights," Siddanth continued. "People say weights make you stiff. That's rubbish. Heavy weights make you strong. Stretching makes you flexible. You need both. We are going to the gym tonight."
"Tonight?" Virat asked.
"Light session," Siddanth said. "Mobility. Rolling. Activation. We wake up the muscles."
Virat listened, absorbing everything. He was a sponge.
"And the diet," Siddanth said. "Sugar is the enemy. It gives you a spike, then a crash. In a 50-over game, a crash means you edge a ball to slip. Stable energy. Nuts. Avocados. Lean meat."
Virat nodded. "No more butter chicken?"
"Maybe once a month," Siddanth conceded. "As a reward. After a century."
"I'll score a lot of centuries then," Virat said, a spark in his eye.
"I know you will."
That evening, the two of them went to the hotel gym.
While the other players were resting or playing PlayStation, Siddanth taught Virat the proper form for a deadlift. He showed him how to use the foam roller.
Virat struggled. His flexibility was poor. His core was average.
But he didn't complain. He gritted his teeth and pushed through.
As they walked back to the room, Virat felt sore but energised.
"Sid," Virat said.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me," Siddanth said. "Just don't get out."
They entered the room. The room service cart with the uneaten butter chicken had been taken away.
On the table were two bottles of water and a bowl of almonds.
Siddanth lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
He had just accelerated the timeline.
In the original history, Virat Kohli's fitness transformation happened around 2012. Siddanth had just triggered it in 2009.
He smiled.
A fit Virat Kohli + A prime Siddanth Deva + MS Dhoni.
The World Domination wasn't just a possibility. It was an inevitability.
"Hey Sid," Virat called out from his bed.
"Yeah?"
"This broccoli stuff... does it ever taste good?"
"No," Siddanth laughed. "But lifting the World Cup tastes pretty sweet."
"Fair point. Goodnight"
"Goodnight, Future Legend."
The lights went out.
But in the dark, the fire had been lit. The beast was awake.
And Sri Lanka had no idea what was coming for them.