Date: September 20th, 2011.
Location: Deva Farmhouse, Shamshabad.
The jet lag from the flight back from London had barely faded when Siddanth Deva found himself standing in the middle of his farmhouse lawn, breathing in the dry, dusty air of the Deccan. It was a stark contrast to the damp chill of Lord's or the gloom of Manchester. Here, the sun bit into your skin, and the air smelled of heated earth and neem leaves.
The England tour was over. India had drawn the Test series 1-1 and swept the ODIs. Deva had returned as the undisputed MVP of the summer.
But at home, he was just the guy who had to inspect the pomegranate saplings.
"They are growing well," Vikram Deva said, walking beside him, inspecting a row of young trees. "The drip irrigation system you paid for... it saves so much water."
Deva nodded, his shoulders relaxing. This was his reset button. No cameras. No bouncers. Just trees.
His phone buzzed. It was his official number. Caller ID: MS Dhoni.
Deva picked up immediately. "Good morning, Skipper. Missing me already?"
"Always," Dhoni's calm voice crackled through the earpiece. "Just checking if you reached home safely. The media at the airport was a bit aggressive."
"I survived," Deva grinned, kicking a pebble across the lawn. "Back in the fortress now. How's Ranchi?"
"Quiet. Bikes are running well," Dhoni said, a hint of relaxation in his voice before switching back to business. "Listen, enjoy the break, but keep the engine running. England is coming here next month. They are hurt after the ODI whitewash. They will come hard."
"Let them come," Deva said, his eyes narrowing slightly against the sun. "It's our backyard now. Are we preparing spinning tracks?"
"That's the plan," Dhoni confirmed. "We choke them with spin in the middle overs. Ashwin and Jaddu are ready. But I need you firing at the death. The conditions will be different from England. Low bounce. Reverse swing will be key."
"I'll be ready, Mahi bhai," Deva promised. "I'm working on a new slower ball variation. The knuckleball needs more dip."
"Good. Don't eat too much biryani," Dhoni quipped. "See you at camp on October 4th."
"Aye aye, Captain."
Deva hung up. He walked back to the house. His mother, Sesikala, was waiting on the porch. "Go wash up. Lunch is ready."
---
Date: September 22nd, 2011.
Location: Prasad's IMAX, Hyderabad.
Deva sat on the low wall near the parking lot, waiting. He was back in uniform: faded jeans, plain t-shirt, baseball cap pulled low, and the black surgical mask.
It was hot. Sweat trickled down his neck. He checked his cheap digital watch. She was twenty minutes late.
Finally, the familiar purple Scooty Pep+ zoomed into the lot, swerving around a luxury car before coming to a halt in front of him.
Krithika took off her helmet. She looked flustered, her face flushed, her hair a chaotic mess. She was wearing a bright yellow kurta that seemed to challenge the sun itself, but her expression was stormy.
"You're late," Deva said, his voice muffled by the mask.
"Don't start," she snapped, parking the bike with unnecessary force. "I had a war at home. World War Three."
Deva raised an eyebrow behind his sunglasses. "Serious?"
"My sister," she fumed, adjusting her dupatta. "She tried to steal this kurta. I specifically told her I was wearing it today. She hid it under her bed! I had to physically wrestle it out of her hands. Look!"
She pointed to a faint red mark on her forearm. "Battle scars. I have scratch marks to prove it. Siblings are the worst."
Deva chuckled. "I wouldn't know. Only child."
"Lucky you," she huffed. "You get to keep all your clothes." She finally looked at him, her anger dissipating into a smile. "So. You survived the village. No tigers? No bandits?"
"Just cows and court cases," Deva lied smoothly. "I missed the city."
"I bet you did," she grinned. "And... the results came out while you were gone."
Deva stiffened. He knew he had passed—the System had confirmed it—but he had to play the part. "And?"
"I passed!" she beamed, high-fiving him. "Distinction for me! Can you believe it? I thought I would fail Cost Accounting, but thanks to your answers, I actually looked smart. My dad thinks I bribed the examiner."
"You technically outsourced the labor," Deva joked.
"Whatever. A pass is a pass. I am a graduate! No arranged marriage for me yet!" She did a little victory dance. "Come on. Movie time. Dookudu is playing. Mahesh Babu. I need to see some action to calm down."
-----------------------------------------------------
They managed to get tickets for the matinee show. The theater was packed. Deva slumped in his seat, enjoying the anonymity of the darkness while the crowd roared for the superstar on screen.
After the movie, they drove to Necklace Road. The evening breeze off the Hussain Sagar Lake was cooling. They walked along the promenade, the giant Buddha statue silhouetted against the twilight.
They found a spot to sit on the retaining wall.
"So," she said, looking out at the water, swinging her legs. "The match. October 14th. Uppal Stadium. India vs England. First ODI."
"I remember," Deva said. "The offer stands."
"Good," she said. "Because I have demands."
"Of course you do. How many?"
She held up four fingers. "Four. Me. My sister and two friends. They don't believe I know someone who 'knows people' in the board. I need to prove I have connections."
"Four tickets," Deva nodded. "Done."
"And not just any tickets," she leaned in, her eyes intense. "You said 'Boundary Line'. I want to be close enough to smell the grass. Near the dressing room. I have a plan."
"A plan?" Deva asked, curious. "What kind of plan?"
"I'm going to make a sign," she declared. "'Marry Me Deva'."
Deva didn't choke. He didn't cough. Instead, a slow, wicked grin spread across his face behind the mask. He leaned back against the railing, crossing his arms.
"Bold," Deva said, his voice laced with amusement. "Very bold."
"It's a classic move!" she said excitedly. "Did you watch the Test series against Sri Lanka last year?"
"I might have seen it," Deva said casually.
"Do you remember the Bangalore Test?" she asked, her eyes shining. "There was a girl in the stands. She was holding a sign. 'Marry Me Deva'. The camera zoomed in on her."
"I remember," Deva nodded. He remembered talking with Laxman and Dravid in balcony. He remembered the sign.
"And what did he do?" Krithika asked, clutching Deva's arm. "He smiled! And he blew a flying kiss! Right there on live TV! It was the most romantic thing ever on a cricket field. The whole country went crazy!"
"So you want a repeat?" Deva asked.
"I want better," she declared. "I want to be close enough that he has to see it. If I hold the sign, and I'm right there... maybe he'll do it again."
Deva looked at her. He imagined the scene. Him fielding at long-on. Her standing three meters away holding a proposal sign.
Most players would be embarrassed. Most players would look away.
But Siddanth Deva wasn't most players.
"Do it," Deva challenged her, his eyes glinting behind his sunglasses.
"You think?"
"I know," Deva said confidently. "He loves attention. He loves the drama. If you hold that sign, I guarantee you... he won't just ignore it. He'll give you a show."
"Really?" Krithika grinned. "You think he's that kind of guy?"
"Oh, I'm sure of it," Deva laughed softly, his mind already plotting the exact mischievous gesture he would use to tease her on national television. "He isn't afraid of anything. Especially not a pretty girl with a sign. You bring the sign, Krithika. Leave the reaction to him."
"North Stand," Deva continued, mapping it out. "Ground Floor. Right next to the dugout. You'll be able to see his eyelashes. Make sure the sign is big."
"Perfect," she squealed. "You are the best, Siddarth. Seriously. Even if you look like a bank robber."
"I try," Deva stood up, dusting off his jeans. "I have to go. Work."
"Work?"
"Yeah. My friend... the one with the tickets. He has some personal business. I help him out."
"Right. Go. But text me the ticket confirmation."
"I will."
They walked back to the bikes. She got on her Scooty.
"October 1st week," she reminded him, pointing at his face. "The mask comes off. No excuses."
"No excuses," Deva promised.
He watched her drive away, the purple scooty disappearing into the traffic. He wasn't worried about the reveal anymore. He was looking forward to the match. He was looking forward to seeing the look on her face when the 'Siddarth Reddy' mask came off, and the Devil stepped out to field right in front of her.
It was going to be chaos. And he couldn't wait.
---
Location: NEXUS HQ, Hi-Tec City.
Time: 8:00 PM.
Deva walked into the office. The vibe was electric. More desks. More screens. But the center of attention was the conference room where Arjun sat surrounded by whiteboards covered in diagrams.
"The Prodigal Son returns," Arjun said, looking up."Great tour by the way."
"Thanks," Deva said, sitting down. "Now, let's talk about the real dispute. Hardware."
"Bolt 1," Arjun sighed. "I have the feasibility reports. But Sid, we have nothing physical. No prototype. No model. Just a list of specs and a dream."
"That's fine," Deva said, leaning forward. "We don't need a model yet. We need a philosophy."
He looked at the whiteboard. It was filled with technical jargon—processor speeds, battery capacity, screen resolution.
"Erase it," Deva said.
"What?"
"Erase it. That's engineering. We need marketing."
Deva picked up a marker. He drew a pyramid on the board.
"Who buys phones in India right now?" Deva asked. "Uncles buy Nokia because it lasts a week. Rich people buy BlackBerry for status. Who buys Android?"
"Geeks?" Arjun ventured. "Techies?"
"No. The future buys Android," Deva corrected. "College students. Young IT employees. The people who are entering the workforce. They have disposable income, but not iPhone income. They want status, but they also want value. They play games. They use Facebook. They text all night."
Deva circled the word YOUTH.
"Our target audience is them. We don't market this as a business phone. We market it as a lifestyle phone. A gaming console in your pocket. A studio in your pocket. A social hub."
"So, high specs, aggressive pricing?"
"Exactly," Deva said. "We target the colleges first. Campus ambassadors. Flash sales. Make it cool to own a Bolt. Make it exclusive. If the students have it, the parents will buy it next year. We start with the employees—our own, and the IT parks in Bangalore and Hyderabad. Word of mouth."
Arjun looked at the empty table where a prototype should be. "It's a bold plan for a phone that is currently just a drawing."
"It exists here," Deva tapped his head. "And here." He pointed to the whiteboard. "Get the design team to focus on the 'Cool Factor'. Black matte finish. Minimal branding. It needs to look like a weapon, not a toy."
"Matte black," Arjun wrote it down.
"I'll talk to the ODM tomorrow," Arjun said. "We need to push them on the 2GB RAM module. They are still resisting."
"Push them," Deva said. "Tell them we will pay up front. Cash is king."
Arjun leaned back. "You know, for a guy who just spent three months playing cricket, you have a lot of opinions on supply chain management."
"I read a lot," Deva smiled. "Also, I have a feeling."
"Your feelings usually make us money," Arjun admitted. "Okay. Bolt 1 is a go. But don't expect a prototype for another month."
"That's fine," Deva stood up. "I have a series to play. England is coming."
"Right. They will be looking for revenge."
"Something like that."
Deva walked out of the office. The city lights of Hyderabad twinkled below him. He felt the hum of potential in the air.
He had a team to lead. A phone to build. And a girl with a 'Marry Me' sign to dodge.
Life was good.