The flight from Johannesburg to Mumbai was a party at 35,000 feet. Champagne flowed, music blared from portable speakers, and the Champions Trophy sat buckled into a first-class seat of its own, draped in the Indian tricolor.
Siddanth Deva reclined in his seat, the hum of the engines drowning out the laughter of Harbhajan Singh and Yuvraj Singh a few rows ahead. He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to access the interface that only he could see.
The blue holographic screen flickered into existence against the back of his eyelids.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
[EVENT COMPLETE: ICC CHAMPIONS TROPHY]
[RESULT: WINNER]
[TEMPLATE PROGRESS UPDATE]
[Jacques Kallis Template: 42%]
[GOLDEN REWARD UNLOCKED]
Siddanth mentally tapped the glowing gold icon. It spun and dissolved into particles of light that seemed to seep into his brain.
[SKILL ACQUIRED: "TOWER OF BABEL"]
(Passive Ability. The user can intuitively grasp, understand, and speak any human language upon exposure. Learning curve reduced by 99%. Accent mimicry active.)
Siddanth's eyes snapped open.
He looked at the air hostess walking by. She was speaking to a colleague in Hindi. He understood it, obviously.
But then, he focused on a passenger in the aisle seat across from him—a French diplomat traveling to India. He was muttering to himself while reading a document.
"C'est incroyable. Les chiffres ne correspondent pas." (It's incredible. The numbers don't match.)
Siddanth blinked. He hadn't studied French. But the meaning just... arrived in his brain. It felt as natural as hearing English.
He smiled.
Cricket was a global game. But the world was bigger than cricket. This skill was a key to that world.
---
The reception in India was pandemonium.
Mumbai Airport was a sea of humanity. The drive to the hotel took four hours. The open-top bus parade was a blur of flashing lights and screaming fans.
When Siddanth finally landed in Hyderabad two days later, he hoped for some peace.
He was wrong.
Mehdipatnam was in lockdown.
There were news vans parked permanently outside the Deva residence.
When he tried to go to the local chai shop with Arjun, a mob of 200 people materialized within five minutes. He had to be escorted out by police.
He couldn't go to the movies. He couldn't go for a drive. He was a prisoner of his own success.
"I can't live like this," Siddanth groaned, lying on the floor of Arjun's room, staring at the ceiling fan. "I need air. I need to go somewhere where I'm just a normal guy."
Arjun, who was busy checking the stock prices, spun his chair around.
"BCCI gave you two weeks off before the Australia series. Let's go."
"Go where?"
"Europe," Arjun grinned. "Nobody watches cricket there. You're just a tall, brown tourist. Sameer and Feroz can come too. My treat... well, your treat, managed by me."
Siddanth sat up.
"Done. Which country?"
"Spain," Arjun said, pulling up a browser tab. "Good food. Good weather. Great clubs. And Real Madrid."
---
Siddanth pulled out his phone. He dialed the BCCI secretary requesting a trip outside of India. He got permission to travel under a few conditions, but he was allowed to go.
Then he called Arjun. "Pack your bags. We're going to Madrid."
Hola, Madrid
The flight to Madrid, via Dubai, was long but comfortable.
While Arjun, Sameer, and Feroz slept or watched movies, Siddanth spent the time reading.
In reality, he was downloading.
He picked up a Spanish travel guide. He listened to Spanish music.
The [Tower of Babel] skill devoured the data.
Grammar structures: Analyzed.
Vocabulary: Indexed.
Accent nuances: Calibrated.
By the time the landing gear deployed over the dry, rolling hills of central Spain, Siddanth Deva wasn't just learning Spanish; he was thinking in it.
They landed at Adolfo Suárez Madrid–Barajas Airport.
They grabbed their bags and walked out into the warm Iberian afternoon.
They hailed a taxi. A grisly-looking driver with a cigarette behind his ear looked at them.
"English?" the driver grunted, looking skeptical.
Arjun stepped forward. "Uh, Hotel Ritz? Centro?"
The driver looked confused. "No English. Solo Español."
Arjun looked at Siddanth. "Great. Google Translate time."
Siddanth stepped forward. He adjusted his sunglasses.
"Buenas tardes, señor," Siddanth said, his voice rolling with a perfect Castilian lisp on the 'c'. "Nos gustaría ir al Hotel Ritz en la Plaza de la Lealtad. ¿Podría llevarnos por la ruta más rápida? Tenemos mucha hambre y queremos probar unas tapas."
(Good afternoon, sir. We would like to go to the Hotel Ritz on Loyalty Square. Could you take us the fastest route? We are very hungry and want to try some tapas.)
The driver's eyes widened. He broke into a wide grin.
"¡Claro que sí, hombre! ¡Hablas muy bien! ¡Venga, subid!" (Of course, man! You speak very well! Come on, get in!)
Arjun, Sameer, and Feroz stared at Siddanth as if he had just grown a second head.
They climbed into the taxi in silence.
As the taxi merged onto the highway, Arjun leaned over.
"Dude. Since when?"
Siddanth shrugged, looking out the window at the Spanish architecture. "Used to pass the time learning different languages on flights or buses when travelling with the team."
"On the flight?" Sameer whispered, "You learned a whole language?"
"I'm a fast learner," Siddanth winked.
---
For the next three days, they lived the life.
They visited the Royal Palace of Madrid, awestruck by the sheer scale of the history. Siddanth translated the tour guide's rapid-fire Spanish for his friends, adding his own commentary.
They went to the Santiago Bernabéu Stadium. As sports fans, standing in the home of Real Madrid was a pilgrimage.
They ate. Oh, they ate. Jamón ibérico, patatas bravas, paella.
Siddanth ordered everything in flawless Spanish, charming the waitresses and getting the best tables.
The best part? Nobody knew him.
To the people of Madrid, he was just a fit, handsome tourist with money. No cameras. No autographs. No pressure to be the "Role Model."
He felt the weight of the Champions Trophy lifting off his shoulders.
---
On their fourth night, a Saturday, the city was vibrating.
"Tonight," Arjun declared, adjusting his collar in the mirror of their hotel suite, "we hit the clubs. I heard Teatro Kapital is the place. Seven floors. Seven different vibes."
Siddanth put on a crisp white linen shirt, leaving the top two buttons open, and dark trousers. He checked his reflection. He looked sharp.
"Let's go," Siddanth said.
Teatro Kapital was a sensory overload.
It was massive. The main floor was a cavernous theater with balconies rising seven stories high. Lasers cut through the smoke. The bass of the House music thumped against their chests.
They got a VIP table on the second level, overlooking the dance floor.
They ordered drinks. They danced. They laughed.
Around 1:00 AM, the energy shifted. The DJ dropped a Latin beat—Reggaeton mixed with House. The rhythm was infectious.
"I'm going down," Siddanth shouted over the music.
"Don't get lost!" Arjun yelled back, raising his glass.
Siddanth navigated through the crowd on the main floor. The bodies were packed tight, moving as one organism.
He found a spot near the center. He closed his eyes, letting the beat dictate his movements. He moved with a fluid grace.
He felt a presence.
He opened his eyes.
Dancing right in front of him was a girl.
She was stunning. Dark, wavy hair that fell to her mid-back. Olive skin glowing under the strobe lights. Eyes that were dark and playful. She wore a red dress that moved with her like liquid.
She wasn't looking away. She was looking right at him, a challenge in her eyes.
She moved closer. The Latin rhythm demanded proximity.
Siddanth didn't back down. He matched her energy.
She turned, grinding slightly to the beat.
Siddanth placed his hands on her hips. They were warm.
She leaned back against him for a moment, the friction electric, then spun around to face him again, her hands resting on his shoulders.
They danced like that for three songs. No words. Just the language of the body, the universal dialogue of attraction.
When the music finally slowed down for a transition, she leaned close to his ear.
"Tienes buen ritmo para ser turista," she shouted over the fading bass. (You have good rhythm for a tourist.)
Siddanth smiled, leaning down.
"El ritmo es universal. Pero tú eres la que lleva la música," he replied in perfect Spanish. (Rhythm is universal. But you are the one carrying the music.)
She raised an eyebrow, surprised and impressed by his Spanish.
She pointed towards the bar.
Siddanth nodded. He offered his hand. She took it.
---
The bar area was slightly quieter, though the bass still vibrated the floor.
Siddanth signaled the bartender.
"Two Gin and Tonics. Hendrick's. Cucumber, not lime."
He turned to her.
"I hope you like Gin."
"My favorite," she smiled, hopping onto a barstool. She crossed her legs, the slit in her dress revealing a glimpse of toned calf.
"I'm Deva," he said.
"Isabella," she replied, her voice husky.
They clinked glasses.
"So, Deva," Isabella said, taking a sip. "Where are you from? Your accent... it's hard to place. It sounds local, but you look..."
"Exotic?" Siddanth teased.
"Intriguing," she corrected.
"I'm from India."
"India!" Her eyes lit up. "I've always wanted to go. Taj Mahal. Yoga. But you... you don't look like a Yoga teacher."
Siddanth laughed. "No. I'm a cricketer."
She frowned slightly, tilting her head. "Cricket? Like... the insect?"
Siddanth chuckled. This was refreshing.
"It's a sport. Like baseball, but... more complex. More elegant. It's a religion in my country."
"And are you a priest in this religion?" she asked playfully.
"Something like that," Siddanth smirked. "I throw a hard leather ball at people at 150 kilometers per hour. And sometimes I hit it with a bat."
"Violent," she mused. "I like it."
"And you, Isabella? What do you do when you aren't dominating dance floors?"
"I build things," she said. "I'm an Architect. I work for a firm here in Madrid. We are restoring old facades in the La Latina district."
"An Architect," Siddanth nodded appreciatively. "Structuring chaos into beauty. I respect that."
"You speak like a poet, Mr. Cricketer," she leaned in, her eyes locked on his.
They talked for an hour. They talked about Madrid, about architecture, about travel.
The chemistry was undeniable. It crackled in the air between them, stronger than the static from the speakers.
She touched his arm when she laughed. He held her gaze a second longer than polite conversation required.
Isabella finished her drink. She swirled the ice in the glass.
She looked at Siddanth.
"It's loud here," she said softly.
"It is," Siddanth agreed.
"My apartment... it has a balcony. It overlooks the Plaza Mayor. It's much quieter. And I have a bottle of wine that needs opening."
The invitation hung in the air. Clear. Direct.
Siddanth's pulse quickened.
"That sounds perfect," he said.
He stood up.
"Give me one minute."
He walked over to the VIP rail where Arjun was looking down at the crowd.
He tapped Arjun's shoulder.
Arjun turned around, eyes glassy. "Sid! Where have you been? Who was the girl in red?"
"Her name is Isabella," Siddanth said, checking his watch. "I'm... going."
Arjun looked at him, then at the bar where Isabella was waiting, checking her phone.
A wide, knowing grin spread across Arjun's face.
"Oh. OH. Okay. Understood."
Arjun grabbed his shoulders. "Go. Run. Don't worry about us. We'll take a cab. Just... text me you're alive in the morning."
"Don't wait up," Siddanth grinned.
He walked back to the bar.
Isabella stood up. She grabbed her purse.
"Ready?"
"After you."
---
The taxi ride was charged with silence. Siddanth's hand rested on the seat; Isabella's hand rested on top of his. Her fingers traced the veins on the back of his hand.
They arrived at an old, majestic building near Plaza Mayor.
They took the vintage elevator up to the fourth floor. The iron grate rattled as it ascended.
Isabella unlocked the door.
The apartment was chic, modern, filled with architectural sketches and models. A large glass door opened to a balcony with a view of the city lights.
She walked in and dropped her keys on the table.
The door clicked shut behind them. The lock turned.
The noise of the city was suddenly muffled, replaced by the sound of their breathing.
Isabella turned around. She didn't move to get the wine.
She looked at Siddanth.
He stood there, the streetlights from the window casting half his face in shadow.
She took a step forward.
"You know," she whispered, her voice dropping an octave, "I still don't understand cricket."
Siddanth took a step forward, closing the gap.
"I can explain it to you," he murmured. "It takes a long time."
"We have time," she said.
She reached up and placed her hands on his chest, feeling the muscle beneath the shirt.
Siddanth placed his hands on her waist, pulling her flush against him.
She looked up, her eyes dark and searching.
"Show me," she whispered.
He leaned down.
She stood on her tiptoes.
Their lips met.
It wasn't tentative. It was hungry. Fueled by the adrenaline of the dance floor, the anonymity of the city, and the magnetic pull of two strangers colliding in the night.
Her hands tangled in his hair. His arms wrapped around her, lifting her slightly off the floor.
She kicked the door shut with her heel.
Madrid, with its history and its noise, faded away.
There was no cricket. No media. No expectations.
Just Deva and Isabella.
And the night was just beginning.
---
Should there be R18
1. Yes
2. No