A/N: For those of you who are telling him he is acting like a Simp. Man, he is covering his face with a mask and Specs. Do you want him to create a commotion and blow his cover when a girl suddenly talks to him demandingly?
And I don't want the female lead to be an actress. I don't want the MC to go to that shit hole. And Originally I wanted an OC. But Most of you guys were against it. So I made a compromise. An Oc who looks like Samantha. And I will not be changing it.
And also I wanted to introduce the female lead after he turns 24, but most of you were asking to bring the female lead, and when I said I want an OC character, you started saying an actress profile or actress herself, Now when I finally tell she looks like samantha you wanted another one, so if you want a your choice of actress why dont you write one yourself.
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The sun had long since dipped below the horizon by the time Siddanth Deva turned his bike onto the gravel driveway of the Shamshabad farmhouse. The chaos of the exam center in Mehdipatnam and the high-stakes tech talk at the NEXUS office felt like a lifetime ago. Here, under the vast, star-studded sky of the outskirts, the only sound was the rhythmic thumping of the Royal Enfield engine and the distant chirping of crickets.
He parked the bike in the garage, covering it back up with the tarp. He patted the fuel tank.
He walked up the porch steps, swinging his helmet by the strap. The house was glowing warmly from the inside, the smell of incense drifting out through the mesh door. It was a stark contrast to the sterile air-conditioning of the office or the dusty, sweat-filled air of the exam hall.
As he pushed the door open, he was immediately greeted by the sight of his parents sitting in the living room. Vikram Deva was watching the news, and Sesikala was folding fresh laundry on the sofa.
They both looked up simultaneously. The "Parental Scan" was initiated—checking for injuries, hunger, or signs of distress.
"You're late," Sesikala said, though her tone was mild. She put down a folded shirt. "How was it? Did you write everything?"
Deva dropped his backpack on a chair and collapsed onto the sofa next to his father. He stretched his legs out, groaning comfortably.
"It was fine, Amma," Deva said, rubbing his neck. "Cost Accounting. I think I balanced the sheets. I wrote enough to pass, maybe even get a distinction if the evaluator is in a good mood."
"Did anyone see you?" Vikram asked, muting the TV. "Any... mob situations?"
Deva shook his head. "No. The disguise worked. Sameer's bike worked. The Principal was a legend; he kept the staff away."
Suddenly, an image flashed in his mind. A girl in a blue salwar kameez. A kick to the chair. 'Show me Question 3.'
Krithika. The Freight Train.
He remembered her demand for his phone number. Her threat to find him.
Deva shook his head vigorously, as if trying to physically dislodge the memory of the persistent tomboy. No. That's a problem for Thursday. Today is Monday.
"What happened?" Sesikala asked, noticing the shake. "Headache?"
"No," Deva lied smoothly. "Just... neck stiffness. Writing for three hours is harder than batting for three hours."
"That's because you hold the pen like a hammer," Vikram chuckled. "Go wash up. You smell like city smoke."
Deva went to his room, showered, and changed into his comfortable home clothes—track pants and a loose t-shirt. When he came back down, the smell of dinner was wafting from the kitchen.
He walked into the kitchen. Sesikala was at the stove, stirring a pot.
"Amma," Deva started, leaning against the counter. "I'm hungry. But listen... something healthy, okay? Light. The IPL break is over soon, and I have the England tour coming up. I can't look like a potato."
Sesikala turned around, a ladle in her hand. She gave him a look that combined pity with amusement.
"Healthy," she repeated. "Yes, yes. I know. I saw your diet chart. 'No oil, no fun'. I am making something very light."
"What is it?" Deva asked suspiciously, trying to peek into the pot.
"Upma," she said.
"Upma is good," Deva nodded. Semolina, vegetables. Safe.
"With just a little bit of ghee for aroma," she added casually.
Deva narrowed his eyes. "Define 'little', Amma. Is it a teaspoon, or is the Upma swimming lessons for the cashew nuts?"
"Oh, stop complaining," she shooed him away. "It is cow ghee. From our own Lakshmi. It is good for the joints. Go sit with your father. The match has started."
Deva retreated. He knew he couldn't win the Ghee War. He just hoped his metabolism—and the [Perfect Rhythm] skill—could handle the "maternal tax" on his calories.
Deva walked into the media room. Vikram had switched channels from the news to Star Cricket.
Live: India vs West Indies. 1st ODI. Port of Spain.
Deva sat down. It was a strange feeling. Usually, he was on the other side of the screen. He was the one in the blue jersey, standing in the slip cordon or marking his run-up. Now, he was watching his friends, his teammates, play thousands of miles away while he sat in his living room in Hyderabad.
"Who is captaining?" Vikram asked, adjusting his glasses. "Dhoni is resting, right?"
"Yeah," Deva said, looking at the screen. "Raina is the captain. Suresh Raina."
On the screen, Rohit Sharma and Shikhar Dhawan were opening the batting for India. They were chasing a modest total of 215.
"Rohit looks good," Vikram commented as Sharma played a lazy, elegant drive through covers. "That boy has so much time. Why isn't he consistent?"
"He's getting there, Nanna," Deva said, watching his Mumbai Indians teammate. "The talent is scary. Once he figures out the mental side, he will be unstoppable."
They watched in silence for a few overs. It was comfortable. Just a father and son watching cricket—a ritual that played out in millions of homes across India, but rare for them these days.
"Why didn't you go?" Vikram asked suddenly, not looking away from the TV.
Deva paused. "To the West Indies?"
"Yes. You could have gone. You could have written the exams next year. Or later."
Deva looked at his father. He saw the underlying question. Did you sacrifice a tour for us? For your promise to Mom?
"I'm tired, Nanna," Deva admitted honestly. "World Cup. IPL. It's been non-stop since February. My body is fine, but my head... I needed a break. I needed to be home. And besides..." He grinned. "If I don't finish this degree, Amma will never let me live peacefully."
Vikram laughed. "True. She holds grudges."
Sesikala walked in with two bowls. One for Vikram, one for Deva.
The "Light Upma" was indeed loaded with cashew nuts and glistened with a healthy sheen of ghee. It smelled divine. Deva sighed and took a bite. It melted in his mouth.
Okay, worth it, he thought. I'll just run an extra 5km tomorrow.
On the TV, Shikhar Dhawan got out, caught at deep square leg, trying to pull a short ball.
"Arey!" Vikram exclaimed, almost dropping his bowl. "Why did he hit that? There was a fielder there! He scored 97 in the IPL final with sensible batting, now he does this?"
Deva chewed his Upma. "The pitch is slow, Nanna. Look at the bounce. It stopped on him. He was through the shot too early. In Wankhede, that goes for six. In Port of Spain, it's a catch. He didn't adjust to the conditions."
"He should have played along the ground," Vikram grumbled, acting the expert. "Like you did against Malinga."
Deva smiled. "Easy to say from the sofa."
Virat Kohli walked in.
"Here comes your partner," Sesikala noted, sitting down on the armchair. "He looks angry. Why does he always look angry?"
"That's his focus, Amma," Deva explained. "He feeds on it. If he's smiling, I get worried. If he looks like he wants to fight someone, he scores runs."
They watched as Kohli and Rohit built a partnership. Deva found himself analyzing the game differently now. With his [Eidetic Memory], he remembered the field placements from the last over perfectly.
Deva muttered to himself. "Sammy is bowling cross-seam. If Rohit drags it, it goes to mid-wicket."
Two balls later, Rohit dragged a ball to mid-wicket. It fell just short of the fielder.
Vikram looked at Deva. "You should call Raina. Tell him."
Deva laughed. "Roaming charges are too high."
The match went down to the wire. Rohit Sharma scored a brilliant 68 not out. Suresh Raina played a captain's knock of 43.
India won by 4 wickets with 5 overs to spare. It was a comfortable win in the end, but it had its tense moments.
"Good win," Vikram said, standing up and stretching. "This young team is good. Even without Sachin and Dhoni, they are fighting."
"And without you," Sesikala added pointedly.
"They don't need me for everything, Amma," Deva said, putting his empty bowl on the table. "They are champions."
"You should be there," she said softly, picking up the bowls. "But I am glad you are here."
She walked to the kitchen.
Deva stayed back for the post-match presentation. He watched Rohit take Man of the Match. He felt a twinge of longing—the addiction of the arena—but it was faint. He felt grounded here.
"Dinner?" Vikram asked.
"I just ate a kilo of Upma, Dad," Deva groaned. "I am done for the day."
"Your mother made Rasam," Vikram tempted.
"Maybe a small cup," Deva conceded instantly.
They moved to the dining table. The dinner was light—steaming hot pepper Rasam and rice. Comfort food for the soul.
They talked about the farm. Vikram wanted to plant pomegranates next season. Deva talked about the 'Bolt 1' phone project (keeping the technical details light). Sesikala talked about the relative's daughter getting married.
It was normal. It was mundane. It was perfect.
By 10:30 PM, the house was winding down. Vikram and Sesikala retired to their room on the ground floor.
Deva walked up the stairs to his suite. He stepped out onto the balcony. The air had cooled down. The farm was a pool of darkness, save for the occasional security light.
He leaned on the railing. He thought about the day.
The exam. The mask. Krithika.
The office. The phone.
The match. The win.
He realized he was living three lives at once. The Student, The CEO, The Cricketer.
Most people struggled to manage one. He was juggling three. And somehow, thanks to the System, he wasn't dropping any balls.
He looked at his phone. A text from Virat Kohli.
Kohli: "Did you watch? The pitch was a graveyard. Missed you in the middle. Focus on your exams, nerd. See you in England."
Deva typed back: Deva: "Saw it. Good win. Tell Rohit he got lucky with that drop at mid-wicket. And stop eating fried chicken in the Caribbean. Fitness test in July."
He put the phone away.
He walked back into his room. He looked at the books on his table. Mercantile Law was waiting for Thursday.
And somewhere in the city, a girl named Krithika was probably planning how to kick his chair again.
Deva smiled, turning off the lights.
"Bring it on," he whispered.
He climbed into bed, falling into a deep, restorative sleep before his head even hit the pillow.