Date: October 24th, 2012.
Location: Deva Farmhouse, Shamshabad.
Time: 6:00 PM.
The cacophony of the afternoon feast had finally receded, leaving behind a comforting, languid quiet. The distant relatives had departed with neatly packed boxes of sweets, and the NEXUS employees had piled into their respective cabs and buses.
By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long, bruised-purple shadows across the mango orchards, the sprawling farmhouse had returned to its natural state of tranquility.
In the spacious living room, the ceiling fans whirred softly. Siddanth Deva was sprawled across the main sofa, his legs hanging over the armrest. Arjun, Sameer, and Feroz were similarly draped across the various recliners, looking like soldiers who had just survived a major campaign. Sitting quietly on a single seater near the door was Rahul, Deva's remarkably efficient Personal Assistant, who had shed his professional grey suit jacket and loosened his tie.
Sesikala walked into the living room, carrying a large silver tray. The aroma of freshly brewed ginger and cardamom tea instantly commanded the room's attention.
"Sit up, all of you," Sesikala ordered gently, placing the tray on the central coffee table. "You look like deflated balloons. Drink this. It will help digest the biryani."
The boys groaned in unison but dutifully sat up. Vikram Deva, sitting in his favorite armchair, chuckled as he picked up his cup.
"The food was heavy, Aunty," Sameer complained, rubbing his stomach, though he reached eagerly for the tea.
"That is because you eat without chewing, Sameer," Sesikala teased, handing a cup to Feroz. "Take, Rahul beta. You ran around managing the tents all morning. Drink."
"Thank you, Ma'am," Rahul said, accepting the cup with a polite nod. He was still trying to find his footing in this inner circle. He was an employee, but Deva treated him like family, which was a disorienting but pleasant experience.
Deva took a sip of his tea, letting the spicy warmth soothe his throat. He caught Rahul's eye and gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod towards the door. Rahul, ever the professional, understood the silent cue instantly.
"I will just go check the car, Sir," Rahul said, standing up and placing his empty cup on the tray. "I think I left some files on the dashboard."
"Sure, Rahul," Deva said smoothly. "Take your time."
As Rahul slipped out of the front door, Sesikala gathered the empty cups. "I am going to lie down for an hour. Vikram, don't let them make a mess in the house."
"We will be outside, Amma," Deva assured her. "Mallaiah is setting up a bonfire in the back field."
"Don't sit too close to the fire," she warned instinctively before disappearing into the hallway.
Deva waited until he heard the click of his parents' bedroom door shutting. He turned to his friends, a mischievous, conspiratorial grin spreading across his face.
"Gentlemen," Deva announced, standing up and stretching his arms. "The cultural, traditional, and familial obligations of the festival have been successfully completed. Now, the real celebration begins."
Arjun's eyes lit up. Sameer suddenly looked wide awake.
"Did Rahul...?" Feroz asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Rahul is retrieving the cargo as we speak," Deva confirmed. "Let's head out back."
---
The night air in Shamshabad was crisp, carrying the early chill of the approaching winter. In the clearing near the edge of the grazing fields, Mallaiah, the farm foreman, had constructed a magnificent bonfire. The dry mango wood crackled and popped, sending showers of orange sparks dancing into the dark sky.
Mallaiah and a few of the farm hands were sitting on wooden stumps a short distance away, chatting softly.
Deva, followed by his three friends, walked down to the clearing. Rahul emerged from the shadows of the driveway, carrying two heavy, unmarked canvas bags. You could hear the unmistakable clinking of glass inside them.
"Set it up on that table, Rahul," Deva pointed to a sturdy wooden picnic table positioned safely away from the flames.
Rahul unzipped the bags. Out came a bottle of premium single malt Scotch, a bottle of aged dark Rum, and an assortment of mixers—soda, water, and ice buckets.
Deva walked over to the bags. He pulled out two sealed bottles of mid-range whiskey and walked over to where Mallaiah and the workers were sitting.
"Mallaiah," Deva called out, holding out the bottles.
The foreman stood up quickly. "Yes, Deva Babu?"
"It's a festival night," Deva smiled, handing the bottles to the older man. "Take these. Share them. You all worked incredibly hard today."
Mallaiah's face broke into a wide, weathered grin. He took the bottles with both hands, deeply touched by the gesture. "Thank you, Deva Babu! May the Goddess bless you with more centuries. We will drink to your health."
Deva patted the man's shoulder and walked back to his friends.
"Right," Deva rubbed his hands together. "Rahul, grab a chair. You're off the clock. You are drinking with us."
Rahul looked hesitant. "Sir, I shouldn't... I am your assistant."
"Tonight, you are just Rahul," Deva insisted, pulling up a plastic chair for him. "Sit."
Deva moved to the table to pour the drinks. He poured generous measures of Scotch into glasses for himself, Arjun, and Sameer(A/n: He is a Hindu). He mixed the rum for Rahul. Then, he reached into a separate bag that Rahul had brought.
He pulled out two chilled, glass bottles of Thums Up and a bottle of Sprite.
Deva popped the cap off the Thums Up with an opener and handed the sweating glass bottle to Feroz. Feroz, being a devout Muslim, strictly abstained from alcohol. Deva always ensured his friend never felt left out of the ritual.
"Strongest stuff on the table for you, brother," Deva said, clinking his whiskey glass against Feroz's Thums Up bottle. "If you drink two of those, the caffeine will have you hallucinating anyway."
"I prefer to remember the stupid things you guys do when you're drunk," Feroz laughed, taking a swig of the spicy cola. "Someone has to be the designated historian."
They pulled their chairs in a semi-circle around the roaring bonfire. On the table sat the ultimate Chakna (bar snacks)—massive bowls of leftover mutton and chicken curry from the afternoon, and several packets of salted potato chips.
"Cheers," Arjun said, raising his glass, the amber liquid reflecting the flames. "To surviving another family gathering."
"To the Vice-Captain," Sameer added, clinking his glass loudly. "And to the fact that he almost got murdered by his mother today for hiding a secret employee."
They drank. The alcohol hit the back of their throats, warm and relaxing. The tension of the last few months began to melt away into the cool Telangana night.
For the first hour, the conversation was grounded. They talked about the intricacies of the tech market, Arjun detailing the supply chain bottlenecks they were facing with the Chinese manufacturers for the phone components. Deva analyzed the upcoming home series against England, predicting how Alastair Cook would fare on spinning tracks.
But as the first glasses were drained and the second pegs were poured—heavier this time—the atmosphere loosened considerably.
Deva pulled out his phone and connected it to a portable, high-end Bose Bluetooth speaker resting on the table.
"Enough business," Deva declared. "We need a vibe."
He hit play. The smooth, soulful voice of Kishore Kumar spilled out into the night. "O Mere Dil Ke Chain..."
For the next thirty minutes, they were a choir of slightly off-key men singing along to retro Bollywood classics. Even Rahul, who was usually tightly wound, was nodding his head to the beat, a relaxed smile on his face.
By the third peg, the melancholy of Kishore Kumar was no longer sufficient.
"Change it, Sid," Sameer demanded, standing up and swaying slightly. "This is a festival, not a funeral! Put something with a beat!"
Deva smirked. He swiped across his playlist. The acoustic melodies vanished, replaced instantly by the heavy, synthesized thumping bass of a modern Bollywood dance track.
Sameer and Arjun immediately moved into the open space between the chairs and the fire. They began to dance. It wasn't choreographed; it was the enthusiastic, chaotic flailing of men who had consumed just enough alcohol to forget their inhibitions.
Sameer attempted a Michael Jackson moonwalk on the gravel and nearly fell into the chip bowl. Feroz pulled out his handycam, laughing hysterically as he recorded the CEO of NEXUS trying to do the 'Salman Khan towel dance' using a cloth napkin.
But the night was young, and they were boys from the Deccan. Bollywood was just the warm-up.
"Okay, step aside," Deva shouted over the music, standing up. "You are insulting the art of dance. Let me show you how it's done."
Deva scrolled to the bottom of his playlist. He found the folder labeled 'Mass'.
He hit play.
The speaker exploded with the high-octane, frenetic beats of a pure Telangana folk mass song. The fast-paced dappu (drum) beats and the shrill, energetic vocals of a local singer pierced the night air. It was raw, unpolished, and impossibly catchy.
"Lashkar Jathara... Bonalu panduga..."
Deva jumped into the center. He didn't use the graceful footwork of his batting crease; he threw his shoulders into it, doing the classic 'Teen Maar' steps.
Arjun and Sameer joined him immediately. Sameer then grabbed Rahul by the arm, bodily hauling the reluctant PA out of his chair.
At first, the usually stiff, suited-up assistant looked horrified, awkwardly shuffling his feet and trying to retreat to the safety of his rum and coke. But as the heavy drum beat hit its crescendo, something inside Rahul snapped.
He threw his glasses onto a nearby chair. He unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt, rolled up his sleeves, and suddenly launched into a flawless, high-energy, perfectly synchronized Teen Maar routine. His footwork was electric, dropping to his knees, spinning on his heels, and hitting beats that Deva didn't even know existed in the song.
Arjun stopped dancing entirely, his mouth hanging open in absolute shock. "Where the hell did he learn that?"
"Inter-college dance champion, Osmania University, Sir!" Rahul yelled happily over the music, not missing a single beat as he performed a complex pelvic thrust-and-spin combo.
The boys erupted into wild cheers, forming a circle around him and hyping up the usually reserved PA as he absolutely destroyed the makeshift dance floor. Feroz was recording the entire spectacle, laughing so hard the camera was shaking.
As Rahul finished his routine with a dramatic spin, Deva looked over towards the edge of the clearing. Mallaiah and the farm workers were standing near the shadows, their whiskey glasses in hand, clapping and whistling loudly at the spectacle.
"Mallaiah! Anna!" Deva shouted over the blaring music, waving his arm broadly. "Come here! What are you doing standing there? It's a festival, join us!"
Mallaiah hesitated, chuckling and pointing to his worn-out work clothes, but Deva wasn't taking no for an answer. He walked over and physically pulled the older foreman into the warm glow of the firelight. The other workers followed, laughing shyly but clearly buzzing from the whiskey.
Suddenly, one of the younger farmhands sprinted off towards the outhouses. He returned a minute later holding something large and circular—a traditional dappu.
He stepped into the light, holding the heavy wooden frame. He knelt by the bonfire for a few seconds, holding the animal skin face of the drum near the flames, letting the intense heat tighten the leather for the perfect acoustic snap. Then, he stood up and struck it with two thick wooden sticks.
DUM. DAK. DUM-DUM-DAK.
The raw, vibrating acoustic punch of the live dappu instantly overpowered the electronic bass of the Bluetooth speaker.
Deva grinned wildly. He walked over to the table and hit pause on his phone, killing the recorded track entirely. They didn't need artificial beats anymore.
"Now we're talking!" Sameer yelled, clapping his hands to the rhythm.
The farmhand launched into a furious, high-BPM 'Teen Maar' beat. The sound was primal, heavy, and intoxicating, echoing deep into the Shamshabad night. Deva, Arjun, Sameer, Rahul, Mallaiah, and all the workers formed a massive, chaotic circle around the fire.
The lines of status and class melted away into the smoke. There were no CEOs, no Personal Assistants, no farmhands, and no Vice-Captains in that circle. They were just men of the Deccan, arms thrown over each other's shoulders, kicking up dust and losing themselves completely to the hypnotic, native rhythm of the drum.
---
Forty minutes later, they collapsed back into their plastic chairs, chests heaving, wiping sweat from their foreheads. The dappu player was given a hero's ovation and a fresh glass of whiskey.
"Oh my god, that was legendary," Sameer panted, leaning over Feroz's shoulder. "Send those video to my phone. I need to blackmail Rahul tomorrow morning when he puts his suit back on."
"It's a huge file, bro," Feroz sighed, navigating the menus. "Bluetooth will take twenty minutes to pair and transfer. I'll just email it to you tomorrow when I compress it."
Deva, slightly buzzed from the adrenaline, frowned down at his Bolt 1 prototype resting on the table.
"That's so stupid," Deva slurred slightly, gesturing vaguely at the laptop. "Why is sharing so hard? I am sitting literally two feet away from you. I shouldn't need a clunky Bluetooth pairing code, and I shouldn't need the internet to email it."
Arjun, who was halfway through his fourth drink, blinked slowly, trying to focus on Deva. "What are you talking about, Sid? That's how file transfer works."
"But why?" Deva argued, his hands shaping invisible objects in the air. "My phone is smart. Your phone is smart. They are close to each other. They should just... talk. Like an invisible bridge. I should just be able to select a file, point my phone at Sam, and whoosh. It drops right into his gallery."
Arjun stared into the fire. The flames reflected in his eyes. Despite the alcohol blurring his edges, his CEO brain latched onto the concept.
"Like... utilizing localized Wi-Fi Direct instead of Bluetooth?" Arjun mumbled, sitting up slightly straighter. "A peer-to-peer transfer protocol built directly into the OS shell? No pairing, just proximity detection?"
"Yes!" Deva said, tapping the table enthusiastically. "Exactly! I select it, and I drop it through the air. An Air Drop."
Arjun went completely still. The magnitude of the idea hit him like a bucket of ice water. In 2012, seamless file sharing between nearby smartphones was a massive friction point for users.
"Feroz," Arjun said, his voice suddenly dead serious, cutting through the alcohol haze. "Feroz, get a pen."
"I don't have a pen," Feroz replied, confused.
"Then Write it down on phone!" Arjun ordered, pointing emphatically at Deva. "Write down 'Air Drop'. Or 'Bolt Share'. Whatever. We are building that proprietary transfer protocol natively into BoltOS. If we can make file sharing instant between our devices, people will force their friends to buy our phones just for the convenience. It's a billion-dollar feature."
Deva laughed, leaning back in his chair and taking another sip of his whiskey. "See? I'm a genius. Even when I'm drunk."
"You are a terrifying mutant," Arjun agreed, rubbing his temples. "Rahul, remind me to assign a dev team to 'Project Air Drop' on Monday."
"Yes, Sir," Rahul nodded, currently busy trying to fix his hair and find his glasses in the grass.
---
By 11:30 PM, the energy crash began to arrive. The live music had stopped, and the boys were slouched in their plastic chairs, sweating in the cool air, nursing the last remnants of their drinks and picking lazily at the cold pieces of mutton.
Deva was staring into the dying embers of the fire, his mind pleasantly numb, when his secret phone—the cheap Nokia he kept in his jacket pocket—began to vibrate violently.
He pulled it out. The screen glowed in the darkness.
Caller ID: Headache.
Deva's face instantly broke into a soft, involuntary smile. He looked up.
Arjun, sitting opposite him, saw the smile illuminated by the phone screen. Arjun narrowed his eyes, peering through the slight haze of the Scotch.
"Oho," Arjun slurred slightly, pointing a finger at Deva. "Look at that smile. That is not a 'we just launched a product' smile. That is a 'Bhabhi ji is calling' smile."
Sameer perked up instantly. "Who? The content writer? The one who almost gave you heart attacks at lunch?"
"Shut up," Deva laughed. "I'm taking this. Keep your voices down."
"Put her on speaker!" Sameer yelled, throwing a piece of popcorn at him. "Let us say hello to the lady who bullies the Devil!"
Deva ignored them, walking about twenty yards away from the bonfire, towards the dark edge of the mango orchard where the distant chatter was just a muted hum in the background.
He swiped the green button and brought the phone to his ear.
"Hello?" he said, his voice dropping to a comfortable, intimate register.
"What are you doing?" Krithika's voice came through the line, sounding bright and energetic. "And what is that noise in the background? It sounds like hyenas are dying."
Deva looked back at his friends, who were currently arguing loudly over who was the better FIFA player. "That would be Arjun and Sameer debating sports. I am just hanging out with them. Having fun."
"Hanging out," she repeated, dragging the vowels out suspiciously. She paused. "Let me guess. You are drinking."
Deva chuckled, kicking a loose clod of dirt. "I could be. Or I could not be."
"What does that mean?" she demanded. "It's a simple yes or no."
"Well," Deva leaned against the rough bark of a mango tree. "If you don't like the idea of me drinking, then I am absolutely sober, drinking lukewarm water. If you are okay with it, then yes, I have had a few glasses of very good Scotch."
Krithika made a loud humming noise through the phone. Then, she let out a long, dramatic sigh.
"What more could a proper Telangana boy do on a Dussehra night?" she said, her tone shifting from accusatory to amused. "Obviously, you are sitting around a fire drinking. It is a cultural mandate. Even my father is sitting with my uncles on the terrace of our village house right now, drinking and arguing about politics."
Deva laughed, the sound deep and resonant. "If my guess is correct, my father is doing the exact same thing in his bedroom right now. Probably watching a news debate with a glass of whiskey."
"Fathers are universal," Krithika giggled. "So, did everything at the lunch go okay?"
"Everything went perfectly," Deva said, tracing the bark of the tree with his finger. "Except for one major hiccup."
Her voice spiked with immediate concern. "Hiccup? What happened?"
"No, nothing like that," Deva said smoothly, his voice dropping lower. "The hiccup was... you were not there."
There was a silence on the other end of the line. For three seconds, Deva thought the call had dropped.
Then, a loud, exaggerated gagging sound erupted from the speaker.
Bleeeurgh.
"Oh my god, gross!" Krithika groaned, sounding utterly repulsed. "Did you seriously just use that line on me? 'The hiccup was you weren't there'? What are you, a protagonist in a bad 1990s Telugu romantic movie? That is the cheesiest thing I have ever heard in my life. I am physically cringing."
Deva burst into laughter, throwing his head back. He couldn't help it. Any other girl would have swooned. Krithika dry-heaved.
"I thought it was smooth!" Deva defended himself through his laughter. "I thought you would go with the flow and say, 'Oh Siddu, I missed you too.'"
"I would rather drink poison," she retorted, though he could hear the suppressed smile in her voice. "Never do that again. Stick to cover drives. Romance is clearly not your strong suit."
"Noted. Romeo mode deactivated," Deva chuckled. "But seriously, my mother did ask about you when I was eating with friends. It was terrifying. I choked on a piece of mutton."
"Serves you right. What did you say?"
"I panicked," Deva admitted. "My brain short-circuited. But Arjun... Arjun is a lifesaver. He understood the situation instantly. He completely covered for me. He told my mom you couldn't come . So, congratulations. You are now an official employee of a tech company. You should expect your first paycheck soon."
Krithika laughed, a bright, clear sound that made Deva's chest feel inexplicably warm. "Tell Arjun I demand a corner office and a very high salary. And tell him thank you. He is officially my favorite friend of yours."
Deva sighed. "So, how was your village?"
For the next twenty minutes, they talked. She told him about her aunts arguing over saree borders, about the chaotic immersion of the flower stacks in the village lake, and how her younger cousin had accidentally set a small firework off inside the living room. Deva listened, genuinely captivated by the mundane, beautiful normalcy of her life.
"SID!"
Arjun's loud, slurred voice echoed across the field from the bonfire. "Come back here! You are abandoning your guests for a girl! This is a violation of the bro-code!"
Deva winced, pulling the phone away from his ear. "I should go. The hyenas are getting restless."
"Go tend to your pack, Devil," Krithika said softly. "Happy Dussehra."
"Happy Dussehra, Shorty. Goodnight."
He hung up the phone. He stood in the dark for a moment longer, looking at the glowing embers of the fire in the distance.
He walked back to the table.
"Finally," Sameer groaned. "Did you set a wedding date?"
"Shut up and pour me a drink," Deva grinned, kicking Sameer's chair.
They sat around the fire, the conversation slowly devolving as the whiskey bottles emptied. By 12:30 AM, the business ideas had vanished, replaced by the kind of intense, deeply contested historical debates that only happen when old friends are heavily intoxicated.
"I'm telling you," Arjun slurred, pointing a half-eaten piece of chicken at Deva like an accusing finger. "In 2005, when we broke Mr. Rao's kitchen window playing gully cricket, it was 100% your fault. You hit the ball! You owe me for covering for you all these years."
"It was your fault!" Deva argued, leaning forward, his eyes wide with absolute, deadly seriousness. "You bowled a juicy, waist-high full toss on the leg side! What was I supposed to do? Leave it? It was begging to be hit!"
"I am the bowler, you absolute fraud!" Arjun slammed his hand on the plastic table, nearly knocking over his glass of Scotch. "My job is to deceive! Your job is to control the shot! You practically aimed for his house!"
"My job is to dispatch bad balls!" Deva shot back, thumping his own chest. "You basically handed me a written invitation to break his glass! If you had just bowled a decent length, we wouldn't have had to hide in the water tank for three hours!"
"The batsman is responsible for the trajectory of the ball! That is basic physics!" Arjun defended his childhood honor loudly.
"The bowler is responsible for serving garbage! That is basic cricket!"
Sameer was already asleep in his chair, snoring softly, completely useless to the debate.
Deva and Arjun, deadlocked and breathing heavily with seven years of pent-up gully cricket resentment, turned simultaneously to the only sober person left. Feroz, who was quietly sipping his fourth Thums Up, watching the chaos unfold.
"Feroz," Deva demanded, his eyes slightly unfocused but burning with competitive fire. "You were there that day. You are objective. Whose fault was it?"
Feroz looked at the Vice-Captain of the Indian cricket team and the CEO of a multi-million dollar tech startup. They were both staring at him with the terrifying intensity of men awaiting a Supreme Court verdict over a broken piece of glass from their childhood.
Feroz sighed heavily, taking off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. He didn't bother trying to invent any fake logic to appease them.
"Guys," Feroz said tiredly, his voice flat with the exhaustion of dealing with drunks. "It is 1 AM. We have had this exact same argument every single time someone opens a bottle of whiskey for the last five years. It wasn't resolved in 2007, it wasn't resolved when we graduated, and it is definitely not going to be resolved in this lifetime."
"But he bowled a full toss—" Deva started.
"And he swung like a maniac—" Arjun interrupted.
"No!" Feroz cut them both off, holding his hand up like a traffic cop. "Mr. Rao moved to Pune three years ago. The window has been fixed for half a decade. We are grown men. Shall we just go and sleep now?"
Deva and Arjun blinked, staring at Feroz as the undeniable logic of his fatigue finally penetrated their clouded brains.
"He moved to Pune?" Arjun whispered, dropping his chicken onto his plate. "I didn't know that."
"Yeah," Deva nodded slowly, the fight completely draining out of him. "Good point, Feroz. The window is fixed."
"Exactly," Feroz said, standing up quickly and dusting off his jeans before they could latch onto another childhood grievance. "Now, let's go to bed."
"Alright, party is over," Deva declared, pulling a tired, existentially satisfied Arjun to his feet. "Nobody is driving back to the city tonight. Rahul, grab one of the guest rooms on the ground floor. Sam, Feroz, you guys take the rooms upstairs."
The boys stumbled into the house, too tired to argue. Deva locked the front door, checked the security alarms, and walked up to his own suite.
He fell into bed, the smell of woodsmoke clinging to his clothes. The festival was over. It was time to get back to the grind.
---
Date: October 26th, 2012.
Location: Deva Farmhouse, Study Room.
Two days had passed. The hangover had cleared, and Siddanth Deva was back in his element. He sat in his study, the air conditioning combating the midday heat outside. On his three monitors, lines of complex Python and C++ code cascaded like digital rain.
He was refining the High-Frequency Trading (HFT) algorithm. The [Harold Finch Template] allowed him to see inefficiencies in the market data feeds that normal quant developers would miss. He was currently writing a predictive subroutine that analyzed global news sentiment milliseconds before the stock tickers updated.
His phone—his official one—rang on the desk.
Caller ID: Rahul (PA).
Deva hit the speakerphone button without taking his eyes off the code. "Yeah, Rahul. What's up? Did the new server racks clear customs?"
"Yes, Sir, they are arriving tomorrow," Rahul said, his voice crisp and professional, all traces of the dancing party animal gone. "But I am calling regarding a different matter. I just received a phone call from the management office of Indiawin Sports."
Deva stopped typing. His fingers hovered over the mechanical keyboard. Indiawin Sports. The parent company of the Mumbai Indians.
"Mumbai Indians?" Deva asked, leaning back in his ergonomic chair. "What do they want? The trading window isn't open yet."
"They were very polite, Sir," Rahul explained. "They requested a private, off-the-record meeting with you. They said senior representatives of the Ambani family are willing to fly down to Hyderabad on a private charter this weekend to have dinner with you."
Deva's eyebrows shot up. Mukesh Ambani's team was willing to fly down just for a dinner? That wasn't a casual inquiry. That was a recruitment drive.
Everyone in the cricketing fraternity knew the rumors. The Deccan Chargers franchise was in severe financial distress. The parent company, Deccan Chronicle Holdings Limited, was drowning in debt. There were loud whispers that the BCCI was going to terminate their contract due to unpaid player dues and bank defaults.
Mumbai Indians, backed by infinite resources, were circling the waters like sharks, looking to poach the biggest asset of the sinking ship: The 20-year-old Vice-Captain of India.
"They want to talk about my future in the IPL, I assume," Deva said flatly.
"They didn't explicitly state it, Sir, but yes. They mentioned wanting to discuss 'mutually beneficial opportunities for the upcoming seasons'. It is an open secret that they have wanted you in Blue and Gold since your debut."
Deva looked out of his window. He could see the city of Hyderabad in the hazy distance. This was his city. These were his people. The fans who chanted his name at Uppal, the biryani, the culture. He had built his empire here.
Playing for Mumbai Indians would mean astronomical money—under-the-table deals, massive endorsements, the glitz of the Ambani empire. But it would mean wearing the wrong shade of blue.
"Rahul," Deva said, his voice dropping into a register of absolute, unyielding authority.
"Yes, Sir?"
"Call them back. Be incredibly polite. Thank them for the honor of their interest."
"And set a date?" Rahul asked, his pen clicking over the phone line.
"No," Deva said sharply. "Tell them that Siddanth Deva will play for a Hyderabad franchise for the rest of his life. Tell them no amount of money and no offers will change my mind. My loyalty is not up for auction. Do not leave any room for negotiation."
There was a brief pause on the line. Rahul, despite his professionalism, sounded slightly awed. "I will relay your exact message, Sir. I will decline the meeting."
"Good," Deva said. "Keep me updated on the servers."
He cut the call. He didn't think twice about the millions he had just rejected. He returned to his keyboard. The Devil couldn't be bought.
---
The rumors proved true.
A few weeks later, the BCCI officially terminated the Deccan Chargers franchise for breaching contract terms. It was a sad day for Hyderabad cricket. The charging bull was dead.
But the city wouldn't be without a team. The BCCI initiated a rapid bidding process for a new Hyderabad-based franchise.
Date: November 5th, 2012.
Deva was at the NEXUS headquarters in Hi-Tec City, reviewing the final packaging design for the Bolt 1 smartphone with Arjun, when Rahul knocked on the glass door of the CEO's cabin.
"Come in," Deva waved him inside.
Rahul looked excited. "Sir. The BCCI has just announced the winner of the bid for the new Hyderabad franchise."
Arjun looked up from the cardboard box prototype. "Who got it?"
"The Sun TV Network," Rahul announced. "Kalanithi Maran's group. They won the bid for 85.05 crores per year."
Deva nodded slowly. Sun Network was a massive media conglomerate from the South. They had deep pockets and serious operational capabilities. It was a good outcome for the city.
"There is more, Sir," Rahul continued, looking directly at Deva. "I just got a call from Mr. Maran's office. They are officially naming the team the Sunrisers Hyderabad (SRH)."
"Sunrisers," Deva tested the name. "Not bad. Sounds like a new beginning."
"They want to meet with you, Sir," Rahul said, his eyes gleaming. "Immediately. They are building the new squad from scratch. They have the option to retain players from the old Deccan Chargers roster outside the auction pool. They want you as their first official signing. They want to discuss the retention contract and the captaincy."
Deva looked at Arjun. Arjun grinned, giving him a thumbs-up.
"Rahul," Deva said, leaning back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers. "Tell the Sunrisers management that I would be delighted to meet them."
"I will book a suite at the Taj, Sir."
"No," Deva corrected, gesturing to the sprawling, high-tech glass office around them. "Tell them to come here. Set up the meeting in the executive boardroom at NEXUS. Let's show our new owners how we do business in Hyderabad."
"Yes, Sir," Rahul smiled widely. "I will finalize the time and date."
As Rahul left the room, Deva turned back to the Bolt 1 box on the table. The Deccan Chargers were history. The Sunrisers era was about to begin. And the Devil was ready to paint the city orange.