Date: June 9th, 2011 (Thursday).
Location: Deva House, Shamshabad.
Time: 8:00 AM.
The morning sun filtered through the curtains of the master suite, painting stripes of gold across the duvet. Siddanth Deva was deep in the REM cycle, floating in a peaceful void.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
The phone on the bedside table vibrated violently against the wood, shattering the silence.
Deva groaned, burying his face in the pillow. He ignored it.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
It persisted. It wasn't the polite ping of a text message; it was the relentless, demanding vibration of an incoming call.
Deva rolled over, blinking against the light. He reached out a hand blindly, fumbling for the device. He grabbed it and squinted at the screen.
Unknown Number.
He frowned. This was his personal number. The number only his parents, Arjun, Sameer, Feroz, and the Indian team management had. He didn't get spam calls on this line. He didn't get fan calls.
Is it the BCCI? he thought, his brain suddenly alert. Did someone get injured in the West Indies? Are they calling me up?
He swiped right, bringing the phone to his ear.
"Hello?" his voice was rough with sleep, deep and gravelly.
"Oye, Hero."
The voice on the other end was sharp, female, and brimming with way too much energy for 8:00 AM.
Deva blinked. "Who is this?"
"Wow," the voice scoffed. "Short term memory loss? I sat behind you on Monday. I kicked your chair? ring a bell?"
The memory crashed into Deva's brain like a bouncer.
The exam hall. The tomboy in the blue salwar. The demands for answers. The threat to shout in the hall.
Krithika.
Deva sat up in bed, rubbing his face. He had completely repressed the memory of her over the last two days, burying it under layers of books and cricket highlights.
"Right," Deva said, clearing his throat. "Krithika. How did you... never mind. I gave you the number."
"Yes, you did, Siddarth," she says, and Deva winces. It felt weird being called that. "Just checking if you are alive. You are coming today, right?"
"It's an exam," Deva muttered, swinging his legs off the bed. "I have to come."
"Just making sure," she said breezily. "No 'medical emergency' today? No sudden swelling of the toes? No contagious eye infection?"
She was mocking him. The World Cup winner was being mocked by a girl who probably hadn't watched a cricket match since 2003.
"I'm fine," Deva said dryly. "My wisdom teeth are behaving."
"Good," she said, her tone shifting to business. "Now listen carefully. I will be at the center by 9:30. Do not go into the exam room."
Deva paused. "What?"
"You heard me. Do not enter Room 204. Wait for me outside. Near the water cooler in the corridor. If you are there before me, you wait. You do not move. You do not talk to anyone. You stand there like a statue until I arrive."
"Why?" Deva asked, bewildered. "Are we robbing a bank?"
"Revision, genius," she snapped. "Mercantile Law. The Indian Contract Act. Sections 1 to 75. I have doubts. You need to clear them before we go inside. I am not failing this because you decided to walk in early and meditate."
Deva stared at the phone. The audacity was breathtaking.
"I have to get ready," Deva said weakly.
"Good. Be on time. Bye."
Click.
The line went dead.
Deva pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it. He looked at the screen as if it had just bitten him.
"She hung up," Deva whispered to the empty room. "She ordered me to stand by a water cooler and then hung up."
He fell back onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling fan.
He had faced Malinga in the death overs. He had negotiated multi-million dollar contracts. He had told MS Dhoni to pose in a bed with a trophy.
And yet, he was terrified of being late for a revision session with Krithika.
"Siddarth Reddy," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. "You are in deep trouble, my friend."
---
Time: 9:40 AM.
Location: The Water Cooler, 2nd Floor Corridor.
Siddanth Deva leaned against the peeling beige paint of the corridor wall, checking his watch for the tenth time in two minutes. He was twenty minutes early. He was never early. Usually, he timed his arrival at the crease to the exact second the umpire called play.
But Krithika's threat of "severe consequences" had terrified him way more than a Darren Lehmann spray after a loss.
The corridor was buzzing with that specific brand of last-minute revision panic. The air smelled of floor cleaner, nervous sweat, and cheap deodorant.
Students were pacing back and forth, chanting sections of the Indian Contract Act like they were reciting magical spells that would save their souls.
Deva pulled his cap lower, feeling like an undercover agent in a very low-budget spy movie.
Then, he saw her.
She walked up the stairs, carrying a clear plastic clipboard and a bottle of water like weapons of war. She was wearing a yellow and white salwar kameez today, her hair braided into a single long plait that swung behind her like a pendulum. She scanned the corridor, eyes sharp, cutting through the crowd.
She spotted him. A small, victorious smirk appeared on her face.
She walked over, stopping two feet away, invading his personal bubble just enough to be unsettling. She looked him up and down, inspecting the plain grey t-shirt and the generic cap like a drill sergeant checking a recruit's uniform.
"You're early," she said, sounding genuinely surprised. "I thought rich boys ran on 'Indian Standard Time'. You know, fashionably late and all that."
"Traffic was less," Deva lied smoothly. "And frankly, I didn't want to get kicked again. My shin is still recovering."
"Smart choice," she nodded approvingly. She looked around to ensure no one was eavesdropping, then stepped even closer. The smell of jasmine oil from her hair hit him, cutting right through the dusty, stale smell of the college hallway.
"Okay, listen up, Siddarth," she lowered her voice to a tactical whisper. "The subject is Mercantile Law. It's not like Accounting, where you just write numbers. This is a theory. Long, boring answers. It takes time to write. I can't keep poking you every five minutes like I'm checking if a cake is done."
"Okay," Deva nodded behind his mask. "So what?"
"Strategy," she corrected, using her clipboard to demonstrate. "When you write, don't hunch over the paper like you're protecting the nuclear codes. Shift your left elbow out. Keep the paper at a 45-degree angle towards the aisle. I sit to your left rear. That gives me a clear line of sight without me having to crane my neck like a giraffe."
Deva stared at her. "Wow. You have really thought this through. Do you have diagrams for this?"
"I am a professional backbencher, okay?" she said with immense pride. "This is an art form. Also, write big. Your handwriting is like ant footprints. I need legible headers. If I misread 'Void Contract' as 'Valid Contract', I will fail, and you will suffer the wrath of my ancestors."
"Understood," Deva said, feeling weirdly like a junior player receiving field placement instructions from Dhoni. "Angle the paper. Write big. Don't be an ant."
"And one more thing," her eyes narrowed, the playfulness vanishing instantly. "Don't go playing Gandhi again inside. If the invigilator looks at me, you cough. Loudly. If I kick your chair once, it means turn the page because I'm done. If I kick it twice, it means you're writing too fast, slow down. Got it?"
"Got it," Deva sighed, resigning himself to his fate. "Cough for danger, one kick for next, two kicks for slow. Anything else, boss?"
"No," she grinned, tapping his arm with her pen. "Let's go. Operation Passing Marks is a go."
They entered Room 204. The invigilator was the same guy as Monday—the cricket fan. He saw Deva enter—cap, sunglasses (which he removed), mask. The man gave a slight, knowing nod and pointed to the same seat near the window. He looked like he wanted to ask for an autograph, but remembered his job just in time.
Deva sat down. Krithika sat directly behind him, adjusting her desk like she was setting up a cockpit.
The question papers were distributed. Mercantile Law.
Deva scanned the paper.
Q1. Distinction between Coercion and Undue Influence.
Q2. Rights of an Unpaid Seller.
His [Eidetic Memory] flared to life. It was like opening a browser window in his brain. Page 145 of the textbook. Page 89 of his notes. The answers appeared in his mind like a teleprompter script, glowing and ready to be transcribed.
The bell rang. 10:00 AM.
Deva started writing. He followed instructions to the letter. He kept his left elbow tucked in, angling the paper slightly to the left so it was visible to the rear. He wrote in large, blocky letters for the headings, feeling ridiculous but compliant.
10:15 AM.
Thump. A single, sharp kick to his chair.
Deva paused. He didn't turn around. He slowly slid the completed sheet to the side of the desk, exposing it fully to the person behind him.
He heard the furious scratching of a pen from behind. It sounded like a squirrel trying to dig through wood.
For the next two hours, they worked in perfect, silent harmony. It was a partnership as fluid as Dhawan and Deva at the top of the order, just... illegal.
Kick. (Turn page).
Deva flipped the sheet without missing a beat.
Cough. (Invigilator walking by).
Deva leaned back, covering his paper, looking thoughtful and innocent. Krithika stared at the ceiling, looking bored. The invigilator passed, oblivious.
Kick. (Resume).
Deva wrote flawlessly. He defined contracts. He explained the caveats of 'Caveat Emptor' with textbook precision. He listed the rights of an indemnity holder like he'd written the law himself. And faithfully, line by line, Krithika transcribed his knowledge onto her own sheet.
By 12:00 PM, Deva put his pen down. He had finished. His hand was cramping slightly, but the job was done.
He waited.
Thump-Thump. (Double kick).
He waited some more.
Finally, a soft whisper hit the back of his neck, smelling of mint gum. "Done. You can pack up. Good job, partner."
Deva tied his sheets. He stood up and handed his paper to the invigilator. Krithika submitted hers ten seconds later, looking exhausted but triumphant.
"Go outside," she whispered as they squeezed past each other in the narrow aisle. "Wait for five minutes. Don't let people see us walking out together. It looks suspicious if we come out at the same time."
Deva nodded. He walked out, put on his sunglasses, and went to stand near the parking lot gate, leaning against a tree, hidden by the shadows of the neem leaves.
Five minutes later, Krithika emerged. She walked with a bounce in her step, twirling her ID card lanyard around her finger. She spotted him and walked over, a bright, genuine smile on her face that made her look completely different from the terrifying taskmaster of the morning.
"You," she said, pointing a finger at him, "are a genius. A literal genius. That answer for 'Unpaid Seller'? Beautiful. The points, the case law... I think I might actually get a distinction. My dad is going to faint."
"Glad I could help," Deva mumbled, adjusting his cap. "Can I go now? My shift is over, right?"
"Go?" She looked offended. "After we just conquered the Indian Penal Code together? No way. Come on."
She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him towards the street. "Coffee. There's a decent place around the corner. My treat. You earned it."
Deva planted his feet. "I told you. I can't drink hot things. The swelling. Remember? The contagious chipmunk face?"
Krithika stopped. She rolled her eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh. "Oh, right. The medical drama. Fine. You are incredibly high maintenance, Siddarth Reddy."
She looked around, scanning the street. "Juice center. There."
She pointed to a 'Ganesh Juice Center' stall buzzing with students. "You can drink juice, right? With a straw? Or do you need an IV drip?"
Deva hesitated. He looked at the crowd. It was thinning out, mostly students rushing home. "Yeah. Juice is fine. Cold is good."
"Good. Come."
They walked to the stall. The noise of the blender was loud, masking their conversation.
"One Mosambi (Sweet Lime) for him," Krithika ordered, shouting over the noise. "And one cold coffee for me. Strong."
"No ice," Deva added quickly to the vendor.
The juice wala nodded, tossing fruits into the blender with practiced apathy.
They stood in the shade of the stall's awning. Krithika leaned against the counter, looking at him with intense curiosity.
"So," she started the interrogation. "Siddarth. Which college are you actually from? I haven't seen you at the university centers before. You don't look like a regular."
Deva's mind raced. He needed a college that was respectable but obscure enough that she wouldn't know everyone there.
"Wesley," Deva lied. "Wesley Degree College."
"Wesley?" She frowned, processing the data. "That's in Secunderabad. Why is your center all the way here in Mehdipatnam? That's like... across the world."
"Late application," Deva improvised smoothly. "I applied for the supplementary exams on the last day. The system glitched or something. They threw me in wherever there was a seat. Typical government efficiency."
"Ah. Typical backbencher behavior," she nodded, accepting the lie. "I'm from St. Francis. It's strict. If the nuns knew I was copying, they would probably exorcise me or something."
Deva chuckled. "I think you'd scare the nuns more than they'd scare you."
"Probably," she grinned. "I'm a handful."
She took a long sip of her coffee, looking annoyed as a thought crossed her mind. "You know, the worst part about this stupid exam schedule isn't the studying. It's the timing. I missed the India vs West Indies match yesterday."
Deva stiffened. "Oh? You... like cricket?"
"Like?" She looked at him as if he were crazy. "I live for it. My dad watches, my brother watches, and I watch. We scream at the TV together."
"Did you... catch the score?" Deva asked tentatively, trying to sound casual.
"Yeah, I checked it on my phone during the break," she shrugged, stirring her coffee with the straw. "India won. Raina captained well, I guess. But honestly?" She sighed, looking disappointed. "I didn't watch the whole thing. I turned it off halfway."
"Why?" Deva asked, genuinely curious. "It was a close game."
"Because what's the point?" she said, rolling her eyes. "It's just... boring without him. It feels empty."
"Without who?"
"Siddanth Deva," she said the name with a reverence that made Deva's stomach do a flip. "Without him in the team, there's no fire. No magic. It's just... regular cricket. With Deva, anything can happen. Without him, it's just men hitting a ball. I don't miss it that much because he isn't playing in the series."
Deva choked on his Mosambi juice. He coughed violently, the liquid going down the wrong pipe. He bent over, wheezing behind his mask.
"Woah, careful, chipmunk!" Krithika patted his back hard. "Don't die on me! We have Auditing next week!"
Deva straightened up, his eyes watering. "I'm fine. Just... swallow... wrong pipe."
"You really are delicate," she teased. "But you agree, right? The team needs the Devil."
"I heard he's... uh... arrogant," Deva managed to say, pushing his luck.
"Arrogant?" She glared at him, her eyes flashing. "He has attitude. There is a difference, Siddarth. He backs it up. He walks the talk. Unlike some people who have an attitude just because they own a fake Tag Heuer watch."
Deva shut his mouth immediately. He pulled his sleeve down over his watch. Insulting himself to throw her off the scent was clearly a dangerous game with her.
"Anyway," she finished her coffee. "Enough cricket talk. You probably don't even watch. You look like the type who watches Discovery Channel."
"Something like that," Deva mumbled.
"Okay, Mr. Mystery. Next exam is Tuesday. Auditing. It's boring, but easy. Same time? 9:30 water cooler?"
Deva looked at her. Despite the fear of being recognized, despite the web of lies, he realized he didn't mind this. It was... normal. It was refreshing to be talked to like a human, not a deity. Even if she thought he was a delicate, lying student named Siddarth.
"9:30," Deva nodded. "Water cooler. I'll be there."
"Don't be late," she warned, picking up her bag. "And read Chapter 5. I hate Auditing standards. Bye, Siddarth."
"Bye, Krithika."
She turned and walked towards a parked purple TVS Scooty Pep+. She unlocked it, put on a cute helmet that clashed with her tough demeanor, and kicked the stand up.
She revved the tiny engine, looked back at him, gave a two-finger salute, and zoomed off into the Mehdipatnam traffic with the confidence of someone riding a Ducati.
Deva watched her go, a small smile forming behind his mask.
Once she was gone, he let out a long breath he didn't know he was holding. He adjusted his mask, checked his surroundings, and walked quickly to the parking lot.
He unlocked the Pulsar.
"Mission accomplished," he whispered. "Identity secure. Law exam passed. And apparently, I am missed."
He kicked the bike to life and merged into the traffic, leaving Siddarth Reddy behind and driving back to become Siddanth Deva.