The flight from Chennai to Hyderabad was less of a travel experience and more of a mobile recovery unit. The Deccan Chargers, the newly crowned Kings of India, occupied the entire business class and half of the economy section of the chartered Kingfisher flight.
The cabin was quiet, save for the low hum of the engines and the occasional snore. Dale Steyn was asleep with his mouth open, his Purple Cap (which he had stolen from Deva for the flight) pulled over his eyes.
Shikhar Dhawan was wearing sunglasses indoors, nursing a headache that was the direct result of the previous night's champagne showers. Ishant Sharma was trying to fit his long legs into the aisle, looking like a folded deckchair.
Siddanth Deva sat by the window, looking out at the clouds. He was the only one who looked remarkably fresh. His eyes were clear, his skin glowing. He was sipping green tea while his teammates were chugging electrolytes.
Cameron White, sitting across the aisle, groaned as he adjusted his seat. "Mate," White whispered, his voice gravelly. "How are you doing this? We drank the same amount. We danced for the same amount of time. You look like you just came from a spa, and I feel like I've been hit by a truck."
Deva grinned, turning the page of his Cost Accounting textbook (yes, he was studying). "It's the Hyderabad air, Cam. It rejuvenates you. Or maybe it's just youth."
"Youth," White muttered, closing his eyes. "Enjoy it while it lasts. Wake me up when we land. Or don't. Just leave me here."
If they thought the reception in Mumbai was loud, Hyderabad took it personally. This was their team. This was their trophy. And Deva was their son.
As the team bus rolled out of the Rajiv Gandhi International Airport, they were met with a sight that made even the hungover players sit up and grab their phones. The entire stretch of the airport approach road was lined with fans. Not hundreds. Thousands.
Blue flags, silver streamers, and giant cutouts of Deva doing the 'Calma' pose dominated the skyline. Dhol players were beating a rhythm that penetrated the thick glass of the bus.
"Look at that," Jean-Paul Duminy said, pointing to a group of fans riding motorcycles alongside the bus, balancing dangerously while waving flags. "That is passion. Or madness. Probably both."
The team had a scheduled open-top bus parade from the airport to the Taj Krishna. It took three hours. The players, fueled by the adrenaline of the crowd, found their second wind. They waved, they signed autographs, they lifted the trophy high every time the bus stopped.
By the time they reached the hotel, it was 2:00 PM. They were exhausted, hungry, and sweaty.
Deva grabbed the microphone at the front of the bus as the engine idled in the hotel porch.
"Listen up, boys," Deva announced. "The official duties are done. Management says we are free until the flight home tomorrow. But... my mother called."
A ripple of interest went through the bus. They remembered the 'Midnight Feast' at Hotel Nayab. They knew Deva's taste in food.
"She says you all look too thin on TV," Deva continued, suppressing a smile. "She has prepared lunch. At my farmhouse. In Shamshabad. It's about 40 minutes from here. It's private. No media. No fans. Just us, a pool, and enough Biryani to drown in."
"Biryani?" Ishant Sharma stood up, his headache forgotten. "Home-cooked?"
"Authentic," Deva nodded. "It's all farm-to-table. Who's in?"
Every single hand went up. Even Darren Lehmann, the coach, raised his hand. "I could eat a horse right now, Sid. Let's go."
The convoy of SUVs left the city, heading back towards the outskirts of Shamshabad. As the concrete jungle gave way to green fields and open skies, the players visibly relaxed.
They turned onto the private road leading to the Deva Farmhouse. The iron gates swung open, revealing the lush paradise Deva had built.
"Whoa," Dan Christian said, looking at the manicured lawns and the white villa. "Sid, you didn't tell us you were a drug lord. This place is massive."
"It's an investment, Dan," Deva laughed, parking the lead car. "Land never depreciates."
They stepped out. The air was cleaner here, cooler. The sound of traffic was replaced by the mooing of cows and the rustling of leaves.
Vikram Deva and Sesikala were waiting on the porch. Vikram was wearing a simple kurta, beaming with pride. Sesikala looked like a general inspecting her troops, checking if they were hungry.
Deva walked up and hugged them. "We brought the cup, Dad."
Vikram patted the trophy that Deva was holding. "I saw. The whole world saw. Welcome home, son."
He turned to the team. "Welcome, everyone! Please, come inside. Treat this as your own home."
The players, usually surrounded by security and protocol, seemed to shed their celebrity skin. They shook Vikram's hand warmly and smiled at Sesikala's frantic instructions to "come in, come in, it's hot outside."
"Mom, this is Dale," Deva introduced Steyn. "He's the one who eats everything."
"Good," Sesikala nodded at the fearsome fast bowler. "You need to eat. You run too much."
Steyn laughed, charming her instantly. "I promise to eat everything, Aunty. Sid told me about your cooking."
They moved to the backyard. Deva had set up long tables under the shade of the massive mango trees. It was an alfresco dining experience, rustic but luxurious.
The spread was, frankly, ridiculous.
Sesikala, with the help of her ten workers and a few hired cooks from the village, had prepared a feast fit for Nizam royalty.
The Menu:
Hyderabadi Kachne Gosht ki Biryani: The meat marinated overnight, cooked with the rice in a sealed pot.
Bagara Rice: A staple combo of tempered rice and lentil stew.
Chicken 65: But not the red-colored restaurant version. The authentic, spicy, curry-leaf infused version.
Pathar-ka-Gosht: Mutton cooked on heated granite stones.
Tala Hua Gosht: Crispy fried mutton.
Vegetarian Spread: Mirchi ka Salan, Bagara Baingan, Khatti Dal, and Paneer Majestic.
"Okay," Darren Lehmann said, looking at the buffet. "Where do we start? I need a map."
"Start with the Biryani," Deva advised, handing him a plate. "And use your hands, Boof. It tastes better."
The team dug in. For the first ten minutes, there was very little conversation. Just the sounds of appreciative groans and the clatter of spoons.
Cameron White wiped his mouth, his eyes watering slightly from the spice. "Sid... this meat... it falls off the bone. How do they do that?"
"Slow cooking, Cam," Deva explained, piling more salan onto his plate. "It's cooked over wood fire for six hours. The smoke adds the flavor."
Ishant Sharma and Amit Mishra were in a competition to see who could eat more pieces of Chicken 65.
"I'm on 15," Ishant mumbled.
"Amateur," Mishra scoffed. "I stopped counting at 20."
Pragyan Ojha sat with Deva's parents. "Uncle, Aunty, thank you. Hotel food is... well, it's hotel food. This feels like home."
Sesikala beamed. "Eat more, beta."
After lunch, the 'food coma' set in. The players sprawled out on the lawn, on bean bags, on the grass.
"I can't move," Dan Christian announced, staring at the sky. "If there is a fire, leave me here. I am too heavy to carry."
"We need to digest this," Deva said, standing up and stretching. "Who's up for a game?"
"Cricket?" Dhawan asked sleepily. "No more cricket. I hate cricket right now."
"Not cricket," Deva said. "Football. Futsal court."
He pointed to the fenced box cricket/football court.
Suddenly, the competitive instincts kicked in. The lethargy vanished.
"I'm in," Steyn jumped up. "I was a striker in school."
"I'll be goalie," Ishant said. "I cover the whole goal anyway."
They formed teams.
Team A (Deva): Deva, Steyn, Duminy, Dhawan, Mishra.
Team B (Christian): Christian, White, Ojha, Bharat Chipli, Anand Rajan.
It was chaotic. They played barefoot on the turf. There were no rules.
Steyn played football like he bowled—fast and aggressive. He sprinted down the wing, tackling Ojha (who yelled "Foul!" every five seconds).
Dhawan played with flair, trying bicycle kicks and landing on his back laughing.
Deva was the playmaker. He threaded passes through impossible gaps, setting up Duminy for goals.
"That's cheating!" Christian yelled after Deva dribbled past three defenders with a roulette move. "You have sticky feet!"
"It's called skill, Danny!" Deva shouted back, scoring a goal.
Vikram watched from the verandah, sipping tea. He saw the World Champions, the millionaires, the superstars, running around his backyard like school kids, screaming and laughing.
"They are just boys, aren't they?" Vikram mused.
"They are happy boys," Sesikala added, refilling his cup.
After football, they moved to the pool. The Hyderabad heat was peaking at 40 degrees, and the cool blue water was inviting.
It started civilized. Players sat on the edge, dipping their feet.
Then, Shikhar Dhawan pushed Ishant Sharma.
Ishant fell in with a splash that emptied half the pool.
War was declared.
Within seconds, everyone was in the water. Cannonballs. Races. Water polo with a volleyball.
Deva floated on his back, looking at the sky. The water muffled the noise of his teammates splashing around him. He felt weightless.
He felt the tension of the last two months leaving his body. The pressure of the final over, the weight of the captaincy, the expectation of the fans—it all dissolved in the chlorine.
As the evening approached and the sun began to dip, casting long shadows across the farm, the team dried off.
"Sid," Dale Steyn asked, towel around his neck. "You mentioned horses?"
"Yeah," Deva said. "Come. I'll show you."
He led Steyn, Christian, and Duminy to the newly built stables at the back of the property. There were two horses there—a Marwari stallion named Toofan (Storm) and a calmer mare named Bijli (Lightning).
"Beautiful animals," Steyn said, stroking Toofan's nose. "You ride?"
"Learning," Deva admitted. "It's part of the 'relaxing' plan."
He opened the gate and led Toofan out. The horse snorted, tossing its head. Deva stroked its neck, whispering softly. The animal calmed down instantly, sensing the lack of fear.
"He likes you," Christian noted. "Animals know."
"Want to try?" Deva asked.
Steyn laughed. "No thanks, mate. I need my ankles for bowling. I'll stick to watching."
They walked through the mango orchard. The smell of raw mangoes was sharp and tangy.
"You know," JP Duminy said, picking a mango off the ground. "This... this is the life. Cricket is great. The money is great. But this? Having peace. You've figured it out early, Sid."
"It keeps me sane, JP," Deva said. "When I'm here, I'm just Vikram Deva's son."
By 6:00 PM, the bus had returned to pick them up. The team gathered on the porch. They were full, tired, and happy.
Darren Lehmann shook Vikram's hand. "Mr. Deva, Mrs. Deva. Thank you. That was the best meal I've had in India. Hospitality was world-class."
"You are welcome anytime," Vikram smiled. "Bring the trophy back next year, and we will make double the food."
"That's the motivation we need," Lehmann laughed.
One by one, the players hugged Deva.
As the bus pulled away, honking its horn, Deva stood at the gate with his parents. He watched the tail lights disappear into the dusk.
The house fell silent again. The workers were cleaning up the backyard. The birds were settling in the trees.
"Tired?" Sesikala asked, putting a hand on his arm.
Deva nodded. "A good tired."
"Go rest," she said. "You have exams to study for."
Deva groaned. "Ma, you really know how to kill a vibe."
"Cost Accounting waits for no one, Mr. World Champion," she teased, walking back into the house.
Deva stayed outside for a moment longer. He looked at the cricket nets in his yard. He looked at the soil.
He realized that this—the farm, the family, the food—was the fuel. This was what allowed him to be the Devil on the field. Without the peace of Shamshabad, he couldn't handle the noise of Wankhede.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of home.
"System," he whispered.
[Status: Fully Recovered.]
[Ready for Next Challenge.]
Deva smiled. He walked back into the fortress, closing the door on the perfect Sunday.
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A/N: Can you guys post an AI-generated pic of an Indian girl for the female lead here
I will choose one of them as the female lead.