The sleep was deep, a black, velvet void that swallowed the noise of the world. Thanks to the [Perfect Rhythm] skill, Siddanth Deva wasn't just resting; he was recharging at an accelerated rate. His muscles knit back together, the micro-tears from the training session healing, the cortisol from the World Cup final flushing out of his system.
He was floating in a dream where he was hitting Malinga for six over a rainbow, when a gentle hand shook his shoulder.
"Siddu... Siddu..."
The voice pulled him back from the Wankhede to Shamshabad. He blinked open his eyes. The harsh stadium floodlights were gone, replaced by the soft, golden amber of the evening sun filtering through the sheer curtains.
Sesikala stood over him, holding a steaming cup of tea. She had changed into a simpler cotton saree, her 'party jewelry' removed, looking like the mother he had known all his life, not the VIP guest of the morning.
"Wake up, Kanna," she said softly. "It's 5:30. You'll ruin your night's sleep if you sleep anymore."
Deva sat up, stretching his arms. A satisfying crack echoed from his spine. He felt incredible. No grogginess. No lethargy. He felt sharp.
"Tea?" Deva asked, reaching for the cup.
"Ginger and cardamom," she said, placing it on the bedside table. "Wash your face and come out. Your father is waiting."
Deva splashed cold water on his face, enjoying the silence of the room. No chanting crowds. No ringing phones (he had left it on silent). Just the distant sound of a tractor and the chirping of birds.
He walked out onto the expansive stone-paved verandah that wrapped around the back of the villa.
Vikram Deva was sitting in a cane chair, reading a Telugu newspaper, his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. On the table in front of him sat a plate of Osmania biscuits—a Hyderabad staple.
Deva pulled up a chair next to him. He took a sip of the tea. It was perfect. Hot, sweet, and spicy.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the sun dip towards the horizon, painting the sky in shades of purple and orange. In the distance, the farmhands were herding the cows back to the shed. A flock of egrets flew overhead in a V-formation.
Vikram folded the newspaper and placed it on the table. He took a deep breath of the clean air, smelling of wet earth and drying hay.
"I am glad we did this," Vikram said quietly, his gaze fixed on a calf frolicking near the fence. "Moving here. Away from the city."
Deva nodded, dunking a biscuit into his tea. "It's peaceful."
"It's more than peaceful, Sid," Vikram said, turning to look at his son. "It's sane. In the city... the traffic, the pollution, the noise. You can't hear yourself think. Here? You can hear the wind in the neem trees. You can hear the cows. It feels like... it feels like we can breathe again."
Deva smiled. "I told you, didn't I? Shamshabad is the future."
"You did," Vikram admitted. "I was stubborn. I thought, 'Why leave the house I built with my father? Why leave the neighbors I have known since my childhood?' But now..." He gestured to the open space. "I realized that the neighbors changed before we did. They stopped seeing us as friends. They started seeing us as... tickets. Or ATMs."
Deva looked down at his tea. He remembered the transition. It hadn't been easy.
---
Six months ago.
The black SUV pulled up to the massive iron gates of the Shamshabad property. Deva was in the driver's seat. Vikram and Sesikala were in the back, looking skeptical.
"Siddu, why are we here?" Sesikala asked, clutching her purse. "This looks like a resort. Is there a function?"
"Just a visit, Amma," Deva said, driving up the long, tree-lined driveway.
When they stepped out in front of the white villa, their jaws dropped. It was luxurious but tasteful. It wasn't a gaudy palace; it was a home designed for privacy and peace.
"Whose house is this?" Vikram asked, looking at the manicured lawns. "One of your cricket friends? Laxman sir?"
Deva leaned against the car, crossing his arms. "It's ours, Dad."
Vikram froze. "Ours?"
"Yes. It's in your name."
Sesikala looked horrified. "Siddanth Deva! Are you mad? This must cost crores! We have a perfect house in Mehdipatnam! Why do we need this... this hotel?"
"We don't need a hotel, Amma," Deva said, his voice serious. "We need a fortress."
"Fortress?" Vikram frowned. "What are you talking about? We are simple people."
"We were simple people," Deva corrected gently. "But things have changed. Dad, last week, when you went to the bank, the manager kept you for two hours just to take a selfie, didn't he? Amma, when you go to the market, people follow you. They take photos of you buying vegetables."
"That is just... affection," Sesikala dismissed, though she looked uncomfortable.
"Is it?" Deva stepped closer. "Do you remember the temple incident at Secunderabad?"
The air grew cold.
Vikram looked away. Sesikala shuddered.
They had gone to the Mahankali temple for a Tuesday puja. It was supposed to be a routine visit. But once they recognised Deva, within ten minutes, a mob of three hundred people had surrounded the exit.
They weren't violent, but they were suffocating. They pushed, they shoved, they screamed for photos, for autographs. Sesikala had been separated from Vikram in the crush. A cameraman had shoved a lens into her face, demanding a quote about Deva's batting average.
If a local police constable hadn't recognized them and pulled them into the temple office, locking the heavy doors, anything could have happened. They had sat there for an hour, trembling, while the crowd pounded on the doors.
"We were lucky," Deva said, his voice hard. "The policeman was there. Next time? What if I am on tour? What if you are alone? The media stalking will escalate, Dad. The fans... they love me, but that love can be dangerous. It can crush you."
He pointed at the high walls of the farmhouse. "Here, you have security. You have acres of buffer zone. You have peace. You can walk outside without a camera in your face. You can grow your vegetables. You can breathe."
Vikram looked at the villa, then back at the gates. He remembered the panic in Sesikala's eyes at the temple. He remembered the feeling of helplessness.
"We won't sell the old house," Vikram said quietly. "It has our memories."
"We won't sell it," Deva promised. "I've already hired a contractor to renovate it. We'll keep it locked. We can visit. But we live here."
Vikram nodded slowly. "Okay. For safety."
---
Present Day.
The memory faded as Sesikala walked out with a plate of sliced mangoes—fresh from their own orchard.
"Thinking about the old house?" she asked, seeing the look on their faces.
"Just remembering how much you argued," Vikram teased, taking a slice.
"I didn't argue," she sniffed. "I just... I missed the vegetable vendor. He knew exactly which brinjal I liked."
"The gardener here grows better brinjal," Deva laughed, standing up. "Come on. Let's walk. I need to digest that lunch or I won't be able to run in the IPL."
The three of them walked down the steps onto the lawn. The evening breeze was cooling the earth. They walked past the cricket nets, where the bowling machine stood covered in a tarp.
They entered the orchard.
Vikram stopped at a patch of tomatoes. He crouched down, inspecting the leaves. "The drip irrigation is working well," he noted with satisfaction. "Look at the color. No pesticides. I told the gardener to use only organic compost."
"You spend more time with the gardener than with me these days," Sesikala complained, but she was smiling as she plucked a sprig of fresh coriander, smelling it deeply. "The smell... you don't get this in the city markets. There, it smells of exhaust fumes."
They walked past the cattle shed. Two Jersey cows and a buffalo were chewing cud lazily. A few hens pecked at the ground, scurrying away as they approached.
Vikram walked up to the buffalo, patting its flank. "This is Lakshmi," he introduced. "She gave ten liters yesterday. Stubborn, though. Like your mother."
"Vikram!" Sesikala slapped his arm playfully. "Watch it, or no tea for you tomorrow."
"The milk is good," Sesikala admitted, watching the calf nurse. "Thick. Good for yogurt. And making ghee. I made two kilos of ghee yesterday. Pure."
"See?" Deva nudged her. "Better than the packet milk in the city."
They reached the edge of the property, where a small stream flowed during the monsoon. Now it was a dry bed, but the grass around it was lush.
"I was thinking," Deva said, stopping and looking at the empty paddock near the back gate. "We have so much space. It feels a bit empty."
"Empty?" Sesikala raised an eyebrow. "We have three cows, four goats, and twenty chickens. It's a zoo."
"I was thinking of expanding the family," Deva said, counting on his fingers. "I want to get a couple of dogs. Maybe Golden Retrievers or German Shepherds. For security, and... well, dogs are cool."
"Dogs are fine," Vikram nodded. "They are loyal."
"And... maybe some ducks for the pond we are digging," Deva continued. "And rabbits. Rabbits are cute."
"Okay, Mowgli," Sesikala rolled her eyes. "Anything else?"
Deva hesitated, then grinned. "Horses."
Both his parents stopped walking.
"Horses?" Sesikala looked at him as if he had grown a second head. "What are you going to do with horses? Are you going to war? Is this Magadheera?"
Deva laughed. "No, Amma. Just riding. Imagine... early morning, mist on the ground, riding a horse through the fields. It's majestic."
"It's dangerous," she countered. "You are a cricketer. If you fall off a horse and break your hand, the BCCI will cancel your contract and I will have to listen to Ravi Shastri screaming on TV about 'careless youth'."
"I won't fall," Deva said confidently. "I have... good balance." (He was thinking of his [Parkour] and [Muay Thai] skills).
He turned to his father. "Right, Nanna? Which man doesn't want to ride a horse? It's the ultimate freedom."
Vikram looked at the empty paddock. A small smile played on his lips. He wasn't looking at Deva; he was looking at a memory of an old Amitabh Bachchan movie where the hero rode a white stallion.
"I don't know..." Vikram chuckled, a non-committal sound that screamed approval. "Feeding them is expensive. But... they are noble animals."
"See!" Deva pointed at him. "Dad agrees!"
Sesikala looked at Vikram, then at Deva. She shook her head, suppressing a smile. "Like father, like son. Always dreaming. Fine. Buy your horses. But you are cleaning the stable."
"Deal," Deva beamed.
---
They looped back towards the house. The sky was now a deep indigo, the first stars appearing. The peace was absolute.
As they reached the verandah, Vikram sat down again. His tone shifted from casual to parental.
"So," Vikram said, cleaning his glasses. "The IPL starts in five days. You are leaving for the camp soon."
"Day after tomorrow," Deva confirmed.
"And after the IPL? There is the West Indies tour?"
"Most likely."
"And after that?"
"England tour. Then Australia."
Vikram nodded. "Busy year. Packed schedule."
He paused, looking Deva in the eye.
"And when exactly are you planning to study for your final year exams?"
Deva froze. The World Cup, the 263, the Nike deal—it all evaporated. He was suddenly just a college student who hadn't opened a textbook in six months.
He was doing his B.Com (Bachelor of Commerce) via distance education from Osmania University. It was a promise he had made to his mother—that cricket wouldn't stop his education.
"Exams," Deva repeated, scratching his head. "Right. Those."
"They are in May (Or Supplementary exams in June), Siddanth," his mother chimed in, switching to 'Teacher Mode'. "That is in the middle of the IPL. Have you even bought the books?"
"I have the books!" Deva defended. "They are... somewhere. In a bag. Maybe in the old house."
"You are a World Champion," Vikram said sternly, though his eyes were twinkling. "It will look very bad if a World Champion fails in 'Cost Accounting'. What will the media say? 'The Devil fears the Balance Sheet'?"
Deva groaned. "Dad, please. I just won the World Cup yesterday."
"And today is today," Vikram said.
"You'd better start reading," Sesikala said, walking towards the kitchen. "I will make dinner. Light dinner. Idli. And you go find your books. You have two days before the camp. Study."
Deva looked at his father. "She's serious, isn't she?"
"She is always serious about exams," Vikram laughed, standing up and patting Deva's shoulder. "Go on. Being a legend is fine, but being a graduate is mandatory in this house."
Deva watched them go inside. He looked up at the stars.
He had conquered Malinga. He had conquered Murali. He had conquered the pressure of a billion people.
Now, he had to conquer Cost Accounting.
"System," Deva whispered to the night air. "Do you have a skill for cramming a year's syllabus in two nights?"
The blue screen flickered in his vision.
[SYSTEM MESSAGE: No Shortcut Found. Suggestion: Use 'Predator's Focus' to read faster. Good luck.]
Deva laughed. Even the System was telling him to study.
He walked into the house, closing the door on the peaceful night, ready to face his most terrifying opponent yet: The Final Year Syllabus.