The fireworks exploding over the DY Patil Stadium were a cruel, glittering mockery. They painted the night sky in gold and royal blue—the colors of the Rajasthan Royals—while the Deccan Chargers stood on the outfield, watching the celebration through a haze of exhaustion and heartbreak.
The presentation ceremony was a grand, televised spectacle, a final act of theatre for the inaugural IPL. The podium was set, the cheerleaders were dancing one last time, and the noise was deafening.
Ravi Shastri, microphone in hand, his voice booming across the stadium and into millions of living rooms, beckoned VVS Laxman.
The Deccan captain walked up the steps, his shoulders slumped slightly, but his head held high. He was a man of grace, and even in the bitterness of a last-ball defeat, he carried himself with the dignity of a statesman.
"Hard luck, VVS," Shastri said, his tone shifting from celebratory to empathetic. "It doesn't get closer than this. A final ball finish. An edge that goes for four. You must be heartbroken, but incredibly proud."
Laxman took the microphone, a small, wistful smile touching his lips. "First of all, congratulations to Shane and the Royals. They played fantastic cricket throughout the tournament. But yes, Ravi, it hurts. To get so close... it's tough."
"Any thoughts on the game?" Shastri noted.
"I think our team played exceptionally well," Laxman said, glancing back at his squad standing in a huddle on the grass. "We showed character. We fought for every run, every wicket. But... look, T20 is a game of margins. Sometimes the edge goes to the keeper, sometimes it goes for four. Luck wasn't on our side today. That's cricket."
"And a word on the young man?" Shastri asked, gesturing towards the group. "Siddanth Deva. That catch... that final over."
Laxman's expression softened into genuine pride. "He's been a revelation, Ravi. To stand up in a final, to take that catch, to bowl the last over with that kind of courage... he is the future. We are lucky to have him."
Laxman stepped down, the crowd applauding the gracious loser.
Then, the mood shifted. The awards were being announced. The Orange Cap for Shaun Marsh. The Purple Cap for Sohail Tanvir.
"And now," Shastri announced, his voice rising to a crescendo. "The award for the Emerging Player of the Tournament. This goes to a young man who has taken the IPL by storm. He has scored over 400 runs. He has taken 17 wickets. He has taken the catch of the century tonight. Ladies and gentlemen... SIDDANTH DEVA!"
The roar was immediate. Even the Rajasthan fans cheered. Siddanth walked up the steps. He wasn't smiling. His face was a mask of polite, professional detachment. He accepted the trophy—a glass sculpture that felt heavy and cold in his hands—and the cheque.
He stood next to Shastri, the bright stadium lights reflecting in his eyes.
"Siddanth," Shastri said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "What a tournament you've had. You are the Emerging Player of the Year. The world knows your name now. But I have to ask... how are you feeling right now? You bowled that final ball."
Siddanth leaned into the microphone. He took a breath, his mind filtering out the noise, the disappointment, the "what-ifs." He didn't give the generic answer. He gave the truth.
"Right now," Siddanth said, his voice steady, echoing around the massive bowl, "it's not good. It hurts. We wanted to win. We worked hard to win."
He paused, looking out at the celebrating Royals.
"But it is part of the game. One team wins, the other loses. That inside edge... that's the game. You can bowl the perfect ball and lose, or bowl a bad ball and win. We must make the most of moments like this. We have to use this pain as motivation. We go back to training. We get better. And we come back."
"Mature words from a young shoulders," Shastri said, impressed. "You've had a fantastic season, Siddanth. Congratulations on the award. You have a bright future ahead."
"Thank you, Ravi bhai."
Siddanth walked down the steps. The trophy was in his hand, but his eyes were already scanning the VIP boxes. The ceremony dragged on—Warne lifting the cup, the confetti cannons firing—but Siddanth detached himself from the group. He needed to see his anchors.
He walked towards the boundary rope, near the Corporate Box section. The security guards, recognizing the star of the night, stepped aside to let him through.
Vikram and Sesikala Deva were standing by the railing. They weren't celebrating, but they weren't crying either. They were just waiting.
When Vikram saw his son approaching, he didn't wave. He just reached out his hand.
"Nanna," Siddanth said, his voice finally cracking, the professional mask slipping just a fraction.
"Come here," Vikram said.
Siddanth leaned over the railing, and his father pulled him into a clumsy, desperate embrace.
"You played good, Siddu," Vikram whispered fiercely into his ear. "You played like a lion. That catch... I have never seen anything like it."
"I lost it, Nanna," Siddanth murmured. "The last over."
"No," Vikram pulled back, gripping Siddanth's shoulders, looking him dead in the eye. "You didn't lose it. The game lost it. You bowled the right ball. Warne got lucky. That is not on you. Do you hear me? That is not on you."
Sesikala reached out and touched his face, her fingers tracing the sweat and dust on his cheek. Her eyes were red, but she was smiling, a sad, proud smile.
"It was a tough match, beta," she said softly. "But you are safe. You are healthy. And look at what you did. Everyone is chanting your name. Even when you lost, they chanted your name."
"We are proud of you," Vikram said, his voice firm. "The trophy... it's just metal. What you did out there... that is character. You will win it next time. I know it."
Siddanth looked at them. In his previous life, failure had been a lonely, shameful thing. A torn ligament, a failed startup, a disappointed phone call. Now, in the midst of the biggest loss until now of his career, he felt an overwhelming sense of support.
"Next time," Siddanth repeated, the resolve hardening in his chest. "Next time, I'll bring it home."
He spent a few more minutes with them before the team management signaled for him to return to the bus.
The walk back to the dressing room was long. The Royals were doing a victory lap. Siddanth didn't look away. He watched them. He etched the image of Shane Warne lifting the trophy into his mind.
Fuel, his mind whispered. This is all fuel.
Two days later, the Deccan Chargers disbanded. The foreign players flew home—Gilchrist to Australia, Gibbs to South Africa, Styris to New Zealand. The Indian players scattered to their respective states.
The flight back to Hyderabad was quiet.
He arrived home in the afternoon. There was no parade this time. No dhol players. No marigold garlands blocking the street. The colony was quiet, respectful of the loss. A few neighbors waved as his car pulled up, shouting "Well played, Siddu!", but they kept their distance.
He walked into his house. It was cool, quiet, and smelled of sandalwood incense.
He dropped his kit bag—the bag that contained the runner-up medal and the "Emerging Player" trophy—in the hallway. He walked into his room, the room that still had the posters of Sachin and Dravid on the walls, the room where his second life had begun.
He sat on the edge of his bed. The silence was loud.
He pulled out his phone. He checked his stock portfolio.
The market was still climbing. His investments in Unitech and DLF had grown significantly since the start of the IPL. The financial security was absolute. He was rich. He was famous. He was a champion at the U-19 level and an MVP at the professional level.
But the loss at DY Patil still gnawed at him.
He closed his eyes and called up the System interface.
[SYSTEM HOST STATUS: SIDDANTH DEVA]
[SEASON SUMMARY: IPL 2008]
Performance Grade:S (Elite)
Outcome: Runner-Up.
Individual Award: Emerging Player of the Season.
[REWARD DISTRIBUTION]
Experience Gained: Maximum.
Mental Fortitude: Increased.
Template Integration Boost:
Brett Lee Template:69%
Siddanth opened his eyes.
He walked out to the living room. His mother was making tea. His father was reading the newspaper, which had a picture of Siddanth's diving catch on the front page under the headline: "HEARTBREAK HERO."
"You want tea, Siddu?" Sesikala asked.
"Yes, Amma," he said, sitting down on the sofa. "And... maybe we can make that kheer again tonight?"
Vikram lowered the paper and smiled. "We can make whatever you want, son. You're home."
Siddanth leaned back.
He took a sip of the tea his mother handed him. It was hot, sweet, and perfect.
He had lost the final.
And the game... the game was just getting started.