The morning sun of Hyderabad on June 15th was filtered through the leaves of the neem tree outside the Deva residence, casting dappled shadows on the quiet street. Inside, the routine was comforting and familiar.
Vikram Deva was getting ready for his day at the court, adjusting his tie in the hallway mirror. Sesikala was in the kitchen, the rhythmic thwack-thwack of a knife against a wooden board signalling the preparation of the afternoon meal.
Siddanth was in his room, currently occupied with the task of packing his kit bag for the upcoming NCA camp.
Then, the silence of the colony was broken by the heavy, hydraulic hiss of air brakes.
A massive flatbed truck rumbled to a halt right in front of their gate. It was an imposing machine, utterly out of place in the narrow residential lane. On its back, strapped down and gleaming under the morning sun, sat a car.
It was sleek. It was modern. It was a deep, lustrous Midnight Black (which looked a rich, royal blue under the direct sunlight). A Maruti Swift Dzire ZDi. The plastic covers were still on the seats. A large, red satin ribbon was tied across the bonnet.
The doorbell rang. Ding-dong.
Vikram frowned, checking his watch. "Who is that at this hour?" he muttered, picking up his briefcase just in case he needed to leave immediately. He opened the front door.
Standing there was a young man in a crisp Varun Motors uniform, holding a clipboard and looking eagerly at the house number. Behind him, a helper was already lowering the ramp of the truck.
"Good morning, sir!" the agent chirped, his enthusiasm too bright for 9:00 AM.
"Good morning," Vikram said, guarded. "Yes?"
"Delivery from Varun Motors, sir. We have the vehicle ready for handover." He gestured grandly towards the gleaming sedan on the truck.
Vikram blinked. He looked at the car, then back at the agent. He adjusted his glasses. "I think you have made a mistake, young man. We didn't order a car. You must have the wrong house number."
The agent looked confused. He checked his clipboard, running his finger down the invoice. "No, sir. This is Plot 42, correct? The Deva residence?"
"Yes, but—"
"And the customer name is Mr. Siddanth Deva?"
Vikram froze. The name hung in the air. He looked back at the car. It wasn't just a car; it was a top-model sedan. A diesel. Expensive.
"Siddanth?" Vikram repeated, the word feeling foreign in this context.
"Yes, sir. Is he home? We need the final signature for the handover."
Vikram turned around, his voice echoing down the hallway. "Siddanth! Siddanth, come here!"
Siddanth emerged from his room, wearing a casual t-shirt and shorts, looking unbothered. He walked to the door, saw the truck, and a small, satisfied smile touched his lips. "Ah. It's here. They said two days."
"Siddu," Vikram said, his voice a mix of bewilderment and shock. "Did you... did you buy a car?"
"Yeah, Nanna," Siddanth said casually, stepping out onto the porch. "Two days ago. With Arjun."
Vikram stared at his son. "Two days ago? Why... why didn't you tell me?"
It wasn't anger. It was the disorientation of a father realising the dynamic had shifted. In Vikram's world, buying a car was a family event, a decision made over months of budgeting and discussion.
Siddanth stopped. He looked at his father. He saw the confusion, the slight hurt at being excluded from a major life decision. He walked over and put a hand on his father's arm.
"I wanted to surprise you, Nanna," Siddanth said gently. "And... I needed a car for myself. I can't keep taking the Zen. You need it for court. I'm going to be travelling to the gym, the airport, the academy... I needed my own wheels."
Vikram looked at his son. He saw the confidence. He saw the capability. He realized, with a sudden, sharp clarity, that his son was not just a child anymore. He was a provider.
Vikram nodded slowly, a proud, slightly watery smile breaking through his shock. "Responsible," he murmured. "You have always been responsible, Siddu. Since you were small."
Siddanth smiled back. "Sign here, sir?" the agent interrupted, holding out the clipboard and a pen.
Siddanth signed with a flourish. Siddanth Deva.
"Thank you, sir!" The agent beamed. He then pulled a fresh marker pen from his pocket and held out his own shirt sleeve. "And... if you don't mind, sir? An autograph? My brother is a huge fan of the Deccan Chargers."
Siddanth chuckled and signed the sleeve. "There you go."
"Amma!" Siddanth called out, turning back to the house.
Sesikala appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her saree pallu, a half-cut onion still on the counter behind her. "What is it? Who is at the door? Is it the milkman asking for—"
She stopped. She saw the truck. She saw the massive, midnight-blue car slowly rolling down the ramp onto the road in front of their gate.
"Oh my god," she breathed, her hand flying to her mouth. "Vikram? Whose car is that?"
"It's your son's car, Sesi," Vikram said, his chest puffing out. "He bought it."
Sesikala looked at Siddanth, her eyes wide. "Siddu? You... a car? A big car?"
"For us, Amma," Siddanth said. "Come on. Let's see it."
They walked out to the gate. The car was parked now, gleaming like a jewel. It looked massive compared to the old, dented Zen parked inside. The neighbours were starting to peek out of their windows. Mrs Sharma from next door was already on her balcony.
The delivery agent, sensing the moment, ran back to the truck's cab. He emerged a second later, holding a comically large painted cardboard key with the Maruti Suzuki logo on it.
"Sir! Ma'am! For the photo!" the agent said, gesturing to the driver to take the camera.
It was a cheesy, standard ritual of Indian middle-class life, but Siddanth indulged it. He stood in the middle, the giant key in his hands. Vikram stood to his right, standing tall, his hand resting proudly on the car's roof. Sesikala stood to his left, beaming, one hand touching the ribbon on the bonnet as if checking the fabric.
Click.
The moment was frozen.
"Okay," Siddanth said, handing the cardboard key back and taking the real keys—a remote fob—from the agent. He pressed the unlock button. Beep-beep. The mirrors unfolded automatically.
"Get in," he said to his parents.
"Now? I have court..." Vikram started, but he was already opening the passenger door.
"The vegetables..." Sesikala mumbled, but she was already climbing into the back seat, running her hand over the plush beige upholstery. "It smells so new, Siddu. Like... like a showroom."
Siddanth slid into the driver's seat. It felt good. Solid. The steering wheel was thick, the dashboard modern (for 2008). He adjusted the mirrors.
"Seatbelts," he commanded.
He started the engine. The diesel motor purred to life, a low, powerful rumble, far smoother than the Zen's wheezing cough. He put it in gear and eased the car forward.
They drove through the colony. It was a slow, ceremonial lap. Neighbors waved. The security guard at the colony gate saluted.
Vikram adjusted the AC vents, testing the climate control. "It's very smooth, Siddu. Very smooth. The suspension is good."
"It's safe, Nanna," Siddanth said. "ABS. Airbags. That's why I bought it."
They drove for twenty minutes, just looping around the neighbourhood, the cool air conditioning isolating them from the heat and noise of Hyderabad. It was a small, metal bubble of success.
When they returned, and Siddanth parked the Dzire next to the Zen, the contrast was stark. The past and the future, sitting side-by-side.
"Thank you, beta," Sesikala whispered, patting his shoulder from the back seat. "It is beautiful."
Siddanth looked at them in the rearview mirror. "It's just a car, Amma. But it's ours."
The weeks that followed were a strange mix of domestic bliss and international disappointment.
The Asia Cup kicked off in Pakistan. Siddanth watched from his living room in Hyderabad, dissecting every ball.
India started well, thumping Hong Kong and Pakistan in the group stages.
But the Super 4s were a different story.
They won against Sri Lanka and Bangladesh.
They lost to Pakistan in Karachi, a high-scoring game where the bowling lacked teeth at the death.
India finished second in the Super 4s. They qualified for the Final.
Sri Lanka went on to crush India in the final, Mendis taking 6 wickets for 13 runs.
The mood in the country was sour.
Siddanth watched the final with a cold, detached focus. He saw the way the Indian middle order struggled against Mendis. He saw the lack of a bowler who could break partnerships in the middle overs.
July 15, 2008.
The date arrived like a silent alarm in Siddanth's head.
While the rest of India was debating the Asia Cup failure, Siddanth Deva was sitting in front of his computer in his NCA-allocated room, where he was practising for the upcoming tour, looking at a graph that defied gravity.
The Indian stock market was at an all-time high. The Sensex was touching 20,000. The realty sector was in a state of mania.
Unitech was trading at over ₹300 (adjusted).
DLF was astronomical.
The world saw a never-ending boom. Siddanth saw a cliff.
He knew what was happening in the US. He knew about the subprime mortgages. He knew Lehman Brothers was teetering.
In two months, this red line would turn into a vertical drop.
He opened his Demat account.
The numbers were staggering.
He had invested his initial 20 Lakhs from the Ranji season early. That had tripled.
Then, after the IPL auction and the season payments, he had poured another 50 Lakhs into the market in April and May. Even that tranche had grown by 40% in the irrational exuberance of the summer.
His portfolio value hovered at a number that made his 17-year-old stomach do a flip.
Total Portfolio Value: ~2.4 Crores.
It was insane money. It was "set for life" money.
But it was paper money. If he didn't sell, it would be gone by October.
Then he spent the next three hours executing trade orders.
Sell. Sell. Sell.
Unitech. Gone.
DLF. Gone.
L&T. Gone.
Tata Motors. Gone.
He liquidated the entire portfolio.
By 4:00 PM, the market closed, with 100% cash.
The final tally, after calculating the Capital Gains Tax:
Net Cash Generated: ₹1.87 Crores.
Siddanth leaned back in his chair, exhaling a breath he felt he'd been holding for six months.
He had nearly 2 Crores in liquid cash sitting in the bank, safe from the hurricane that was about to destroy the global economy.
The financial war was won.
Now, it was time for the cricket war.
Sri Lanka. Ajantha Mendis. The senior team.
He was ready.