Date: June 29th, 2011 (Wednesday).
Location: Taj Lands End, Mumbai.
Time: 9:45 AM.
Siddanth Deva stood in front of the full-length mirror in his suite, adjusting his collar. The morning had been a study in contrast. While Deva had slept soundly thanks to his [Perfect Rhythm] skill, waking up at 7:00 AM sharp and heading down for a solitary, focused session in the hotel gym, his father had seemingly not slept at all.
Since 8:00 AM, there had been a rhythmic tapping on Deva's door every fifteen minutes.
Knock. Knock. "Sid? Are you awake?"
Knock. Knock. "Sid? Did you iron your shirt?"
Knock. Knock. "Sid? We shouldn't be late. It is disrespectful to be late for Mr. Bachchan."
Deva smiled at his reflection. He had faced the fastest bowlers in the world without flinching, but his father was currently operating at a heart rate higher than a T20 run chase.
Deva smoothed down his outfit. He had opted for a look that balanced his youth with his new status as a statesman of the game. A crisp, high-quality white t-shirt, along with tailored denim jeans. Over this, he wore a structured blazer in a deep charcoal grey. It was smart, modern, and comfortable enough to sit in for hours. He paired it with white sneakers—clean, minimalist, and stylish.
He checked his watch. 9:55 AM. Five minutes ahead of schedule.
He opened his door and walked down the corridor to his parents' suite. Before he could even ring the bell, the door swung open.
Vikram stood there, dressed in a new light blue shirt and beige trousers that Deva had bought him. He looked sharp, but his hands were fidgeting with his cuffs. Behind him, Sesikala was adjusting the pleats of her Kanjeevaram saree, looking equally nervous but trying to maintain composure.
"Finally!" Vikram exhaled, checking his watch. "It is 9:55. The car is downstairs. We should go."
"Dad," Deva laughed, putting a hand on his shoulder. "The studio is twenty minutes away. We are due there at 11:00. We are early."
"Traffic, Siddanth," Vikram said seriously. "This is Mumbai. And this is Amitabh Bachchan. You cannot keep the Shahenshah waiting."
"We won't keep him waiting," Deva promised. "You look great, by the way. Very handsome."
Vikram blushed slightly. "Your mother chose the shirt. Come on, let's go."
---
The drive to Film City in Goregaon was smooth, much to Vikram's relief. As the car wound its way through the lush, wooded roads of the studio complex, the atmosphere in the car shifted from nervous energy to reverent silence.
They passed massive sets—fake villages, colonial courtyards, police stations. This was the dream factory of India.
The car pulled up to a heavily guarded gate marked "KBC - SET 7".
The security guard peered into the window. He saw Deva. His eyes widened. He snapped a salute and waved them through without checking ID.
They parked near the VIP entrance. A man in a black suit with a headset and a clipboard was waiting. This was Mr. Kapoor, the Show Manager.
As Deva stepped out, Kapoor rushed forward.
"Mr. Deva! Welcome, welcome!" Kapoor shook his hand vigorously. "Big fan, sir. Huge fan. And these must be your parents?"
"Yes," Deva said, introducing them. "Mr. Vikram Deva and Mrs. Sesikala."
"An honor," Kapoor bowed slightly. "Please, follow me. Mr. Bachchan is already in the building. He is in his vanity room, but he specifically asked to meet you in the Green Room before we start the audience entry."
Kapoor led them to a door marked "Star Lounge". He swiped a keycard and ushered them inside. The room was plush, filled with white leather sofas, a large mirror with vanity lights, and a table laden with refreshments.
---
Before they could settle in, Kapoor pulled out a form from his clipboard.
"Sir, just a few administrative details before the shoot," Kapoor said, clicking his pen. "We need to lock in your 'Phone-A-Friend' lifelines. We need two names and numbers."
"Right," Deva nodded. "First one is Arjun. He's my business partner."
"Noted. Arjun," Kapoor wrote it down. "And the second?"
Deva paused for a second, a mischievous glint in his eye. "For the second option... put down Mahendra Singh Dhoni."
Kapoor stopped writing. He looked up, his jaw dropping slightly. "M-MS Dhoni? The Indian Captain?"
"Yes," Deva said calmly. "For sports questions. He knows his stuff."
"Sir," Kapoor wiped sweat from his forehead, his producer brain going into overdrive. "If we call Dhoni live on national TV... our ratings will explode. The server might crash. But... are you sure he will pick up? He is on a break."
"Let me check," Deva said, pulling out his phone. "I'll warn him."
He dialed Dhoni's number. He put it on speaker so Kapoor could hear.
Ring... Ring...
Ring... Ring...
Ring... Ring...
"Hello?" The familiar, calm voice answered.
"Mahi bhai," Deva said. "I'm at the KBC set."
"Ah, Big B," Dhoni said. "Don't freeze up, Sid."
"I won't. Listen, I need a favor. I'm putting you down as my Phone-A-Friend lifeline."
There was a pause on the other end. Then, a distinct chuckle.
"You want me to answer quiz questions?" Dhoni laughed. "I hope they are about bikes or military history. If they ask me about French Literature, you are losing money."
"It's for sports," Deva assured him. "Or pressure situations. Just keep your phone loud."
"Fine," Dhoni laughed again. "Call me if you need the answer. But don't waste it on a simple question, okay? Don't call me to ask who won the 1983 World Cup."
"Deal," Deva grinned. "Thanks, Skipper."
He cut the call and looked at Kapoor. "He's in."
Kapoor looked like he had just won the lottery. "Confirmed. MS Dhoni. This episode is going to be historic."
---
"Please, make yourselves comfortable," Kapoor said, practically vibrating with excitement as he updated the production team on his headset. "Mr. Bachchan will join you in two minutes."
Those two minutes felt like two years to Vikram. He stood up. He sat down. He smoothed his hair. He checked his breath.
Then, the door opened.
A hush fell over the room. It wasn't silence; it was a vacuum.
Amitabh Bachchan walked in.
He was tall. Taller than he looked on TV. He was wearing a sharp three-piece suit, his beard perfectly trimmed, his glasses perched on his nose. He carried an aura that filled the room instantly—a mix of royalty and grandfatherly warmth.
He saw Deva. A slow, famous smile spread across his face. He opened his arms.
"Aha! The Champion!"
His voice—that legendary baritone—rumbled through Deva's chest.
Deva stepped forward. For the first time since the World Cup final, he felt a flutter of nerves.
Bachchan put his arms on his shoulders and pulled him into a hug.
Bachchan said. "World Cup winner. The pride of the nation."
"Sir," Deva smiled, stepping back. "I grew up watching you. This is... surreal. I am a big fan."
"And I am a fan of your game," Bachchan said, his eyes twinkling behind the lenses. "That innings in the final? The 'Calma'? Magnificent. Absolutely magnificent."
Bachchan turned his gaze to the couple standing frozen near the sofa.
"And these must be the creators of the masterpiece," Bachchan said, walking towards them with folded hands. "Namaskar."
Vikram Deva looked like he had stopped breathing. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
Deva stepped in. "Sir, this is my mother, Sesikala. And this is my father, Vikram Deva."
Bachchan shook Sesikala's hand warmly. "Namaste, Devi ji."
Then he turned to Vikram. He extended his hand.
Vikram took it. His hand was shaking.
"Sir," Deva added, grinning. "My father... he is your biggest fan. I think he has watched Sholay twenty times in the theater alone. And don't even get him started on Agneepath and Deewar. He quotes the dialogues to the buffaloes at our farm."
Bachchan laughed—a deep, hearty sound. He held Vikram's hand with both of his.
"Is that so?" Bachchan asked kindly. "Twenty times? That is more than I have watched, Vikram ji. I am humbled. It is because of people like you that we exist."
Vikram finally found his voice. It was a squeak. "Vijay Deenanath Chauhan," he whispered. "Poora naam. Baap ka naam... Deenanath Chauhan."
Bachchan's smile softened. He patted Vikram's shoulder. "Thank you. It is an honor to meet the father who raised such a brave son."
---
The emotional moment was interrupted by a polite cough. Kapoor, the manager, stepped forward with a woman carrying a makeup kit.
"Sir," Kapoor said apologetically. "We need to do a final touch-up. For Mr. Bachchan, and for Mr. Deva. And... for the parents as well, since they will be in the front row and on camera frequently."
Sesikala recoiled. "Makeup? No, no. We don't wear makeup. I just put some powder. That is enough."
Vikram shook his head vigorously. "I am fine. No paint for me."
Deva looked at the manager. "Is it necessary?"
"The lights on the set are very harsh, sir," the makeup artist explained gently. "Without a little base, the skin looks oily and shiny on HD cameras. Just a little touch-up."
"No," Sesikala insisted, clutching her purse. "I will look like a drama artist."
Bachchan cleared his throat.
"Devi ji," Bachchan said, his voice soft and persuasive. "Vikram ji. Please. It is just for the technical requirements. Even I have to wear it. Look." He pointed to his own face. "If the Shahenshah can wear powder, surely the parents of the World Champion can indulge us? It would make the cameraman very happy."
He smiled that charming, disarming smile.
Sesikala melted. Vikram melted.
"Okay," Sesikala whispered. "If... if Amit ji says so."
"Just a little," Vikram warned the artist. "Don't make me look like a heroine."
The room chuckled. The makeup artist quickly applied a light layer of powder and foundation to Deva and his parents, matting down the shine.
---
Once the touch-ups were done, Kapoor clapped his hands. "Okay! We are five minutes from rolling. The audience is seated. Mr. Bachchan, you are ready?"
"Always," Bachchan straightened his tie.
Kapoor turned to Deva. "Siddanth sir, here is the flow. Mr. Bachchan will go out first. The lights will dim. The music will start—you know the music."
Deva nodded. Dhum-dhum-dhum. Everyone knew the music.
"He will do his opening monologue," Kapoor explained. "He will talk about the season, the energy of the country, and the victory. He will build it up. He will talk about a young man who changed the game."
Kapoor pointed to a spot near the heavy curtain entrance. "You will wait there. In the shadows. The spotlight will be off."
"When Mr. Bachchan, you will walk out. You walk straight to him. Shake hands. Hug. Then you take the Hot Seat."
"Parents," Kapoor pointed to another door. "My assistant will escort you to your seats in the front row right now. You need to be seated before Big B enters."
Vikram and Sesikala nodded nervously. They touched Deva's arm. "Good luck, son," Vikram said.
They left with the assistant, casting one last awestruck look at Bachchan.
Bachchan turned to Deva. The playfulness was gone; he was in the zone now. The professional host.
"Are you nervous, Siddanth?"
"A little," Deva admitted. "It's different from cricket. There is no helmet to hide behind."
"Treat it like a pitch," Bachchan advised. "I am the bowler. The questions are the balls. Play them on merit. And remember... the crowd loves you. You cannot get out today. You have already won."
He patted Deva's back hard.
"Let's make some magic."
Bachchan walked out of the door towards the stage. The roar of the studio audience, muted by the walls, suddenly became audible as the door opened and closed.
Deva walked to his waiting spot behind the heavy velvet curtains. He stood in the dark.
He heard the iconic theme music swell. The drum roll.
He heard the baritone voice echoing through the studio.
"Namaskar! Adaab! Sat Sri Akal! Main hoon Amitabh Bachchan..."
Deva closed his eyes. He took a deep breath.
He waited for the cue. The Hot Seat was waiting.