The bus ride back from the Rajiv Gandhi Stadium was a different creature than the one that morning. The 9 AM trip had been a silent, tense, and analytical commute.
The 1 PM return was a rolling, boisterous locker room. The pressure of the first "test" was off, the brutal net session replaced by the easy, sweaty camaraderie of men who had seen each other's strengths and weaknesses.
RP Singh was loudly and in great detail describing the 153kph bouncer Siddanth had bowled to Chamara Silva. "I thought you'd killed him, yaar! His eyes... they were like dinner plates!"
Siddanth, sitting in the middle of the bus this time, just grinned, quietly pleased, and just happy to be included. "Still working on the steering," he repeated, the line already becoming his standard, self-deprecating response.
Rohit Sharma, two seats ahead, twisted in his seat. "The steering on your bouncer is fine, man. It's the steering on that lollipop slower-ball you need to worry about," he called out, his voice full of mischief. "My grand-aunt could have hit that for six."
The bus erupted in laughter. Even VVS Laxman, at the front, was seen chuckling into his hand.
Siddanth felt his face flush, but he couldn't help but laugh. "That one's on me, Rohit. A gift. Won't happen again."
"See that it doesn't!" Robin Singh's bark came from the front, but the edge was gone, replaced by a grudging amusement. "My bowlers don't give gifts!"
It was in this light, jovial atmosphere that they arrived back at the Park Hyatt. The professional hierarchy was still there, but the first threads of a team were being woven.
"Lunch is already in the main dining hall," Robin announced as they disembarked. "Freshen up. Be on time."
Siddanth and Halhadar Das made their way back to 1104. The moment the door clicked shut, Das let out a huge breath.
"Dude," he said, collapsing onto his bed. "That was... intense. I was just watching from the sidelines. Your pace... it's just... It's not normal, Sid. And Gilly and Laxman... they're like gods. How are you so calm?"
Siddanth, pulling his sweat-soaked training shirt over his head, just shrugged. How was he calm? "They're just men, Das," he said, his voice echoing from the wardrobe. "Incredible, legendary men... but they're still just batsmen. They can still get out. And my job is to get them out."
Das just shook his head, baffled by the simple, cold logic.
Siddanth took a quick, borderline-scalding shower, the heat and pressure a necessary balm to the muscles of his shoulder and back. He felt the ache of the 3-hour session already beginning to fade, replaced by a clean, thrumming energy.
He changed, not back into his polo, but into a fresh, black, team-issued Deccan Chargers training tee. He was, for all intents and purposes, on the clock.
The private dining room was a world of polished silver and white linen. A spectacular buffet lined one entire wall, a five-star spread of culinary options that made the NCA mess look like a soup kitchen.
Siddanth, augmented by his Advanced Cooking Skills (Lv. 2), performed an instant, critical analysis. He saw the rich, creamy Murgh Makhani, the oil-slicked Mutton Rogan Josh, the mountains of fragrant, ghee-laden biryani, and the basket of butter naan.
He bypassed it all.
His body was a high-performance engine, one that demanded he protect it. His plate became a study in functional nutrition. He loaded it with grilled chicken breast (lean protein), a large fillet of steamed fish (omega-3s), a mountain of quinoa salad (complex carbs), and a side of steamed broccoli and roasted vegetables (micronutrients).
He watched, with a kind of detached amusement, as some of the younger, uncapped domestic players, giddy with the five-star treatment, piled their plates high with the richest, heaviest food they could find. Andrew Symonds, in contrast, was at the salad bar, his plate a mirror of Siddanth's own, a fact that did not go unnoticed by the Australian.
"Smart kid," Symonds grunted as Siddanth passed him, giving a nod of approval.
Siddanth looked for a seat. Das was already at a "rookie" table, looking nervous. Before Siddanth could join him, Venugopal Rao waved him over.
"Siddu! Over here!"
It was a senior domestic table. Venugopal, RP Singh, and, to his surprise, Rohit Sharma. He was being invited to sit with the Indian core.
"Good spell, man," Rohit said as Siddanth sat, a new level of respect in his eyes. The net-battle was over, and a mutual understanding had been reached. "That bouncer was quick. But that full toss..."
"Was sweeter. I know," Siddanth finished, a grin on his face. "Won't happen again. The cover drive you hit off RP, though... that was special."
"He just gets lucky," RP grumbled, spooning up some daal.
"Luck is for tail-enders, RP bhai," Rohit shot back, and the table laughed.
The lunch was easy, professional. They talked about the pitches, about the new ball, about the sheer size of Symonds's arms. Siddanth mostly listened, he was absorbing information, learning the team's internal language.
Just as they were finishing, Mr. Krishnan, the management representative, stood up and tapped a glass.
"Gentlemen, if I may have your attention. A fantastic first session. Well done. Now that lunch is concluded, we have our media and photoshoot obligations. This will be in the main ballroom, starting at 2:30 PM. Please head to your rooms, where your official team jerseys have been laid out. Get changed, and we'll have staff guide you from there."
A buzz went through the room. This was it. The first time wearing the "war paint."
Back in Room 1104, two packages wrapped in plastic lay on their respective beds.
"It's here, man," Das breathed, his hands visibly trembling as he opened his.
Siddanth was calmer, but his heart was thumping. This was the first jersey of his professional, non-BCCI career. He tore his open.
The 2008 Deccan Chargers jersey. His aesthetic sense was... underwhelmed. It was a strange, pale, milky-coffee brown, with black accents on the shoulders and sides. It was not the electric blue of India, or the royal blue of the future Mumbai Indians. It was... beige.
But then, he turned it over.
Printed on the back, in bold, black lettering, was DEVA with no. 6.
He pulled the athletic-fit shirt over his head. It was light, the polyester clinging to his athletic frame. He looked in the full-length mirror.
The kid from the gully was gone. The U-19 World Cup hero was gone.
Staring back at him was a professional athlete. The new, textured quiff haircut, the light, sculpted stubble, and the odd, pale-brown-and-black jersey... it was a new identity.
"How do I look, Sid?" Das asked. He was standing stiffly, his jersey looking a perfect fit for him.
"Like a Charger, Das," Siddanth said, breaking his gaze from the mirror. "You look like a pro. Let's go."
The Grand Ballroom had been transformed. It was no longer a carpeted hall; it was a high-tech studio, a chaotic maze of massive white softbox lights, green screens, camera rigs on dollies, and a dozen PR people with clipboards and frantic expressions. The heat from the lights was immediate and intense.
"Right, lads, listen up!" a high-energy director with a headset yelled over the din. "We're doing the individual player promos. It's simple. You'll walk from that 'X' to this one, look right down the barrel of that camera, and tell us your name and your role. Make it strong. Make it confident. You're superstars!"
"Seniors first!" he bellowed. "Gilchrist, sir! Let's have you, Big smile!"
Adam Gilchrist, a man who had done this a thousand times, strolled up, his easy-going Aussie charm radiating. He did the walk, flashed that million-dollar grin, and nailed it. "Adam Gilchrist. Wicketkeeper-batsman, Deccan Chargers."
"Perfect! One take! Love it!"
Next, VVS Laxman. He didn't walk; he flowed. "VVS Laxman. Right-hand batsman." Pure, effortless elegance.
"Beautiful, VVS! Beautiful!"
Then, Andrew Symonds. He stomped to the 'X', his giant frame filling the camera. He didn't smile. He just glared, his eyes intense under the bright lights. "Andrew Symonds. All-rounder." He looked like he was challenging the camera and the entire audience to a fight.
"Yesss! Intense! Love it, Mr. Symonds!"
The banter, which had been simmering, now started.
RP Singh went up, striking a pose. "RP Singh. Left-arm fast bowler."
From the darkness behind the lights, Symonds's voice boomed: "And part-time model!"
RP, who had been holding a "tough guy" look, completely broke. He covered his face, his shoulders shaking with laughter. "Symonds! Yaar! Cut! Come on!"
The entire room—players, crew, management—erupted. The ice wasn't just broken; it was an ice rink after a hockey game.
It was now a team sport: make the man on camera laugh.
Rohit Sharma was next. "Rohit Sharma. Right-hand batsman."
RP Singh yelled in a high-pitched voice, "And master of the 10-rupee vada-pav!"
Rohit, trying to hold his serious expression, cracked a smile. "Shut up, man!"
This was the real team-building, Siddanth thought, his mind analyzing the social dynamics. This was the leveling. Price tags and reputations were being burned away in the fire of good-natured ridicule.
After a while, Siddanth's turn came.
"Alright, Siddanth! You're up!"
A chorus of "Ooooohs" and whistles went up from the other players. Siddanth felt a dozen pairs of eyes lock onto him. This was his public debut as a Charger.
He walked into the hot, blinding glare of the lights. He felt the heat on his face. He found the 'X' on the floor.
"Go, Sid," the director said.
Siddanth began his walk. He didn't strut. He didn't shuffle. He stopped on the mark, his expression cool, confident, and, with aggression, just a little intimidating.
He looked down the lens.
"Siddanth Deva. Right-hand middle-order batsman, Right-arm fast bowler."
He delivered it with utter, cold certainty. He hadn't just stated his role; he'd made a promise.
"CUT! BEAUTIFUL! PERFECT!" the director yelled, ecstatic. "That was fantastic, kid! The intensity! Gold! Okay, let's get one more, just for safety."
Siddanth sighed, hating redundant tasks. But he nodded, relaxed his shoulders, and got back into position.
"And... action."
He took a breath. "Siddanth Deva. Right-hand middle-order batsman..."
"And master of the 100-meter full toss!"
The voice was unmistakable. Rohit Sharma.
The iron-clad composure, it all shattered in an instant. A genuine laugh, a high-pitched, helpless bark, burst out of him. He doubled over, covering his face with his hand, his shoulders shaking.
The entire room, led by Gilchrist and Laxman, was in stitches.
"Alright, alright, settle down!" the director laughed, wiping a tear from his eye. "We'll use the first one. The first one was gold. Get him out of here!"
Siddanth walked off the set, his face still red, but he was grinning. He walked past Rohit, who had an angelic, "who, me?" look on his face.
"I'll get you back for that," Siddanth muttered.
"Won't be a full toss, I promise," Rohit shot back, and they both laughed.
"OKAY, EVERYONE!" the director roared, clapping his hands. "Let's get the big one! Full squad photo! On the main stage! Now!"
It was a chaotic, joyous shuffle as thirty men tried to arrange themselves.
"Seniors in the middle! Gilchrist, VVS, Symonds, center! Captain and coach! Robin, VVS, in the front row, seated!"
Siddanth, by default, moved to the side, finding a spot next to Das. He was a rookie, after all.
"Right, everyone! Look tough! Look like Chargers! And shout Go Chargers!"
"Go Chargers" they all shout.
Siddanth looked straight down the lens, a small, confident smile touching his lips as he shouted. The flash popped, a blinding white light, capturing the moment: a team of legends, journeymen, and prodigies, united for the first time in their strange, pale brown and black jerseys.
The war was about to begin.