Date: October 24th, 2012.
Location: Deva Farmhouse, Shamshabad.
Time: 5:30 AM.
The sun had not yet breached the horizon, but the Deva Farmhouse was already humming with quiet, unseen activity. In his ground-floor study, illuminated only by the cool, blue light of three high-definition monitors, Siddanth Deva was wide awake.
The screen in front of him wasn't displaying cricket statistics or video analyses of opposition bowlers. It was a cascading waterfall of complex Python scripts, C++ integrations, and predictive neural network models.
He was building the brain of the "Shadow Project."
Deva is meticulously crafting the High-Frequency Trading (HFT) algorithm. It was a delicate, incredibly complex piece of software designed to identify micro-inefficiencies in the global stock markets, execute thousands of trades per second, and siphon off fractions of a cent on every transaction.
It was digital alchemy.
Arjun was still dealing with global supply chain delays to procure the five custom-built enterprise server racks and the highly coveted Nvidia Kepler GPUs needed to run the software. The hardware was at least a month away from arriving in Hyderabad. But Deva wasn't in a hurry. The off-season was long, and a code this powerful required layers of fail-safes. He was currently writing the "Ghost Protocol" layer—a self-erasing script that would route the trades through dozens of proxy servers globally, ensuring the algorithm's activities could never be traced back to a basement in Shamshabad.
'Run diagnostic on the latency sub-routine.'
[System Message: Diagnostic complete. Estimated trade execution latency: 0.004 milliseconds. Optimal.]
Deva smiled, hitting 'Save' and locking the drive behind a 256-bit encryption key. The financial future of the NEXUS empire was secure. Now, he needed to attend to his physical empire.
He changed into his training gear and walked out into the cool morning air. The festival of Dussehra—Vijayadashami—had arrived, bringing with it a sense of triumph and renewal.
He walked to the custom-built practice facility at the edge of the property. He flipped the heavy switch on the industrial bowling machine. He loaded it with two dozen hard, synthetic practice balls, setting the speed dial to a blistering 150 kmph, and adjusting the length to a sharp, rising bouncer.
For the next hour, there was no coding. There was no business. There was only the sharp thwack of willow meeting synthetic leather. He practiced his pull shots, his hooks, and his evasive swaying. He wanted to ensure that the muscle memory developed during the gruelling tours of England and Australia didn't dull during his rest period.
By 7:00 AM, completely drenched in sweat but buzzing with endorphins, he turned the machine off. The physical and mental engines were primed. It was time to celebrate.
---
After a long, hot shower, Deva emerged wearing a traditional, crisp white silk kurta-pyjama, the fabric rustling softly as he walked. He joined his parents who were already dressed in their festive best. Sesikala looked radiant in a deep red Kanjeevaram saree, holding a silver pooja thali adorned with marigolds, turmeric, and camphor.
They piled into the car.
They drove to a small, ancient Durga temple located on the rugged outskirts of Shamshabad. It wasn't one of the massive, crowded, commercialized temples in the city center. It was a local shrine, nestled between banyan trees and rocky outcrops, frequented mostly by farmers and the working class of the surrounding villages.
Despite its obscure location, Siddanth Deva, standing at 6'2", broad-shouldered and possessing a face recognized by a billion people, was impossible to hide.
As they walked up the stone steps, a murmur rippled through the morning crowd.
"Is that... Deva?" a young boy whispered, tugging at his mother's saree.
Deva smiled. He didn't wear sunglasses or a mask today. He walked with his hands folded in respect. After they completed their darshan and offered their prayers to Goddess Durga, seeking blessings for health and victory, the inevitable happened.
A small crowd gathered near the temple courtyard. They were hesitant, respectful of the religious setting, but their eyes were shining with awe.
"Deva sir," a man holding a toddler approached tentatively. "My son he is a big fan of yours. Can we take a photo?"
"Of course, brother," Deva said warmly. He spent the next twenty minutes standing in the courtyard. He signed faded notebooks, posed for grainy pictures on basic Nokia camera phones, and patted the heads of wide-eyed children. He didn't rush them. He didn't act like a superstar burdened by his fans. He acted like a neighbor.
"He has not changed," Vikram noted proudly, standing near the temple bells with Sesikala. "The money hasn't touched his head."
"He knows where he comes from," Sesikala agreed, watching her son laugh at a joke a local farmer made.
Once the temple duties were complete, Sesikala took the car back to the farmhouse to prepare the home for the guests. Deva and his father, however, had one more traditional duty to fulfill.
They walked down a dirt path behind the temple to a designated clearing where the local livestock traders were gathered. Dussehra, especially in Telangana, is synonymous with feasts of meat. The tradition of Bali—animal sacrifice—was a deeply rooted cultural practice, symbolizing the victory of good over evil, with the meat subsequently distributed among families and workers.
Deva and Vikram met the foreman of their farm, a weathered, loyal man named Mallaiah.
"Everything is ready, Deva Babu," Mallaiah said respectfully.
Deva had personally funded the purchase of five large, healthy goats. He wasn't just buying meat; he was providing a feast for all the farm workers, the security guards, the groundsmen, and their extended families who lived in the quarters on the edge of the estate.
"Make sure the distribution is fair, Mallaiah," Vikram instructed as the local priest began the brief rituals. "Every family must get enough for a proper festival meal."
Once the traditional Bali was completed respectfully off-site, the carcasses were loaded into the back of a pickup truck. Deva and Vikram rode in the front, driving back to the farmhouse where the real work was about to begin.
---
By 9:30 AM, the backyard of the Deva Farmhouse had transformed into a massive, open-air kitchen.
Rahul, Deva's hyper-efficient Personal Assistant, had done his job flawlessly. Large shamiyanas (colorful festival tents) had been erected on the lawns to provide shade. Long tables and hundreds of chairs were set up. In the cooking area, massive fire pits had been dug, and huge aluminum and copper degs (vessels large enough to cook for fifty people each) had been rented from a local caterer.
A horn honked at the main gate.
The trio had arrived. Arjun, Sameer, and Feroz piled out of Arjun's sleek sedan. They were no longer just college boys; they were the core operational team of NEXUS. But today, they were drafted for manual labor.
"Happy Dussehra, brothers!" Deva shouted, walking towards them, wiping his hands on a towel. He had already tied an apron over his white kurta.
"Happy Dussehra, Boss," Arjun laughed, hugging him. "I thought we were invited to a feast. Why do you look like a butcher?"
"Because I am cooking today," Deva grinned, pointing to the massive vessels. Mallaiah and a team of hired helpers had been working since 7:00 AM to clean the meat and soak the kilos of premium Basmati rice, but the actual cooking was Deva's domain. "And you three are my sous-chefs. Sameer, Feroz, grab those knives. You are on onion duty."
"Onion duty?" Sameer groaned, looking at a sack that contained at least twenty kilos of onions. "Sid, I am the Head of Operations for Flash Messenger. I manage millions of users. I don't chop onions!"
"Today, you manage the tears," Deva handed him a large chef's knife. "Get to work. We have sixty people to feed."
Ten minutes later, Sameer had officially given up on dignity. He was wearing a pair of neon green swimming goggles he had found in the farmhouse pool house. "It's a biohazard zone," Sameer defended himself against Feroz's camera, aggressively chopping onions while looking like an amphibious alien.
Arjun, meanwhile, was standing near the fire pits holding a packet of turmeric, looking intensely stressed.
"Sid, wait," Arjun yelled over the crackle of the wood fire. "What is the exact grammage of turmeric and red chilli powder for 15 kilos of mutton? how do you calculate that."
Deva just laughed. He reached into a massive steel bowl of red chilli powder, grabbed a huge, unmeasured handful, and tossed it straight into the sizzling hot oil of the deg. The spices hit the oil with an angry hisssss, sending a fragrant, pungent smoke into the air that immediately made Arjun cough.
"Arjun, don't calculate," Deva sighed, tossing another handful of coriander powder in blindly. "You cook with your ancestors guiding your hand, not an algorithm. When the spirits say 'stop', you stop."
Arjun looked horrified. "That is terrible quality control! What if the spirits want to burn our stomachs?"
"Then we drink more Thums Up," Deva winked, stirring the massive pot with a lon oar.
Feroz, ever the documentarian, pointed his digital handycam at the chaos.
"Welcome to Masterchef: The Devil's Kitchen," Feroz narrated, panning the camera from Sameer in his goggles to Deva stirring the cauldron. "Here we have the Vice-Captain of Indian Cricket team. Tell us, Chef Deva, what is on the menu for this auspicious day?"
Deva looked directly into the lens, wiping his brow with the back of his arm. "Today, we are going completely traditional. We have Bagara Rice, infused with mint, coriander, and whole spices. We have a fiery, slow-cooked Mutton Curry made from the fresh meat we just brought. For the poultry lovers, a rich Chicken Curry. For our vegetarian friends, a classic South Indian Sambar, a thick Raita, and a special Paneer Butter Masala. And to finish it off, because my mom will kill me if I don't make it, Double ka Meetha."
Feroz, ever the documentarian, pointed his digital handycam at the chaos.
"Welcome to Masterchef: The Devil's Kitchen," Feroz narrated, panning the camera from Sameer in his goggles to Deva moving between the cauldrons. "Here we have the Vice-Captain of India. Tell us, Chef Deva, what is on the menu for this auspicious day?"
Deva looked directly into the lens, wiping his brow with the back of his arm. "Today, we are going completely traditional. We have Bagara Rice, infused with mint, coriander, and whole spices. We have a fiery, slow-cooked Mutton Curry made from the fresh meat we just brought. For the poultry lovers, a rich Chicken Curry. For our vegetarian friends, a classic South Indian Sambar, a thick Raita, and a special Paneer Butter Masala. And to finish it off, because my mom will kill me if I don't make it, Double ka Meetha."
"Show us the process, Chef," Feroz said, moving the camera closer to the roaring fires.
Deva gestured to the largest copper deg. "Come here, Feroz. Get a close-up of this oil."
Feroz zoomed in. The oil was shimmering, emitting a faint haze.
"This is the foundation of the Mutton Curry," Deva explained, grabbing a handful of cloves, green cardamom pods, and long cinnamon sticks, tossing them in. They crackled and popped violently. "First, the whole spices release their essential oils into the fat. Then, we add Sameer's tears—I mean, the onions."
He dumped a massive bowl of chopped onions into the pot. "We fry them until they are deep, dark golden brown. That caramelization is what gives the gravy its rich color. Once that's done, the fresh, bone-in mutton goes in. We sear it on high heat to lock in the juices, then add fresh ginger-garlic paste, red chili, and a secret garam masala blend my grandmother taught my mom. Then, we cover it and let the wood fire do its magic for two hours. Slow braise. The meat should melt off the bone."
Feroz moved the camera to the next vessel. "And this one?"
"Bagara Rice," Deva said, stirring a pot where golden ghee was melting. "You can't have spicy Hyderabadi curries with plain white rice. That's a crime. We temper shah jeera (caraway seeds), bay leaves, and slit green chilies in pure ghee. Then comes the holy trinity: heaps of fresh mint, coriander, and fried onions. You fry the soaked long-grain Basmati rice in this aromatic mixture for exactly three minutes before adding the boiling water. The rice absorbs all the flavored oils. Every grain will stand separate."
"What about the chicken?" Feroz asked, panning to a slightly smaller pot bubbling away.
Deva pointed to it with his wooden ladle. "The Chicken Curry is a faster cook. We marinated it overnight in yogurt, lots of turmeric, and Kashmiri red chili powder. I added pureed tomatoes to this one to give it a tangy, sharp kick. It's lighter than the mutton but packs a serious punch."
"And for the grass-eaters?" Sameer yelled blindly from his onion station, still wearing his goggles.
"Vegetarians, Sameer. Show some respect," Deva laughed, walking over to a row of smaller pots on the side burners. "Over here, we have the Sambar boiling away. It's loaded with drumsticks, shallots, and carrots, sitting in a heavy tamarind pulp and freshly ground lentil powder. Next to it is the base for the Paneer Butter Masala. I slow-roasted tomatoes, cashew nuts, and whole red chilies, and pureed it into a silk-like gravy. Now we just drop in the paneer cubes, a massive block of butter, and crush some roasted kasuri methi (dried fenugreek leaves) on top."
"Don't forget the Raita," Deva added, pointing to a massive steel bucket. "Sameer is going to whisk that yogurt soon, mixing in finely chopped cucumbers, onions, and roasted cumin powder to cool the palate after all this heat."
"You forgot the dessert," Feroz reminded him, keeping the camera rolling.
Deva wiped his hands on a cloth, a proud gleam in his eye. "Ah, the Double ka Meetha. That requires precision. See those thick slices of bread?" He pointed to trays of bread drying out in the sun on a nearby table. "You dry them out so they absorb less fat, then deep fry them in pure ghee until they are crispy and golden. Meanwhile, in that pot over there, milk is reducing on a slow flame with saffron strands and crushed cardamom. We make a thick sugar syrup, soak the fried bread slices in it, and then pour the reduced, rich milk over the top. We garnish it with a mountain of fried almonds, pistachios, and silver leaf. It's guaranteed to put you in a food coma."
"I think I gained two kilos just listening to that," Arjun muttered, finally putting the turmeric packet away, having surrendered to the chaos of the ancestors.
---
As the morning progressed, the farm filled with noise, laughter, and the intoxicating, heavy aroma of roasting spices and rendering fat.
Deva was in his element. He moved between the massive degs with the same fluidity and spatial awareness he used to manipulate gaps in a cricket field. He tossed handfuls of cloves, cardamom, and cinnamon into the hot oil. He stirred the massive pot of mutton, adjusting the heavy logs of the wood fire beneath it to ensure a slow, tenderizing braise.
Around 11:30 AM, the guests began to trickle in.
Relatives from Sesikala's side and Vikram's side arrived, marveling at the sheer scale of the estate. Then came the NEXUS employees—the developers, the marketing heads, and the UI designers whom Arjun and Deva had personally invited. For many of the young tech employees, seeing their elusive, superstar CEO sweating over a wood fire stirring curry was a surreal, deeply endearing sight.
"Make yourselves at home!" Deva shouted over the noise of the crowd, pointing towards the orchards with his wooden ladle. "Explore the farm! The mango trees are beautiful right now. If anyone wants to ride the horses, go to the stables at the back!"
He turned to Rahul, who was meticulously checking a guest list on his tablet. "Rahul! Get Mallaiah to supervise the stables. I don't want any software engineers falling off Toofan and breaking their typing hands. Keep it to a slow walk!"
"Understood, Boss," Rahul nodded, sprinting off towards the stables.
The atmosphere was perfect. Children were running across the manicured lawns. The farm workers and their families, dressed in bright new clothes Deva gifted them for the festival, mingled freely with the city-dwelling tech employees. The lines of class and status dissolved under the colorful shamiyanas, united by the shared anticipation of a legendary meal.
By 1:15 PM, the lid was lifted off the final vessel.
The steam billowed up, carrying the rich, saffron-laced scent of the Bagara Rice and the deep, earthy punch of the Mutton Curry.
"Food is ready!" Deva announced, exhausted, his white kurta now bearing the battle scars of turmeric and oil stains. "Let's eat!"
The buffet lines were formed. Deva didn't sit down immediately. He, along with his parents and his three best friends, stood behind the massive vessels, personally serving the food to the workers and the guests.
"More pieces, Mallaiah," Deva insisted, dropping a massive ladle of mutton onto his foreman's plate. "You have to finish this!"
Once the guests were seated and eating, Deva finally grabbed a plate for himself. He piled it high with rice, doused it in mutton gravy, grabbed a piece of chicken, and walked over to a quiet table under a large banyan tree where Arjun, Sameer, and Feroz were already digging in.
"Oh my god," Arjun groaned, closing his eyes as he chewed a piece of mutton. "Sid, I say this with all the love in my heart... quit cricket. Open a restaurant. This meat is melting in my mouth. Your 'ancestors' did a great job with the spice ratio."
"The Bagara rice is perfect," Feroz mumbled, not looking up from his plate. "The ratio of mint to spices is flawless."
"I suffered for this," Sameer added, pointing to the red marks around his eyes left by the swimming goggles. "My tears seasoned this curry. But it was worth it."
Deva laughed, taking a massive bite of his own creation. The food was rich, heavy, and deeply satisfying. He reached for a glass of Thums Up, feeling a sense of contentment. The weather was beautiful, his friends were here, his parents were happy, and the food was spectacular.
It was a perfect afternoon. Until the bomb dropped.
They were halfway through their meal, laughing about a bug Karthik had accidentally introduced into the PUBG Alpha build, when Sesikala walked over to their table.
She was carrying a small bowl of extra Raita. She set it down on the table, smiling warmly at her son's friends.
"Is the food good, boys?" she asked.
"Amazing, Aunty," Arjun said, attempting to stand up out of respect, but she waved him down. "Best meal of the year."
"Good, good," Sesikala beamed. Then, she turned to Deva, a slight frown creasing her forehead.
"Siddu," she asked casually, wiping her hands on a cloth. "Where is Krithika? Why didn't she come today?"
The table went dead silent.
Deva froze mid-chew. A piece of mutton suddenly felt like a golf ball lodged in his throat. He stopped breathing.
Arjun, who had a spoonful of rice halfway to his mouth, stopped. He lowered his spoon. He looked at Sesikala, his brow furrowing in deep, genuine confusion.
"Aunty?" Arjun asked politely. "Who is Krithika?"
Sesikala looked at Arjun, surprised by the question. "What do you mean, Arjun? Krithika. The girl who works in your company? The content writer for NEXUS?"
Arjun's brain visibly buffered. He blinked. Once. Twice. He looked at Sameer. Sameer shrugged, equally lost. Feroz stopped recording on his handycam.
Arjun slowly turned his head to look at Deva.
Deva was sweating bullets. The cool breeze had vanished. He felt like he was facing Lasith Malinga without a bat. His eyes were wide, and he was violently shaking his head in a microscopic motion, silently pleading with Arjun to play along.
"Oh!" Arjun said slowly, a dangerous, calculating light dawning in his eyes as he stared at his best friend. "The... the content writer. Yes. Of course. Krithika."
"She is such a sweet girl," Sesikala continued, oblivious to the nuclear tension radiating from the table. "She came here when Siddu was injured. She wrote those lovely articles. I told Siddanth to invite her today, but he said she couldn't make it."
"She... she went to her village, Amma," Deva choked out, his voice an octave higher than normal. He grabbed his glass of water and downed it in one gulp. "For the holidays. Family celebrating in the village. Very far away. No signal."
"Ah," Sesikala nodded, looking disappointed. "Too bad she didn't come. She is a very nice company to have. Such a bright smile. Next time, Arjun, you must give her a bonus. She works very hard."
"I will personally ensure she is highly rewarded, Aunty," Arjun said, his voice dripping with forced sweetness, never breaking eye contact with Deva.
"Okay, finish your food," Sesikala patted Deva's shoulder and walked away to check on the other guests.
The moment she was out of earshot, the table erupted in aggressive, hushed whispers.
"Who the hell is Krithika?" Sameer hissed, leaning across the table.
"A content writer?" Feroz asked, his eyes wide. "We don't have a content writer! We are an app development company! What articles did she write?"
"You absolute liar," Arjun leaned in, his voice a low, lethal whisper. "You hired a ghost employee in my company? Behind my back? Who is she, Sid? And why was she at your house when you were injured?"
Deva looked around. There was no escape. He was surrounded. He put his spoon down, wiping his forehead with a napkin.
"Okay. Okay, keep your voices down," Deva whispered frantically, looking over his shoulder to ensure his parents weren't looking. "I can explain."
"This better be good," Arjun crossed his arms. "Or I am firing her. And you."
Deva took a deep breath. Seeing no way out of the web he had woven, he spilled the beans.
He told them everything. In frantic, rushed whispers, he explained the exams. He explained the surgical mask. He explained the terrifying girl who kicked his chair and demanded answers to Cost Accounting.
"Wait," Sameer interrupted, covering his mouth to suppress a laugh. "You got bullied by a college girl into helping her cheat?"
"It wasn't cheating! It was a strategic academic partnership!" Deva defended himself in a whisper. "And one thing led to another where she showed up at the gate on a purple Scooty! My parents walked out. I panicked. We told them she was a reporter. Then she lied and said I hired her for NEXUS to write articles!"
Feroz was silently crying with laughter, his head resting on the table. "This is a Bollywood script. This is pure gold."
Arjun listened to the entire story, his analytical mind piecing the timeline together. The exams. The injury. The recovery period.
Suddenly, Arjun's eyes widened to the size of saucers. A look of realization—followed immediately by a look of sheer, unadulterated betrayal—washed over his face.
"Wait a minute," Arjun said, his voice deadly quiet, raising a finger and pointing it squarely at Deva's nose. "Wait. One. Damn. Minute."
Deva instinctively grabbed a handful of Bagara rice and mutton, shoving it into his mouth.
"Last year," Arjun stated, acting as a prosecutor presenting Exhibit A. "You called me. You asked me to book two VIP tickets at Prasad's IMAX for Pirates of the Caribbean."
Deva chewed frantically, looking at the sky, the trees, anywhere but Arjun.
"You told me," Arjun continued, his voice rising in pitch, "that they were for Vikram Uncle and Sesikala Aunty! You told me it was dor them!"
Deva tried to speak, but his mouth was completely full of food. "Mmmph. Mmmgrph mmmph."
"Don't you mmmph me!" Arjun grabbed Deva's arm. "I believed you! I pictured your sweet, traditional parents sitting in VIP recliners wearing 3D glasses watching Johnny Depp! But it wasn't for them, was it?!"
Deva swallowed hard, nearly choking. He took a sip of water. He looked at Arjun, offering a weak, guilty smile.
"It was for the Headache, wasn't it?" Sameer yelled, putting the pieces together, pointing at Deva and roaring with laughter. "You took the exam girl on a date!"
"I am sorry," Deva squeaked out, holding his hands up in surrender.
"You traitor!" Arjun slapped the table, trying to look angry but the corners of his mouth were twitching. "You said we would watch Pirates together! We made a pact when the trailer dropped! And you took a girl who forced you to show your Mercantile Law paper?!"
"Oh, come on, Arjun!" Deva finally fought back, swallowing the rest of his food. "Think about it! If I had told you the truth—if I had said, 'Hey guys, I met a girl in an exam hall while wearing a disguise and I'm taking her to the movies'—do you know what you would have done?"
"I would have supported you like a brother!" Arjun declared defensively.
"Bullshit!" Deva retorted. "You would have teased me for a month! Sameer would have shown up at the theater in a fake mustache to spy on us! Feroz would have brought this stupid handycam to record the date! I did what I thought was logical for my survival!"
Sameer and Feroz were practically falling out of their chairs.
"He's right, Arjun," Sameer gasped, clutching his stomach. "I 100% would have spied on them. I would have bought popcorn and sat in the row behind them."
Arjun stared at Deva, trying to maintain his outrage, but the sheer absurdity of the situation finally broke him. He burst into laughter, shaking his head.
"The Devil of Cricket," Arjun laughed, wiping a tear from his eye. "Terrifies Lasith Malinga. Intimidates Ricky Ponting. But has to create a fake corporate job and lie about his parents going to the movies just to hang out with a girl who drives a Scooty Pep."
"She is very intimidating," Deva mumbled, picking up a piece of chicken. "You don't know her."
"Oh, I am going to know her," Arjun grinned wickedly. "She is my employee, isn't she? I demand a performance review. I want to see these 'articles' she wrote."
"No," Deva pointed his spoon at Arjun. "You stay away from her. You don't exist. To her, you are just my mysterious boss."
"This is the best Dussehra ever," Feroz declared, picking up his camera and pointing it at Deva's flushed face. "Any final words for the viewers, Chef Deva?"
Deva swatted the camera away, laughing despite his embarrassment.
Surrounded by the noise of his friends, the smell of his mother's spices, and the warmth of the festival, Siddanth Deva realized that keeping a secret was exhausting, but getting caught by the people who loved him the most?
That was just the icing on the Double ka Meetha.