The Hyderabad heat in April 2009 was a dry, dusty embrace, but inside the lobby of the Park Hyatt, the air was cool and smelled of expensive lilies and anticipation.
Siddanth Deva walked in, pushing his trolley loaded with kit bags. It had been a few weeks since the New Zealand tour, weeks spent in the quiet rhythm of gym and home. But now, the circus was back in town. Or rather, the circus was moving to a different continent.
The 2009 IPL had been shifted to South Africa due to the general elections in India. It was a logistical nightmare for the organisers but an adventure for the players.
The lobby was already buzzing with the Deccan Chargers' Indian contingent.
The vibe, however, was slightly different this year. There was a notable absence. Shahid Afridi, who had been a part of the squad in 2008, was missing. The shadow of the 26/11 Mumbai attacks hung over the league.
Pakistani players were barred. It was a sombre political reality that Siddanth understood all too well, even if those around him were just focused on the cricket.
"Siddu!"
The shout broke his reverie. Pragyan Ojha, the left-arm spinner and the team's resident prankster, was waving from a cluster of sofas. Next to him sat RP Singh, looking relaxed in shades, and Venugopal Rao.
Siddanth walked over, high-fiving them. "Ready for the safari, boys?"
"Born ready," Ojha grinned. "I've packed extra sweaters. I heard Cape Town is freezing at night."
"It's pleasant," Siddanth said, chiming in. "Good for swing bowling."
"Speaking of bowling," RP Singh punched Siddanth's arm. "Man of the Series in New Zealand? You're making us look bad, kid. Save some wickets for the rest of us."
"Just trying to keep my spot, RP bhai," Siddanth smiled.
The team manager, Mr Krishnan, clapped his hands near the elevator banks. "Alright, gentlemen! The bus leaves for the airport in 15 minutes! Bags in the truck, carry-ons with you. Let's move! We have a long flight to Cape Town via Dubai."
The team began the chaotic shuffle of moving luggage. VVS Laxman arrived, looking serene as always, greeting everyone with a nod. The domestic players scurried around.
Ten minutes later, everyone was on the bus. The engine was idling. The AC was blasting.
Mr. Krishnan stood at the front, doing a headcount.
"Laxman... yes. RP... yes. Ojha... yes. Sid... yes. Venugopal... yes. Where is Rohit?"
The bus went silent. Heads turned.
Rohit Sharma's seat, next to Siddanth, was empty.
"He was just here," Ojha said, looking around. "He checked in. I saw him in the lobby."
"I'm calling him," Mr. Krishnan sighed, pulling out his Blackberry.
Just then, the hotel doors flew open. Rohit Sharma sprinted out, his hair messy, his face a picture of pure, unadulterated panic. He wasn't wearing his team jacket; he was clutching it in one hand, his backpack half-open in the other.
He scrambled onto the bus, breathless. "Sorry! Sorry!"
"What happened, Ro?" Siddanth asked as Rohit collapsed into the seat beside him. "Overslept?"
"No!" Rohit gasped, patting his pockets frantically. "My phone! I lost my phone! The new Nokia N95! I just bought it!"
The bus groaned. Rohit losing things was already a team legend. Passports, watches, sunglasses, Rohit would leave them behind.
"Did you check the room?" RP Singh yelled from the back.
"I tore the room apart!" Rohit said, his eyes wide with distress. "I looked under the bed, in the bathroom, everywhere! It's gone! Someone stole it! I had all my contacts in there!"
"Did you check your bag?" Siddanth asked calmly.
"Yes! Three times!" Rohit was now standing up, patting his jeans pockets again. "Sir, we have to wait. I have to go back to reception. Maybe I left it at the counter."
Mr. Krishnan looked at his watch. "Rohit, we are on a tight schedule..."
"Just two minutes!" Rohit pleaded. He grabbed his jacket to throw it on the seat so he could run back out.
As he shook the jacket, something heavy flew out of it and landed with a dull thud on the floor of the bus.
Silence.
Everyone looked down.
There, lying on the rubber mat, was the Nokia N95.
Rohit stared at it. He blinked. He picked it up.
"Oh," he said. "It was... in my coat pocket?"
The bus erupted.
Pragyan Ojha was howling with laughter. RP Singh was slow-clapping. Even VVS Laxman was shaking his head, smiling.
"You genius!" Siddanth laughed, punching Rohit's shoulder. "You checked the room, but you didn't check your coat pocket?"
"I was panicked!" Rohit defended himself, sliding down in his seat, his ears burning red. "It must have slipped in when I was carrying it. Whatever. I found it. Let's go."
"Next time, tie it to your neck with a string, Ro," Ojha shouted.
The bus pulled out of the Park Hyatt, the tension of travel dissolving into the easy, mocking laughter of a team that was already bonding.
The flight to Cape Town was a marathon. First to Dubai, then the long haul south across the continent.
Siddanth sat with Pragyan Ojha and Rohit Sharma. To pass the time, Ojha dug into his backpack and pulled out a neon-colored box.
"Uno," Ojha announced, shuffling the deck with a flourish. "The game of champions. And the breaker of friendships."
"I'm in," Rohit said, adjusting his seat to a semi-reclined position. "But if you hit me with a Draw 4, Pragyan, I'm throwing you out of the emergency exit."
Siddanth smiled. "Deal me in."
They played for an hour. It was chaotic. The "quiet" business class cabin was punctuated by hissed curses and muffled laughter. Ojha was surprisingly ruthless, hoarding his Wild cards like gold. Rohit played lazily but with lucky timing.
Finally, it came down to a decider.
Ojha was grinning like a Cheshire cat. He had one card left.
"UNO!" he whispered loudly, slamming a Blue 7 onto the discard pile. He looked at Siddanth. "Read 'em and weep, rookie. I'm going out next turn. You can't stop me."
It was Siddanth's turn.
He looked at his hand. He had a Red 3 and a Yellow 9. Useless. He couldn't match the color or the number. He would have to draw.
If he drew, Ojha would win on the next turn. He hated losing, even at Uno.
Time for a little magic.
Siddanth leaned back, appearing to contemplate his doom.
"You got me, Pragyan bhai," he sighed. "I got nothing."
He brought his hand down towards the pile, ostensibly to draw a card.
But as his hand hovered over the discard pile.
It was a movement faster than a shutter click.
With his thumb, he palmed the Wild Draw 4 that had been played three turns ago and was now buried under the Blue 7. In the same fluid motion, he slid his useless Red 3 under the pile to replace it.
It was seamless. To the naked eye, he had just adjusted his grip.
But now, in his hand, he didn't have a Red 3. He had the nuclear option.
"Actually," Siddanth said, his face a mask of innocence. "Wait. I think I do have something."
He slammed the card down.
Wild Draw 4.
Ojha's eyes bulged. "WHAT? You didn't have that! I was counting cards! You picked up a red card two turns ago!"
"Must have miscounted, bhai," Siddanth grinned. "Color is... Green."
Ojha groaned, picking up four cards. His victory was gone.
Rohit, seeing Ojha's misery, burst out laughing. "The rookie killed you, man! He killed you!"
Two turns later, Siddanth dropped his last card—a Green 5.
"Game over."
Ojha threw his cards down. "I swear you're a magician. That card appeared out of nowhere."
Siddanth just winked, shuffling the deck with one hand, the cards cascading like a waterfall. "Just good wrist work, Pragyan. Just good wrist work."
It was a small moment, a silly card game, but it established a pecking order. Siddanth wasn't just the "serious" kid. He was sharp. He could play.
South Africa.
They landed in Cape Town. Table Mountain loomed over the city, draped in its famous "tablecloth" of clouds. The air was crisp, clean, and markedly different from the humidity of India.
A new bus waited for them. This one had the Deccan Chargers logo plastered on the side.
They drove to the Cape Town, a stunning heritage hotel in the city center.
Waiting in the lobby were the "Foreign Legion."
Adam Gilchrist, looking tanned and fit.
Andrew Symonds, looking formidable in a singlet and shorts.
Herschelle Gibbs, the local boy, grinning from ear to ear.
And Fidel Edwards, the West Indian pacer with the slingshot action, is a new addition to the squad.
The reunions were loud and physical.
"Sid!" Gilchrist roared, pulling Siddanth into a bear hug. "Saw the New Zealand scores. You tore them up, mate! That run-out in Christchurch? Sensational."
"Good to see you, Gilly," Siddanth said. "Ready to go one step further this year?"
"Bloody oath," Gilchrist said.
But there was one face missing. Robin Singh.
The intense, taskmaster coach had stepped down due to personal reasons just weeks before the tournament. It was a blow. Robin had built their discipline.
"Where's the new boss?" Rohit asked, looking around.
"Right here, lads."
A voice, thick with an Australian drawl, came from the hotel bar entrance.
A man walked out. He was stocky, balding, with a round, cheerful face that looked like it had seen a thousand sunny barbecues. He held a beer in one hand (which he quickly put down on a table) and walked over with a rolling gait.
Darren "Boof" Lehmann.
He was the antithesis of Robin Singh. Robin was a drill sergeant. Lehmann looked like everyone's favorite uncle who happened to know everything about cricket.
"Welcome to Africa," Lehmann said, shaking hands. He didn't offer firm, bone-crushing shakes. He offered warm, firm clasps.
He stopped at Siddanth.
"Deva," Lehmann said, his eyes twinkling. "I've heard stories. They say you bowl like Binga (Brett Lee)."
"I try, Coach," Siddanth said.
"Just 'Boof', mate. None of that 'Coach' rubbish. We're all grown-ups here."
Lehmann clapped his hands. "Right. Everyone's tired. Jet lag is a killer. Here's the schedule: Go to your rooms. Sleep. Or don't sleep. Go to the bar. Have a drink. Get to know each other again. No curfew tonight. Tomorrow, we hit the nets at Newlands at 10 AM. We'll talk cricket then. For now... just relax. We're here to win, but we're here to enjoy it too. A happy team wins games."
The squad looked at each other. No curfew? Relax? This was a massive shift from Robin Singh's regime.
Rohit Sharma smiled. "I think I'm going to like Boof."
Siddanth's mind analyzed the shift. Robin had built the discipline they needed when they were a mess. But now, they were a team of stars who knew their jobs. They didn't need a drill sergeant; they needed a man-manager. They needed someone to take the pressure off. Lehmann was perfect.
The Next Morning: Newlands Cricket Ground
Newlands was picturesque. The mountain backdrop, the oaks on the grass banks.
The team gathered in the middle.
Lehmann stood with Gilchrist (the captain).
"Alright," Lehmann said. "Last year, you guys were runners-up. You did the hard yards. This year, the conditions are different. There's bounce. There's pace. That suits us."
He pointed to the bowling group. RP Singh, Fidel Edwards, Siddanth Deva.
"We have the fastest attack in the tournament. Use it. Scare them."
He pointed to the batters. Gilchrist, Gibbs, Symonds, Rohit, Siddanth, Laxman.
"And we have the most destructive lineup. Express yourselves. If you get out hitting a six, I'll clap. If you get out blocking in the 15th over, we'll have words."
The practice began.
Siddanth grabbed a ball. He walked to the net where Andrew Symonds was batting.
Symonds was a beast. He was powerful, aggressive, and didn't suffer fools.
"Right then, Sid," Symonds grunted, tapping his bat. "Show me this New Zealand form. Don't hold back."
Siddanth marked his run-up. The South African air was thin. The pitch was hard.
He ran in.
Ball 1: 150kph. It hit the deck and exploded upwards.
Symonds, expecting the ball to come onto the bat, was hurried. The ball whistled past his nose before he could finish his pull shot.
"Jesus!" Symonds laughed, stepping away. "That's got some carry!"
Ball 2: Siddanth pitched it up. 152kph.
Symonds drove. The ball flew off the bat.
It was a high-quality contest.
Then, Lehmann walked over to watch Siddanth bat.
Siddanth faced Fidel Edwards. Edwards had a round-arm, slingy action, skidding the ball at 145kph.
Edwards bowled a bouncer.
Siddanth swiveled. He pulled it flat. It hit the side netting with a violence that made Lehmann jump.
"Shot!" Lehmann yelled.
Siddanth then faced Pragyan Ojha.
Ojha tossed it up.
Siddanth stepped out, met the ball, and lofted it inside-out over extra cover. It was the AB de Villiers signature.
Lehmann turned to Gilchrist. "He's the real deal, Gilly. He's got all the shots."
"Told you," Gilchrist grinned. "He's our MVP."
The Prank War Continues
After practice, as they were packing up, Siddanth saw his chance for revenge on Rohit for the "Full Toss" comment that had stuck with him for a year.
Rohit was sitting on the bench, eyes closed.
Siddanth walked past, casually dropping a towel. As he bent to pick it up, his Hands moved in a blur.
He tied the laces of the left shoe to the laces of the right shoe.
He walked away, sitting on the bench next to RP Singh. "Watch this," he whispered.
"Okay, bus time!" Lehmann called out.
Rohit woke and stood up. He took one step.
His feet didn't separate.
He toppled over like a cut tree, face-planting into the soft grass of Newlands with a muffled "Oof!"
The team turned. There was Rohit Sharma, lying flat on his face, his legs tied together.
There was a second of confused silence, and then the roar of laughter was deafening.
Herschelle Gibbs was rolling on the ground. Symonds was cackling.
Rohit pushed himself up, spitting out grass, looking down at his shoes.
"Who?!" he roared, looking around. "WHO DID THIS?"
Siddanth was sipping his water, looking at the clouds, an expression of angelic innocence on his face.
Rohit narrowed his eyes at him. "Sid..."
"What?" Siddanth asked, blinking. "I was over here talking to RP."
"You... you ninja!" Rohit laughed, untying the knot. "Okay. It's war. It is officially war."
Lehmann watched them, a satisfied smile on his face. A team that laughed together, won together.
"Alright, you clowns," Lehmann said. "Bus. We have a game to prepare for."
The Deccan Chargers were loose. They were happy. They were dangerous.
The IPL 2009 was about to start. And Siddanth Deva was ready to turn South Africa into his playground.