The lobby of the Southern Sun Elangeni hotel in Durban was bathed in the warm, golden glow of the chandeliers, a stark contrast to the cool ocean breeze drifting in from the Indian Ocean. It was the evening of April 30, 2009.
The Deccan Chargers had just wrapped up a grueling practice session at Kingsmead. The team was tired, their bodies aching from the intensity of training, but the mood in the private lounge reserved for the players was electric.
It was Rohit Sharma's 22nd Birthday.
Siddanth Deva sat on the edge of a plush velvet sofa, his knees bouncing with nervous energy. He wasn't nervous about a match; he was nervous about the structural integrity of the massive, double-layered chocolate truffle cake sitting on the low table in front of him.
"He's coming," Pragyan Ojha hissed, peeking around the corner of the hallway. The left-arm spinner was the team's unofficial Minister of Mischief. His eyes were gleaming with a predatory delight. "I saw him get off the elevator. He's wearing that ridiculous floral shirt."
RP Singh, leaning against the wall, cracked his knuckles. "Is the plan set?"
"The plan is simple," Siddanth said. "We lure him in. We sing the song. He cuts the cake. He feeds you, RP. And then..."
"Then we strike," Ojha finished, rubbing his hands together. "No mercy. The Hitman gets hit."
The lounge was filled with the core Indian contingent. Venugopal Rao was giggling in the corner. T. Suman was holding a party popper. Even Adam Gilchrist and Ryan Harris were standing by the bar, beers in hand, watching the young guns plot with amused smiles.
"He's here! Positions!" Ojha whispered, diving behind the sofa.
Siddanth sat up straight, trying to look like he was casually checking his phone.
Rohit Sharma walked in.
He looked relaxed, his hair gelled (a futile effort, as he was about to find out), wearing a bright, tropical print shirt that screamed 'I am young and rich.' He was humming a tune, completely oblivious to the ambush.
"SURPRISE!"
The room erupted. T. Suman popped the confetti cannon, showering Rohit in glitter.
"Happy Birthday to you... Happy Birthday to you..."
The team sang, out of tune and loud. Gilchrist's Australian accent clashed horribly with RP Singh's Hindi-inflected English, creating a beautiful, chaotic harmony.
Rohit beamed. He looked genuinely touched. He walked to the table, the candlelight reflecting in his eyes.
"Thanks, boys. This is... this is nice."
"Cut it, yaar," Ojha urged, emerging from behind the sofa with a suspiciously innocent expression. "I'm hungry."
Rohit picked up the knife. He made a wish—probably for a century or a World Cup—and sliced through the rich, dark chocolate. The smell of cocoa filled the air.
He cut a neat, square piece.
He looked around. His eyes landed on RP Singh, his close friend and senior bowler.
"Here, RP bhai," Rohit said, extending the piece of cake towards RP's mouth.
RP opened his mouth, smiling.
Rohit leaned in.
The Signal.
Just as the cake touched RP's lips, Pragyan Ojha lunged.
He didn't take a piece. He scooped his hand under the cake base.
With a roar of "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!", he smashed the entire cake directly into Rohit's face.
SPLAT.
It was a direct hit. A masterclass in accuracy.
Rohit Sharma disappeared. In his place stood a man with a chocolate face, chocolate hair, and a chocolate shirt.
For a second, there was silence.
Then, total pandemonium.
"ATTACK!" Siddanth yelled.
He grabbed a handful of the debris—frosting, sponge, cherry—and rubbed it vigorously into Rohit's hair.
RP Singh, wiping the polite piece from his mouth, joined in, smearing icing down Rohit's neck.
Rohit sputtered, wiping chocolate from his eyes. "You... you dogs!" he roared, laughing and choking on sponge.
He reached out blindly. His hand found a chunk of cake.
"Nobody leaves this room clean!" Rohit shouted.
He lunged at Ojha.
Ojha screamed and ran.
The lounge turned into a battlefield. Rohit, blinded by chocolate but guided by rage, chased Ojha over a sofa.
Siddanth tried to escape to the safety of the bar. He vaulted over a coffee table.
But he wasn't fast enough for the birthday boy.
Rohit grabbed Siddanth by the back of his shirt.
"Where are you going?" Rohit grinned, his teeth white against the brown mask of his face.
"Rohit, no! This is a new shirt!" Siddanth pleaded, laughing.
"It's chocolate now!"
Rohit hugged him. A full, frosting-covered bear hug. Siddanth felt the sticky, cold icing seep through his shirt. He laughed, surrendering, and grabbed a handful of cake from Rohit's shoulder to smear it back onto Rohit's ears.
By the time the chaos subsided, the hotel lounge looked like a bakery had exploded.
Rohit was unrecognizable. Ojha had icing in his ears. Siddanth's clothes were ruined.
Even Gilchrist had a smudge of chocolate on his cheek, collateral damage from a flying piece of sponge.
"Right," Gilchrist said, wiping his cheek and grinning. "Housekeeping is going to kill us. Go shower, you lot. Dinner in an hour. And Rohit?"
"Yeah, Gilly?" Rohit asked, licking icing off his nose.
"Happy Birthday, mate."
---
An hour later, the team reassembled in a private function room that the management had booked. The mess had been cleaned (with generous tips to the staff), and the players were showered and changed.
Rohit was wearing a fresh shirt, his hair wet and scrubbed, though he still smelled faintly of vanilla essence.
The mood had shifted from chaotic to celebratory. The lights were dimmed, a DJ was playing a mix of Bollywood hits and current pop, and the drinks were flowing.
Siddanth stood at the bar with Andrew Symonds.
"You Indians know how to celebrate," Symonds grinned, nursing a beer. "Though I think wasting that much cake is a crime against food."
"It's tradition, Symmo," Siddanth laughed. "It brings good luck."
"If getting caked in the face is luck, Rohit's going to score a triple century," Symonds chuckled.
The music swelled. Jai Ho from Slumdog Millionaire started playing. It was the anthem of the year.
"Oh no," Siddanth groaned.
RP Singh had taken the dance floor.
"Come on! Everyone!" RP yelled, doing the signature step.
He dragged Rohit onto the floor. Rohit, fueled by birthday adrenaline, didn't resist. He started dancing.
Now, Rohit Sharma is a man of exquisite timing on the cricket field. His cover drive is poetry.
His dancing... was abstract art.
He flailed. He jumped. He did a move that looked like he was trying to swat mosquitoes while playing the maracas.
"Look at those feet!" Ojha yelled over the music, filming with a Handycam. "No footwork! He's stuck in the crease!"
"Shut up, Ojha!" Rohit yelled back, spinning around and nearly falling over.
Siddanth watched, leaning against a pillar, a smile plastered on his face. This was it. This was the team spirit that Robin Singh had tried to force, but which Lehmann had allowed to grow organically.
He felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Herschelle Gibbs.
"You're too sober, Sid," Gibbs said, holding two glasses of what looked like apple juice but definitely wasn't.
"I'm designated walker," Siddanth joked. "Someone has to carry Rohit back to his room."
Gibbs laughed. "Fair point. But watch this."
Gibbs walked onto the dance floor. The DJ switched to a hip-hop track.
Gibbs didn't flail. He moved. He popped, he locked, he glided. The man danced like he batted—with natural, rhythmic flair.
The team formed a circle, clapping. Even the stoic VVS Laxman was tapping his foot.
---
Later in the night, the music lowered for a bit of food.
Siddanth found himself sitting next to RP Singh and Rohit.
Rohit was checking his wrist. He frowned. He checked his other wrist.
He patted his pockets.
"Oh no," Rohit whispered.
"What now?" Siddanth asked, sipping his water.
"My watch," Rohit said, his voice rising in panic. "I took it off to wash my hands in the restroom... did I leave it there?"
He stood up, looking frantic. "I swear, if I lost my phone and my watch in one week..."
RP Singh rolled his eyes. "You are hopeless, Ro. Go check."
Rohit ran towards the restroom.
Siddanth waited until he was out of earshot.
He slowly opened his left hand.
Resting in his palm, gleaming under the party lights, was Rohit's Tag Heuer watch.
He had swiped it off Rohit's wrist five minutes ago while they were high-fiving over a joke. Sleight of Hand made pickpocketing embarrassingly easy.
"You devil," RP Singh whispered, seeing the watch. "When did you...?"
"When he was laughing at Ojah's dancing," Siddanth whispered back. "Don't tell him."
RP grinned wickedly. "Not a word."
Rohit came back, looking devastated. "It's not there. It's gone. I left it on the sink."
"That's a 2 lakh rupee watch, Ro," Siddanth said, keeping his face dead serious. "Someone must have taken it."
"I'm dead," Rohit moaned, putting his head on the table. "My mom gave me that for the World Cup win."
"Maybe," Siddanth said, channeling his inner magician, "it's closer than you think."
"What?" Rohit lifted his head.
"Maybe... you put it in your pocket?"
"I checked my pockets!" Rohit snapped.
"Check... my pocket," Siddanth said calmly.
Rohit frowned. He reached into Siddanth's shirt pocket.
He pulled out the watch.
He stared at it. He stared at Siddanth.
"How...?"
"You were showing me the clasp, remember?" Siddanth lied smoothly. "You gave it to me to hold."
Rohit looked confused. "I... did I?"
"Yeah. You were drunk on cake."
Rohit paused, the gears turning in his head. Then he realized.
"You stole it! You stole it off my wrist!"
Siddanth burst out laughing. "You didn't feel a thing! You have terrible awareness, yaar!"
Rohit put the watch on, tightening the strap. "I hate you. I actually hate you." But he was laughing too. "You're a menace, Deva."
---
As the night wound down, the party moved to the balcony. The Durban skyline was quiet.
Siddanth and Rohit stood by the railing, the cool air sobering them up. The laughter from inside was muffled.
"22," Rohit said, looking at the city lights. "Feeling old."
"You're ancient," Siddanth agreed. "I'm a fresh 18. I have my whole life ahead of me."
"Shut up," Rohit nudged him.
They stood in silence for a moment.
"We've got a good team, Sid," Rohit said, his voice serious now. "Better than last year. The vibe... It's different. Gilly trusts us."
"He does," Siddanth nodded. "And Lehmann lets us breathe."
"We can win this," Rohit said. "I feel it. We're second on the table. We're beating the big teams. If we keep this up..."
"We will keep it up," Siddanth said. "We have the balance. You, me, Gilly, Gibbs. And the bowlers are hunting in packs."
Rohit turned to him. "You've changed, you know. Since the Ranji's."
"Changed how?"
"You're... calmer. In the Ranji's, you were focused, yet intense. Now... it's like you know what's going to happen. You bowl a bad ball, and you don't panic. You get hit for six, and you smile. It's... weird. But it's good."
Siddanth looked at his friend. If only you knew.
"I just realized," Siddanth said, looking at the stars. "Cricket is chaos. You can't control the result. You can only control the next ball. Once you accept that... the panic goes away."
"Deep," Rohit snorted. "You reading philosophy books with Gibbs?"
"Maybe."
"Well," Rohit pushed off the railing. "Mr. Philosopher, we have a match against Punjab in two days. Yuvraj will be coming for us. And Brett Lee."
"Let them come," Siddanth said.
"That's the spirit." Rohit yawned. "I'm going to bed. Thanks for the... uh... facial treatment earlier."
"Anytime. It's good for the skin."
Siddanth watched him walk back inside.
He stayed on the balcony for a moment longer.
This was the part of the second life he cherished the most. Not the centuries, not the wickets, but this. The friendship. The moments in between the wars.
He was 18. He was a Deccan Charger. And he was having the time of his life.