The living room of the Deva household was stiflingly quiet, the only sound the drone of the news anchor on the television. It was June 24, 2008. Outside, the Hyderabad summer was in its humid, suffocating peak, but inside, the temperature seemed to drop with every name read out from the screen.
"BREAKING NEWS: BCCI ANNOUNCES SQUAD FOR ASIA CUP IN PAKISTAN."
Vikram Deva sat on the edge of his armchair, his reading glasses perched on his nose. Sesikala was in the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a towel, freezing in place.
Siddanth sat on the sofa, his face impassive, but his heart was thumping a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
The anchor read the list.
"Mahendra Singh Dhoni (Captain)... Yuvraj Singh... Virender Sehwag... Gautam Gambhir... Rohit Sharma... Suresh Raina..."
Siddanth held his breath. He had been the Emerging Player of the Year. He had decimated bowling attacks in the IPL. He had conquered the U-19 World Cup. Surely.
"...Robin Uthappa... Yusuf Pathan... Irfan Pathan..."
The list went on. The bowlers were named. Ishant Sharma. RP Singh. Praveen Kumar. Piyush Chawla.
And then, the anchor smiled. "A strong squad, balancing youth and experience, as India looks to conquer Asia."
The list scrolled again.
Siddanth Deva was not on it.
The silence in the room stretched, heavy and suffocating.
"They... they missed you," Sesikala whispered, confusion clouding her eyes.
Vikram took off his glasses, his shoulders slumping slightly. "It's the Asia Cup, Sesi. Pakistan. Sri Lanka. Big pressure. Maybe... maybe they think it's too soon."
Siddanth stared at the screen. He thought it made sense. You're 17. The Asia Cup is in Pakistan. It's a geopolitical pressure cooker. They went with Yusuf Pathan for the all-rounder slot because he's older, stronger.
But he felt a sharp, stinging pang of rejection. It was the first time since his second life began that a door hadn't opened the moment he pushed it. He felt a sudden, irrational surge of anger. I'm better than half that list. I'm ready.
He stood up, forcing a smile for his parents. "It's okay, Nanna. Amma. It's fine. I'm young. My time will come."
He walked to his room, needing to be alone, to recalibrate. He sat on his bed, staring at the poster of Sachin Tendulkar—who was also not in the squad, rested for the tour.
Ding.
His Phone vibrated on the duvet.
He looked at it. An unknown number. Mumbai landline.
He frowned, picking it up. "Hello? Siddanth Deva speaking."
"Mr Deva. Good afternoon. This is Ratnakar Shetty from the BCCI."
Siddanth sat up straight. "Good afternoon, Mr Shetty."
"Siddanth, I'm calling regarding the Asia Cup announcement. I assume you've seen it."
"I have, sir."
"Listen, son. I wanted to call you personally. It was a very close call. The selectors debated your name for an hour. But ultimately, given the venue—Pakistan—and the intensity of the tournament, they decided to go with a slightly more experienced middle order. Yusuf and Raina have played international cricket before. We didn't want to throw you into the fire of an India-Pakistan game for your very first match."
"I understand, sir," Siddanth said, though the fire in his belly disagreed. "I respect the decision."
"Good. That's the attitude we want. Because here is the other news." Shetty's voice brightened. "We are not keeping you waiting long. The selectors have unanimously pencilled you in for the India Tour of Sri Lanka in August and September. Five ODIs. You are in the squad, Siddanth. Consider this your official heads-up. Keep training. You're playing for India in two months."
The world stopped spinning. The rejection of the Asia Cup evaporated, replaced by a rush of pure, golden vindication.
"Thank you, sir," Siddanth said, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you. I won't let you down."
"We know you won't. Congratulations, son. Wear the Blue with pride."
The line went dead.
Siddanth stared at the phone. He wasn't just a domestic star anymore. He was an Indian cricketer-in-waiting.
He walked back into the living room. His parents looked up, their faces masks of worry.
"Who was that?" Vikram asked.
Siddanth grinned. It was the grin of someone who had just won the lottery.
"BCCI, Nanna."
"And?"
"They said... they said Asia Cup is for the seniors. But in September... we are going to Sri Lanka. And I'm in the team."
Sesikala screamed. It was a short, sharp sound of joy. She rushed to him, hugging him tight. Vikram stood up, laughing, shaking his head in disbelief. "Sri Lanka! My boy! You're going to play for India!"
Siddanth hugged them back, the disappointment of ten minutes ago feeling like a lifetime away.
He needed to tell Arjun.
He pulled out his phone and dialled.
"Hello?" Arjun's voice sounded subdued. He had clearly seen the news.
"Arri."
"Sid... man, I saw the squad. I'm so sorry. It's bullshit. Absolute bullshit. They picked guys who haven't done half of what you did. Politics, man. It's just politics."
"Arjun, shut up and listen."
"No, I'm serious! We should protest! I'll make a banner!"
"Arjun! I'm in the Sri Lanka squad."
Silence.
"What?"
"September. ODI series. BCCI just called. I'm in."
"YOU'RE JOKING!" Arjun's voice cracked, soaring an octave. "YOU'RE IN? FOR REAL?"
"For real."
"OH MY GOD! YES! TAKE THAT, SELECTORS! SRI LANKA! SIDDU, THIS IS HUGE!"
"I know, man. I know."
"Party! We need a party! Tonight! Biryani! Movies! Everything!"
Siddanth laughed. "Yeah, yeah, you'll get your party. But first... where are you?"
"Home. Just... moping about the Asia Cup news. But now I'm dancing!"
"Stay there. I'm coming to pick you up. Get ready. We're going out."
"Going out? Where?"
"Shopping."
Siddanth grabbed the keys to his father's car.
He had checked his bank balance that morning.
The IPL payment had come through.
Match Fees: 72 Lakhs.
Man of the Match Bonuses: 4 Lakhs.
Emerging Player Award: 10 Lakhs.
Daily Allowances & Win Bonuses: 15 Lakhs.
Total (Post-Tax Deduction): ~90 Lakhs.
(A/N: Just ignore the math here.)
Ninety. Lakhs.
He was seventeen.
He drove the car through the chaotic traffic of Mehdipatnam. He honked outside Arjun's gate.
Arjun ran out looking like he'd just won the lottery himself. He jumped into the passenger seat.
"Sri Lanka! I still can't believe it! So where are we going? Paradise Biryani?"
"Not yet," Siddanth said, putting the car into gear. "We're going to Varun Motors."
Arjun froze. He looked at Siddanth. "Varun Motors? The Maruti showroom? Why?"
Siddanth patted the dashboard of the car. "I love this car. But... I think it's time buy a car for myself and not depend on my parents."
Arjun's eyes went wide. "You're buying a car? Today?"
"Why wait?"
The showroom was a gleaming glass box on the main road, filled with the smell of new rubber and polish. It was 2008. The Maruti Swift was the king of the road, the symbol of the new, young India.
But Siddanth didn't want a hatchback. He wanted something with a bit more presence. A sedan.
The Maruti Swift Dzire had just launched. It was the "it" car for the upper-middle class. It was practical, spacious, and, in the eyes of 2008 Hyderabad society, a status symbol.
They walked in. Siddanth was wearing his simple polo and jeans, sunglasses on. Arjun was bouncing on the balls of his feet.
The showroom was busy. Families were checking out Alto 800s, discussing mileage with serious expressions.
A salesman, young and eager, approached them. "Good evening, sirs. Looking for anything specific?"
Siddanth took off his sunglasses.
The salesman stopped. He blinked. He looked at the sunglasses in Siddanth's hand, then back at his face.
"Wait... you... you are..." The salesman's jaw dropped. "Deva? Siddanth Deva?"
The name rippled through the showroom like a stone dropped in a pond. Heads turned. A family near the WagonR stopped arguing about seat covers. A mechanic walking through the floor froze.
"It's him," someone whispered. "The Deccan Chargers boy." "The catch guy!"
Suddenly, the car-buying experience changed.
The Floor Manager, a stout man with a tie that was too short, came rushing out of his glass cabin. He was holding something bulky in his hand—a Sony Handycam, the cutting edge of personal recording in a world before high-quality camera phones.
"Mr. Deva! Mr. Deva! What an honour!" The manager was beaming, pumping Siddanth's hand. "Welcome to Varun Motors! We are huge fans! Huge fans! My son has your poster in his room!"
Siddanth smiled, the 35-year-old in him handling the fame with practised ease. "Thank you. That's very kind."
"Sir, please, a photo? For the office wall?" The manager held up the Handycam.
"Of course."
Siddanth stood with the manager, then the salesman, then the mechanic. He signed an autograph for the family near the WagonR. He signed a cricket bat that appeared out of nowhere.
Arjun stood to the side, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "He's famous, uncle," he told a bewildered customer. "Very famous."
"So, Mr. Deva," the manager said, finally calming down. "What can we do for you? A Swift? Or maybe the SX4?"
"I'm looking at the Dzire," Siddanth said. "The ZDi. Top model."
"Ah! Excellent choice! The Dzire is the hottest car in the market right now! The waiting period is three months, you know! But for you... for you, we will see what we can do."
The manager led them to a gleaming white Dzire displayed in the center.
"It's a beast, sir. Diesel engine. DDiS. Very powerful. Very efficient."
Siddanth walked around the car observing it.
"Can I drive it?"
"Absolutely! Key! Bring the key!"
The test drive was short. Siddanth drove, the manager in the passenger seat, Arjun in the back. The car felt solid.
"I'll take it," Siddanth said as they pulled back into the lot.
"Fantastic!" The manager clapped his hands. "We have White and Silver in stock. We can deliver right now."
Siddanth shook his head. "No. I want the Blue. The... what do you call it? Clear Beige? No... the dark one."
"Ah! The Azure Grey? Or the Midnight Black? It looks blue in the sun."
"That one. The dark blue-ish one."
The manager's face fell. "Sir... that colour... very high demand. Waiting list is four months."
Siddanth sat at the manager's desk. He pulled out his chequebook.
"I'm paying full cash. Today. No finance. No loans. Full amount upfront."
He looked the manager in the eye.
"And I need it in two days."
The manager looked at the chequebook. He looked at the World Cup winner sitting in his office. He did the mental math of the publicity value versus the inventory logistics.
"Two days," the manager muttered. He picked up the phone. He dialed a number. "Hello? warehouse? Yes. The Midnight Blue ZDi allocation for Mr Reddy? ... Yes, I know, but... listen. It's Siddanth Deva. Yes, the Siddanth Deva. ... Okay. Shift Reddy to the next batch. Give him a discount on accessories. I need the Blue one prepped. Now."
He hung up and beamed at Siddanth. "Done. Two days. We will deliver it to your doorstep."
Siddanth wrote the cheque. Rs. 7,50,000. (Approximate on-road price for top-end diesel in 2008).
It was a lot of money. But he had 82.5 Lakhs left.
He handed over the cheque. The manager held it like a holy relic.
"Thank you, Mr. Deva. Welcome to the Maruti family."
As they walked out of the showroom, the sun was setting, painting the Hyderabad sky in hues of purple and orange.
"You just bought a car," Arjun said, dazed. "You walked in, signed an autograph, and bought a car. Like it was a packet of chips."
"It's for Nanna and Amma mostly," Siddanth said, unlocking the car he drove to the showroom. "I will use it mostly when I am in Hyderabad."
Arjun laughed. "You're a good son, Siddu. A rich, famous, good son. It's annoying."
"Shut up. Now... about that party."
"Paradise?"
"Paradise."