May 5th, 2011.
The Rajiv Gandhi International Stadium in Uppal had finally emptied, leaving behind only the ghosts of a thriller. The scoreboard still displayed the frozen result: Deccan Chargers 173/6 (19.5 Overs) beat Kolkata Knight Riders 170/7.
It had been a classic IPL scrap. Chasing 170 on a sluggish track, the Chargers had stumbled. Shikhar Dhawan had scored a fluent 40, but wickets in the middle overs had choked the chase. It had come down to the wire—12 runs needed off the last over bowled by Lakshmipathy Balaji.
Siddanth Deva, batting on 45, had been on strike.
Ball 1: 2 runs.
Ball 2: Dot. (Pressure spikes).
Ball 3: 6 runs. (Over long-off).
Ball 4: 2 runs.
Ball 5: 4 runs. (A glorious cover drive to seal it).
Deva finished on 59 off 34 balls*. Another Man of the Match award. Another rescue act.
But as the team bus pulled into the porch of the Taj Krishna at midnight, Deva adjusted his backpack, checked his phone (flooded with messages), and walked into the lobby, head down, expecting a quiet walk to the elevator.
He was wrong.
The lobby lights were dimmed. But as the automatic doors slid open, a cheer erupted that rivaled the stadium.
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!"
Deva stopped, blinking.
Standing in the center of the lobby, blocking the path to the elevators, was the entire squad. Pragyan Ojha was holding a massive chocolate cake that looked suspiciously like a cricket pitch. Shikhar Dhawan was holding a party popper. Ishant Sharma was grinning, holding a bottle of champagne (which he wasn't allowed to spray in the lobby, but the intent was there).
Deva smiled, a genuine, tired, happy smile. He checked his watch. 12:05 AM.
"You guys..." Deva shook his head. "I thought you forgot."
"Forget?" Dhawan laughed, walking over and throwing an arm around him. "How can we forget the Devil's birthday? You leave your teenage years behind today, Sid. You are officially an old man. 20 years old!"
"Welcome to the twenties," Duminy said, shaking his hand. "It only gets harder from here."
"Cut the cake!" Steyn shouted from the back. "I'm hungry!"
Deva walked to the table. The cake had "Happy 20th, Legend" written in blue icing.
He picked up the knife. He cut a slice.
He turned to feed the first piece to Sangakkara, the captain.
But before the cake could reach Sanga's mouth, chaos descended.
Ojha and Ishant moved with the coordination of a slip cordon. Ishant grabbed Deva's arms from behind. Ojha scooped up a handful of chocolate ganache.
"Face paint!" Ojha yelled.
SPLAT.
Deva's face was plastered with chocolate. He sputtered, laughing, trying to wipe his eyes.
"Revenge for the FIFA defeats!" Ojha crowed, rubbing the cake into Deva's hair.
"Okay, okay!" Deva laughed, tasting the icing. "It's good cake! Stop wasting it!"
He managed to wipe his face with a towel handed by a chuckling hotel manager. He hugged Ojha, smearing chocolate on Ojha's clean white t-shirt in return.
"Thanks, guys," Deva said, looking around the circle of teammates. "This means a lot. Really."
"Freshen up," the Team Manager said, checking his clipboard. "The banquet hall on the first floor is booked. Management is throwing a party. DJ, drinks, food. Be there in 30 minutes."
---
Deva showered quickly, scrubbing the sticky chocolate from his hair. He changed into a crisp white linen shirt and beige chinos. He looked at himself in the mirror.
He walked down to the banquet hall. The bass of the music hit him before he opened the doors.
Inside, the mood was electric. The win against KKR, combined with the earlier victory against Chennai Super Kings at Chepauk (a fortress they had breached with a tactical masterclass from Sangakkara and Deva's 3 wickets), had put the Chargers near the top of the table.
Deva grabbed a mocktail and joined the dance floor. He did the bhangra dance with Dhawan. He tried to teach Dale Steyn the steps to a Tollywood mass song. He laughed until his sides hurt.
Around 2:00 AM, the music lowered. The players, exhausted but happy, collapsed onto the plush sofas arranged in a semi-circle.
Deva sat between Jean-Paul Duminy and Amit Mishra. Across from him sat the foreign contingent: Dale Steyn, Dan Christian, Cameron White, and the captain, Kumar Sangakkara.
They were picking at the finger food—standard hotel fare. Chicken tikka, spring rolls, mini pizzas.
"It's good," Steyn said, chewing on a spring roll. "But... it's hotel food. You know? Every hotel in the world tastes the same after a while."
Deva looked at the spring roll. It was limp. It lacked soul.
He looked at his watch. 2:15 AM.
An idea sparked in his mind. The kind of idea that usually led to trouble or memories.
"Hey," Deva said, his voice cutting through the chatter. "Do you guys trust me?"
The table went quiet.
"With a cricket bat? Yes," Christian said. "With FIFA? No."
"With food," Deva clarified. "Do you want to taste Hyderabad? Not the Taj Krishna Hyderabad. The real Hyderabad."
Sangakkara raised an eyebrow. "At 2 AM, Sid?"
"Not now," Deva checked his watch again. "In two hours. 4:00 AM."
"4 AM?" Cameron White choked on his drink. "Mate, that's when we sleep. Who serves food at 4 AM?"
"The legends do," Deva grinned. "There is a place. In the Old City. It's called Hotel Nayab. They open before the first prayer. They serve a breakfast that... well, let's just say it will change your life."
"What kind of food?" Duminy asked, intrigued.
"Paya," Deva said reverently. "Nihari. Bheja Fry. It's spicy, it's rich, and it's not for the weak."
Steyn sat up. "You had me at spicy. I'm in."
"I'm curious," Sangakkara nodded. "I've heard about the Old City food culture but never dared to go."
"We go together," Deva said. "Go sleep for an hour. I will knock on your doors at 3:30. Be ready."
"You're crazy," Ojha laughed from the corner. "But I'm coming. I haven't had Nayab's Paya in months."
---
At 3:30 AM, Deva was wide awake. His [Perfect Rhythm] skill meant he didn't feel the grogginess that plagued normal humans at this ungodly hour. He felt as fresh as if it were noon.
He walked down the corridor of the 4th floor.
Knock. Knock.
Room 408 (Steyn).
Steyn opened the door, looking like a zombie. His hair was a mess.
"Is the fire alarm ringing?" Steyn grumbled.
"Food alarm," Deva smiled. "Get dressed."
Room 410 (Christian).
Christian was already up, doing pushups. "Let's go, mate. I'm starving."
Room 412 (Sangakkara).
The Captain opened the door, fully dressed, looking impeccable. "Punctuality. Good trait, Vice-Captain."
By 3:45 AM, a group of ten players—Deva, Ojha, Dhawan, Ishant, Steyn, Christian, White, Duminy, Sangakkara, and Ruston Theron—were standing in the lobby. The night receptionist looked terrified, wondering if the team was evacuating.
"No bus," Deva told the concierge. "We need three large SUVs. And tell the security detail to follow in a separate car. Low profile."
---
The convoy rolled out of Banjara Hills. The modern, glitzy part of Hyderabad was asleep. The glass buildings were dark.
But as they crossed the bridge over the Musi River, the atmosphere changed. The roads narrowed. The streetlights became warmer, yellower. The architecture shifted from steel and glass to stone and arches.
They were entering the Old City.
"Look at that," Deva pointed out the window.
Ahead of them, the Charminar stood majestically against the night sky. It wasn't lit up like a tourist attraction; it stood silent, a 400-year-old sentinel watching over the sleeping city.
"Wow," Duminy whispered.
The cars turned into a bustling lane near the Madina building. While the rest of the city slept, this street was awake. Auto-rickshaws buzzed. Men in kurtas were walking towards the mosque. And the smell...
The smell hit them through the car vents. The aroma of slow-cooked meat, saffron, cardamom, and baking bread.
The cars stopped in front of a modest, two-story building. The sign read: HOTEL NAYAB.
It wasn't a 5-star hotel. It was a hall with marble tables, plastic chairs, and a chaotic energy. But even at 4:00 AM, there was a queue.
Deva put on a cap, but he knew it was futile.
He stepped out. The crowd in the queue turned.
"Deva? Deva bhai!"
A ripple of excitement went through the line.
Deva put a finger to his lips, smiling. "Sshh. We are just here to eat. Please."
A man in a white pathani suit, the owner, rushed out. He recognized Deva immediately. Deva had been coming here since his Under-16 days.
"Siddanth beta!" the owner exclaimed, hugging him. "Happy Birthday! I saw the match! What a finish!"
"Thanks, Uncle," Deva said. "I brought some friends. Can we get the upstairs section? We need a little privacy."
The owner looked at the group. He saw Steyn. He saw Sangakkara. His eyes widened.
"Ya Allah," the owner whispered. "The whole world is here. Come! Come upstairs! Quickly!"
He barked orders at his staff. "Block the stairs! No one goes up! Set the big table!"
Deva turned to the security guards. "Stand at the bottom of the stairs. Don't let anyone up for an hour. Let us eat in peace."
---
They sat around a long table on the upper floor. It was simpler than the Taj, but it felt more authentic. The walls were adorned with old pictures of Hyderabad.
"Okay," Deva took charge. "I am ordering. Trust me."
He turned to the waiter, who was trembling with excitement.
"Four plates Malai Paya. Four plates Nihari. Three Bheja Fry. Two Gurda Kaleji (Kidney/Liver). Twenty Tandoori Rotis. Ten Sheermal. And... chai for everyone."
"Bheja Fry?" Steyn asked, looking suspicious. "What is Bheja?"
"Brain," Deva said casually. "Goat brain."
Steyn turned pale. "You want me to eat a brain?"
"Just try it, Dale," Dhawan laughed. "It's like soft scrambled eggs. But better."
The food arrived within ten minutes. It was a spectacle.
The Paya (trotters soup) was a rich, golden broth, sticky with gelatin, swimming with spices.
The Nihari was a deep red stew, the meat falling off the bone.
The Sheermal was a saffron-colored, slightly sweet flatbread.
Deva tore a piece of Sheermal. He dipped it into the Paya.
"Watch and learn," Deva instructed the foreigners. "Don't use a spoon. Use the bread. Scoop it up. And suck the bone marrow. That's the power."
Sangakkara, a connoisseur, went first. He dipped. He ate.
His eyes closed. "Oh my god," Sanga whispered. "That flavor... the depth. It's incredible."
Steyn looked at the Bheja Fry. It was cooked with onions and green chillies. He took a hesitant bite.
He chewed. He swallowed.
"Okay," Steyn said, reaching for more. "That is good. That is dangerously good. It melts."
"Careful with the green thing," Deva warned Dan Christian, who was about to bite a whole chili. "That is a spice grenade."
Christian bit it anyway.
Three seconds later, Christian's face turned bright red. He started coughing. "Water! Water!"
The table erupted in laughter.
"Milk!" Deva shouted to the waiter. "Get him milk!"
Christian downed a glass of milk, tears streaming down his face. "You... you warned me. Why didn't I listen?"
"Because you're Australian," Cameron White quipped, dipping his roti into the Nihari. "We have to touch the wet paint."
For the next hour, they didn't speak much. They just ate. The food was heavy, rich, and soul-satisfying. It was the kind of meal that wars were fought over.
Deva looked around the table. He saw players from South Africa, Australia, Sri Lanka, and India, breaking bread together in a small restaurant in the Old City.
This, Deva thought. This is what cricket is about.
---
By 5:30 AM, the plates were wiped clean. Not a drop of gravy remained.
"I can't move," Duminy groaned, leaning back. "I need a stretcher to get to the car."
"You have training at 4 PM," Deva reminded him with a wicked grin. "Better burn those calories."
The waiter came up with the bill. Deva tried to pay. The owner refused.
"No money," the owner said firmly. "You brought the World Cup to India. You brought these legends to my shop. This is my honor."
Deva argued, but the owner was adamant at first. Deva insisted on payment, and the owner finally agreed.
The owner asks for a picture to hang, to which Deva agrees.
They stood up. The owner, the waiters, and the cooks gathered around the team.
The photo captured it all—the tired but happy faces of the players, the proud grin of the owner, the chaotic background of the restaurant, and the first rays of the morning sun filtering through the window.
They walked down the stairs. The crowd outside had grown. Word had spread that the Deccan Chargers were inside.
"DEVA! DEVA!"
Deva waved. Steyn waved. Even Christian, still recovering from the chili, waved.
They got into the cars. As they drove back towards the new city, the sun rose over the Charminar, bathing the ancient monument in gold.
"Happy Birthday, Sid," Sangakkara said quietly, looking out the window. "That was... memorable."
"Best birthday breakfast ever," Steyn agreed, closing his eyes. "But remind me never to eat the green thing again."
Deva smiled, leaning his head against the window.