Siddanth Deva sat back in his heavy leather chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
His laptop sat open on the massive oak desk. For the past four hours, he had been submerged in the complex architecture of his private research, running endless, silent simulations. He had reached a natural stopping point—a rare moment where the algorithms needed time to compile without his active input.
Deva let out a slow, steady breath, rolling the tension out of his shoulders. The isolation of the lockdown was a strange, heavy garment.
He looked at his phone resting on the desk. He hadn't spoken to anyone outside the farmhouse walls in days.
He picked up the device, unlocked it, and decided to spend the afternoon simply checking in.
His first call was to Sameer.
The video connection initiated, ringing twice before Sameer's face appeared on the screen. He was sitting on a sofa in his family home in Jubilee Hills, wearing an oversized, faded band t-shirt. A half-eaten bowl of fruit sat on the coffee table in front of him.
"Look who it is," Sameer greeted, his voice carrying its usual dry rhythm. "I was beginning to think you have forgetten me."
"How are you holding up, Sam? Are Uncle and Aunty safe?"
"They're fine," Sameer nodded, leaning back and resting his arm along the back of the sofa. "My mother has basically turned the balcony into a small farming operation. She is currently trying to grow tomatoes in a plastic bucket. It keeps her occupied. I'm just trying not to lose my mind staring at the same four walls."
"It's an adjustment," Deva agreed.
"It's a nightmare, is what it is," Sameer sighed. "We had to officially postpone the second season of the NSL this morning. The government isn't going to authorize stadium gatherings for the rest of the year, maybe longer. All the venue bookings, the broadcast contracts, the athlete travel arrangements—we have to freeze everything."
"It's the right call," Deva said smoothly, not letting the disappointment register. "The athletes' safety comes first. We can't put them in bio-bubbles just for entertainment. We pause, we maintain their stipends so they don't lose their income, and we wait it out."
"Already done," Sameer confirmed. "The foundation accounts have been updated. The athletes will receive their monthly training allowances regardless of the cancellation. It's just frustrating. We had so much momentum after the first season."
"The momentum won't disappear, Sam. When the world opens back up, people are going to be desperate for live sports. We'll be ready."
They spoke for another ten minutes, keeping the conversation light. They discussed the bizarre reality of conducting multi-million-dollar board meetings while wearing pajama pants, and debated what the first thing they would do once the lockdown eventually lifted.
"Just don't take any unnecessary risks," Deva told him as the call wound down. "If you need anything delivered, let Arjun know. His team has secure supply lines."
"I'm good, Sid. Give my love to everyone there," Sameer said.
Deva ended the call. He swiped through his contacts and tapped Feroz's name.
Feroz answered from his own home office. Unlike Sameer, Feroz was wearing a crisp button-down shirt, sitting in front of a organized bookshelf.
"Sid," Feroz offered a polite, warm nod. "Good afternoon."
"Are you wearing a formal shirt in your own house, Feroz?" Deva teased lightly.
Feroz looked down at his shirt and chuckled softly. "It helps maintain a sense of routine. If I start working in a t-shirt, the line between the office and the living room disappears. How are things at the farmhouse?"
"Quiet," Deva said. "The kids are currently dismantling the living room downstairs, but otherwise, we're safe. How is the entertainment division holding up under the remote transition?"
"Surprisingly well," Feroz answered, leaning forward and resting his hands on his desk. "Live-action productions have stalled across the country, obviously. But animation is a different beast. Because we built the remote cloud-rendering infrastructure for the Ramayana films, our animators are actually able to pull their heavy texture files from their home workstations. The pipeline hasn't broken."
"And the release planning for Part 3?"
"We are holding the line," Feroz confirmed. "As we discussed, delaying the theatrical release to next year is the only viable option. The cinemas are dead. We are shifting all our marketing resources into maintaining the digital presence of the first two films on the streaming platforms. We want to keep the audience engaged with the universe until the screens light up again."
"Keep the teams moving, Feroz. But make sure the animators aren't burning out just because they're working from home."
"I will take care of it," Feroz nodded, appreciating the directive.
With the childhood friends check-ins complete, Deva shifted his focus. He opened the encrypted messaging application he used to communicate with the national team.
He didn't organize a massive, chaotic group call. He preferred the quiet intimacy of one-on-one conversations.
He dialed Rohit Sharma first.
The screen connected, revealing Rohit lying on a sofa, the phone held at an angle above his face. He looked comfortable, wearing a loose blue t-shirt.
"Skip," Rohit mumbled, offering a lazy, two-finger salute to the camera.
"Get up, Ro. It's three in the afternoon," Deva laughed.
"Why? Where am I going to go?" Rohit countered flawlessly, not moving an inch. "The kitchen? I already went there an hour ago. Ritika made vada pav. I am currently digesting."
Deva shook his head, amused by his commitment to relaxation. "How are you handling the break? Your bat is going to gather dust."
"Honestly, Sid? My body needed this," Rohit admitted, his tone shifting into something a bit more serious. "We've been on the road non-stop since the World Cup. The flights, the hotels, the specific diets... it wears you down. I'm actually enjoying sleeping in my own bed for more than three consecutive nights. The cricket will come back. Right now, I'm just playing with Samaira and trying not to eat everything in the refrigerator."
They chatted for a few more minutes, discussing the lack of a sporting calendar and exchanging stories about toddler tantrums, before Deva let Rohit get back to his post-lunch nap.
Next, he called Shikhar Dhawan.
The contrast was immediate. Shikhar answered the call while walking rapidly on a treadmill in his home gym, Punjabi music blasting in the background. He was sweating, a massive grin on his face.
"Captain!" Shikhar yelled over the music.
"You're going to break that treadmill, Gabbar," Deva smiled, adjusting his phone volume.
"I have to do something, brother!" Shikhar laughed, stepping off the belt and grabbing a towel. "I am going crazy inside this house. I miss the crowds. I miss the noise. I was playing shadow cricket in the hallway yesterday and nearly knocked over a vase. My wife yelled at me for ten minutes."
Deva chuckled softly. Shikhar fed off the energy of stadiums; isolating him in a quiet house was a unique form of torture. "Just keep the muscles loose. Don't pull a hamstring trying to invent new exercises in your living room."
"I'm surviving," Shikhar promised, wiping his face. "We'll be back opening the batting soon enough. Take care of the family, Sid."
The call with KL Rahul was much quieter. Rahul was sitting on the floor of his apartment, surrounded by a few kettlebells and resistance bands. He looked lean and focused, explaining his daily routine.
"I've been watching old footage," Rahul said, running a hand through his hair. "Looking at my footwork during the New Zealand series. Trying to figure out how to maintain my balance without a proper net session. I've set up a small hanging ball in the garage to just practice my bat swing."
"Don't overthink it, KL," Deva advised gently. "The muscle memory doesn't vanish in a few months. Use this time to rest your mind. The form will snap back the moment you step onto a pitch."
Rahul nodded, taking the advice to heart.
When Deva called Bhuvneshwar Kumar, the conversation was the calmest of the lot. Bhuvi was sitting on a quiet balcony, sipping green tea. They discussed his ongoing rehabilitation for a minor back strain. Bhuvi noted that the lockdown, ironically, was the best thing that could have happened for his recovery, providing him with an extended, pressure-free window to heal.
Then he called a few more national teammates.
With the Indian squad checked on, Deva opened his international contacts.
He tapped the name of a man who was not just a teammate, but one of his closest friends in the sport.
Kane Williamson answered the call from his home in Tauranga, New Zealand.
The background was stunning—a quiet, sunlit room overlooking a serene expanse of green hills. Kane was holding a ceramic mug of coffee, wearing a simple, dark sweater. His thick beard was slightly overgrown, and his eyes carried their usual calm.
"Siddanth," Kane smiled, his voice soft and unhurried.
"Kane," Deva greeted, leaning back in his chair. "It looks very peaceful over there."
"It's quiet," Kane agreed, taking a slow sip of his coffee. "New Zealand has locked down quite strictly. We're fortunate to have some space here, so it doesn't feel too claustrophobic. How is the situation in Hyderabad?"
"The city is empty," Deva replied. "It's a strange feeling. The silence is heavy."
Kane nodded slowly, understanding the sentiment. He wasn't the type of player to panic over a lost cricket season. He viewed the game, and life, through a philosophical lens.
"It forces perspective, doesn't it?" Kane mused gently. "We spend eleven months of the year chasing a ball around a field, worrying about run rates and series points. And then something like this happens, and you realize how fragile the whole structure is. It strips everything back to the basics. Health. Family. The people sitting in the room with you."
"Exactly," Deva agreed, feeling a sense of kinship with the New Zealander. They operated on the same wavelength. "It's a reset. I just hope the world actually learns something from it when the doors finally open again."
They talked for nearly half an hour. They discussed the books they were reading to pass the time—Kane was currently deep into a biography on endurance explorers, while Deva admitted he had been reading chemistry journals, which made Kane laugh quietly. They talked about the SRH franchise, wondering what the fate of the IPL would be, but neither of them stressed over it.
"I saw David posted another video this morning," Kane mentioned, an amused smile touching his lips.
Deva let out a laugh. "I saw it. The man has lost his mind in quarantine."
"He has a lot of energy," Kane noted diplomatically. "And a very supportive family."
"I'm calling him next," Deva said. "Stay safe, Kane. Give my best to the family."
"You too, mate. We'll see each other across a pitch eventually."
Deva disconnected the call and immediately dialed David Warner.
Warner was in Australia, but when he answered the video call, he looked like he was in the middle of a high-intensity aerobics class. He was wearing an SRH training jersey, holding his phone out at arm's length, breathing heavily, while his two young daughters ran in circles behind him.
"Mate!" Warner shouted cheerfully. "The captain calls! Hang on, let me sit down."
Warner dropped onto a sofa, wiping sweat from his forehead, looking thrilled.
"David, what are you doing?" Deva asked.
"Trying to keep these two entertained," Warner laughed, pointing at his daughters. "We just spent an hour filming a dance routine in the backyard. Candice is editing it right now."
Since the lockdown began, Warner had taken to TikTok with enthusiasm. But what had started as a few funny videos had rapidly evolved into a cultural phenomenon. For reasons unknown to anyone, Warner had begun flawlessly lip-syncing and dancing to massive Telugu cinematic hit songs. His rendition of Butta Bomma had practically broken the Indian internet.
"You realize," Deva said smoothly, leaning his elbows on the desk, "that you are currently more popular in Andhra and Telangana than half the local politicians."
Warner threw his head back and laughed a loud, barking laugh. "Mate, the fans are unbelievable! The comments I get... I have no idea what half the words mean, but they seem to love it. It's just a bit of fun. Keeps the spirits up."
"You're fully adopting the local culture," Deva teased. "The fans don't even call you David anymore. I looked at the comments yesterday. You are officially Warner mama."
Warner paused, his brow furrowing in confusion. He leaned closer to the screen. "Warner mama? What does that mean? Is that an insult?"
Deva chuckled softly. "No, David. It's not an insult. In Telugu, mama technically translates to maternal uncle or father-in-law. But in the local slang of Hyderabad, it's a term of endearment. It means brother, mate, a close friend you respect. The fans are basically calling you their favorite uncle."
Warner's face lit up with delight. "Are you serious? That's brilliant! Warner mama. I love it."
"They've done it to Kane too," Deva added, unable to resist pushing the joke further. "He is Kane mama. Though I think his dancing would be significantly less energetic than yours."
Warner laughed so hard he had to hold his stomach. "I would pay money to see Kane try to dance to one of these songs. He's too polite! He'd just stand there nodding to the beat."
"Please don't challenge him," Deva smiled. "He might actually try it just to be nice."
After ending the call with Australia, Deva shifted his focus away from the cricketing world.
He opened his contacts and dialed Rana Daggubati.
Rana answered the call sitting in his decorated home office in Hyderabad. He looked relaxed, his thick beard perfectly groomed, wearing a simple black t-shirt.
"Sid," Rana's deep, resonant voice filled the speakers.
"Just checking in, Rana. Surviving the house arrest?"
"I am currently organizing my library by genre, which tells you how bored I am," Rana laughed. "It's strange, man. The city is dead."
They chatted briefly, exchanging local updates. Rana was fine, his family was safe, and the pause in film production was giving him a much-needed break from the punishing physical requirements of his roles.
Deva then called Gopichand.
The actor answered with a warm, straightforward smile. Gopichand was a man of few words.
"Sid. How is the family?" Gopichand asked immediately.
"Everyone is safe, Gopi. Thank you," Deva replied respectfully. "How are things on your end?"
"Peaceful. Just spending time with the kids. The Ramayana really changed the atmosphere around me. People still talk to me about Ravana whenever I go out. You gave me a character of a lifetime."
"You brought him to life," Deva corrected gently. "Actually, that is part of the reason I called. We are starting pre-production on the next animated project. Parashurama."
Gopichand listened, nodding slowly.
"Rana is playing Parashurama," Deva explained. "And Ranveer Singh has agreed to voice the antagonist, Kartha Veeryarjuna."
"Ranveer?" Gopichand raised an eyebrow, visibly impressed. "That is an incredible casting choice. The energy he will bring to an animated villain... it will be spectacular."
"It will be," Deva agreed. "But there is small Ravana role during introduction of antagonist, I want you to continue voice your role."
Gopichand paused.
A slow, deeply appreciative smile spread across Gopichand's face.
"I would be honored, Sid," Gopichand said simply. "Just send me the script when the studios reopen."
"I will," Deva promised, a satisfied smile on his face.
With two of the Telugu industry connections completed, Deva tapped the name of the man who had anchored his cinematic universe.
He called Prabhas.
The call connected. Prabhas was sitting in the sprawling, softly lit living room of his Jubilee Hills residence.
"Darling," Prabhas greeted softly.
"How are you, Darling?" Deva asked, leaning forward slightly. "You look tired."
Prabhas offered a small, dismissive wave of his hand, though he couldn't hide the slight wince as he shifted his position on the sofa. "Just some old aches and pains catching up with me. The weather changes, and the knees remember everything."
Deva's expression shifted immediately. He knew the toll the Baahubali franchise taken on the actor. Years of maintaining unnatural muscle mass, performing dangerous wire-stunts, and fighting through minor injuries had left lasting marks.
"Are you doing rehab?" Deva asked, his tone shifting from casual friend to an athlete who understood biomechanics.
"A little," Prabhas admitted, rubbing his shoulder. "It's fine. It's just the price of the job."
"Take a break, Prabhas," Deva said firmly, looking into the camera. He wasn't suggesting it; he was advising him with sincerity. "The industry isn't going anywhere. You don't need to chase another ten massive action projects right now. You already have Ramayana: Yuddha Khanda releasing next. You've given them enough. Let your body heal. Health comes first."
Prabhas looked at the screen, touched by the concern. In an industry where everyone constantly demanded his time, a friend telling him to simply stop and rest was a rare commodity.
"I am resting," Prabhas smiled softly. "The lockdown gave me no choice. But I do have a few commitments lined up when the world opens again."
"Such as?"
"There is a project with Nag Ashwin," Prabhas said, his eyes lighting up slightly with creative interest. "It's a science-fiction film. Working title is Project K but original title will be Kalki 2898 AD."
Deva remained still. His eidetic memory instantly pulled the file from his previous life. He knew what Kalki was. He knew the massive, dystopian world-building, the fusion of the Mahabharata with cyberpunk aesthetics, the towering vehicles, and the complex narrative structure.
"Science fiction?" Deva asked, acting flawlessly as though he was hearing the concept for the first time. "That's a massive leap. What's the premise?"
"It is very ambitious," Prabhas explained, gesturing with his hands. "It's set in a dystopian future, hundreds of years from now. The world is basically a desert, and there is one massive, towering city that controls all the resources. But the core of the story is deeply rooted in Indian mythology. Specifically, the end of the Mahabharata and the arrival of the Kalki avatar."
Prabhas explained his character—a bounty hunter living in the harsh, futuristic slums—and the broad strokes of the central conflict involving protecting a mother carrying the divine child.
"It sounds massive," Deva noted, leaning back. Then, he began to ask some questions. "What is the scale of the world-building? Are they building sets, or is it entirely green screen? And how much mythology is the audience supposed to understand before the major reveals happen?"
Prabhas blinked, slightly overwhelmed by the sudden barrage of questions. "It's... it's a mix. Nag has an entire bible written out for the world."
"But what are the character stakes?" Deva pressed. "If you build a futuristic city, it looks beautiful, but the audience won't care about the flying cars if they don't understand what the characters stand to lose. How does your character fit into the mythology without it feeling forced?"
Prabhas laughed, holding his hands up in surrender. "Wait a minute, Sid. You're asking me director questions. I just act in the movie."
Prabhas tapped his phone screen. "Hang on. I'm going to bring him in."
"Bring who in?" Deva asked.
"Nag," Prabhas said casually.
A few seconds later, the video call split into three screens.
Nag Ashwin appeared in the third window. He was sitting in his own study, wearing a casual t-shirt, looking slightly distracted. He answered the call purely because he saw Prabhas's name on the caller ID.
"Hey, Prabhas, what's up?" Nag said, looking at the camera.
Then, his eyes shifted to the second window on the screen.
Nag froze.
He literally stopped moving. His mouth opened slightly. He stared at the screen, his brain trying to process why the captain of the Indian cricket team, the billionaire CEO of Nexus, and the director of the Oscar-winning Ramayana was casually sitting on a group video call in his living room.
For three seconds, there was stunned silence.
Prabhas burst into quiet laughter.
Deva smiled, amused by the director's shock.
"Deva sir..." Nag finally managed to stammer, his eyes wide.
"Siddanth, or Sid is fine," Deva said smoothly, his tone warm and welcoming, immediately disarming the tension.
"I am a huge fan, sir," Nag said, quickly adjusting his posture, running a nervous hand through his hair. "I didn't realize... Prabhas didn't tell me..." Nag glared briefly at Prabhas, who was still laughing. "What do you want, sir?"
"I didn't want anything," Deva laughed softly. "I was just asking Prabhas about the new film, and he apparently got tired of answering my questions, so he ambushed you instead."
"He was asking me about world-building and character stakes," Prabhas defended himself. "I told him to talk to the architect."
Nag took a deep breath, his initial shock giving way to the passionate, slightly nervous energy of a creator talking about his passion project.
"Ask me anything, Siddanth," Nag offered respectfully.
Deva didn't hold back. He engaged Nag in a deep, highly technical conversation about filmmaking. He asked about the visual tone of the dystopian world. He asked how Nag planned to balance the weight of the Mahabharata mythology with the high-tech, laser-firing reality of a science-fiction future.
Nag answered thoughtfully, explaining his vision for the complex vehicles, the weapons, and the desperate poverty of the futuristic slums contrasting with the luxury of the towering complex.
It didn't feel like an interview. It felt like two directors trading philosophies.
"The world-building needs to be clear from the first frame, Nag," Deva offered, his tone respectful but firm, providing creative advice. "If the audience doesn't understand the rules of your future world—what they eat, how they trade, what the laws are—they will disconnect when the mythology is introduced. The stakes have to feel grounded."
Nag nodded intently, absorbing the advice.
"And be careful with the tone," Deva added gently. "Comedy is a great tool for a bounty hunter character. But don't let the humor overpower the serious, mythological core of the film. The audience needs to feel that the world has real, devastating consequences. If the protagonist doesn't take the threat seriously, the audience won't either."
"That is the balance we are trying to strike in the script right now," Nag agreed, leaning closer to the camera, comfortable now. "Finding the line between commercial entertainment and epic mythology."
Deva sat quietly for a moment, looking at the young director. He remembered the sprawling ambition of Kalki from his past life. He knew the volume of visual effects work the film required.
"Nag," Deva said casually, leaning his elbows on the desk. "Nexus would be happy to handle the VFX for the film."
Nag blinked.
Prabhas laughed out loud, realizing exactly what Deva was doing.
Nag didn't know what to say. Nexus Entertainment wasn't just a VFX house; they were the studio that had literally revolutionized Indian animation and won an Academy Award. Having Nexus offer their rendering servers and digital artists to a live-action project was the equivalent of being handed the keys to a Ferrari.
"Sir, I... that is an incredible offer," Nag stammered, overwhelmed.
"Don't commit to everything right now," Deva reassured him smoothly, holding up a hand. "I know you have your own visual teams and concepts. Just give us a few sequences. Let the Nexus artists work on a few specific scenes—maybe the vehicle designs or the mythological flashbacks. If you like the results, we can continue the partnership. If you don't, you take the files and use another studio. No pressure."
Deva paused, a sarcastic smirk appearing on his face. "Though we do have an Oscar sitting in the lobby, so we aren't exactly starting from zero."
Prabhas laughed loudly at the flex.
Nag shook his head, a disbelieving smile breaking across his face. "We'll try a few scenes first, Siddanth. Let's see what your team can do with our world. Then we'll talk."
"Deal," Deva smiled.
After a few more minutes of technical discussion, Nag politely excused himself from the call, his mind clearly racing with the possibilities of the new partnership.
Prabhas and Deva remained on the line.
"You really don't waste time, do you?" Prabhas chuckled.
"If he has a good vision, he needs the best tools to build it," Deva replied simply. "Are you looking at anything else besides Kalki?"
"There is another script," Prabhas admitted, his tone shifting. "A director named Prashanth Neel. He directed KGF."
"I know the name," Deva nodded, his memory instantly pulling up the coal-dusted aesthetic of Prashanth Neel's cinematic universe.
"The film is called Salaar," Prabhas explained. "It's an action film, very raw, very dark. It's about two childhood friends who become enemies in this fictional empire. It's built around loyalty and brutality."
Deva listened, letting Prabhas outline the broad strokes of the narrative. He knew the film well. He knew the towering, relentless action sequences and the heavy, emotional core of the friendship.
"That sounds like it will work," Deva said, offering a confident, friendly prediction. "It has the right ingredients. Prashanth knows how to build a world that feels dangerous, and you have the physical presence to anchor a massive commercial action film like that. It's a good choice."
They talked for a little while longer, the conversation drifting away from cinema and back to the mundane reality of the lockdown. They promised to meet in person once the world finally allowed it, and warmly said goodbye.
The screen clicked dark.
Deva looked out the window. The sun had begun to set, painting the sky over the farmhouse in deep shades of purple and orange.
He had one more call to make.
He opened his contacts and dialed a number.
The line rang for a long time. Deva was almost ready to disconnect when the call finally connected.
Sushant Singh Rajput appeared on the screen.
He looked tired. He was sitting in a dimly lit, heavily furnished hotel room. Outside the window behind him, the gloomy, overcast sky of London was visible.
"Hey, Sid," Sushant offered a quiet, slightly weary smile.
"How are you doing, Sushant?" Deva asked, his tone shifting into concern.
"I'm managing," Sushant sighed, running a hand over his face. He looked around the quiet hotel room. "It's just strange. Being stuck halfway across the world. The UK lockdown is strict. I haven't left this room in four days."
Following the staggering global success of Ramayana Part 1, Sushant's fierce, emotional portrayal of Lakshmana had caught the attention of international casting directors. Breaking out of the traditional Bollywood mold, auditions for global projects had quickly followed.
Months ago, a breakout role had been landed in the Hollywood production Mission: Impossible 7. It was a high-stakes, international espionage thriller. Cast in a crucial ensemble role as an incredibly sharp, morally conflicted intelligence analyst who uncovers a central conspiracy, Sushant had been in London shooting the project when the pandemic abruptly halted all global film production, leaving him stranded in the city.
"Are the hotel staff taking care of you? Do you have enough supplies?"
"Yeah, they're great. Room service is functioning. I have food, I have books," Sushant said, holding up a thick paperback novel. "I've been reading a lot of philosophy and astrophysics. Trying to keep the mind occupied. But the waiting is difficult. You build up all this creative momentum for a character, and then suddenly you're just sitting on a sofa staring at the wall."
"It's a pause, not an end," Siddanth reassured smoothly. "How was the shoot going before the shutdown?"
Sushant's eyes lit up slightly, creative passion pushing through the lockdown lethargy. "It was incredible, Sid. The scale of the production is massive, but the director is very focused on character details. They aren't treating my role like a token diversity casting. The character is deeply integrated into the plot. I actually get to act, not just deliver exposition."
"I'm not surprised. When the international audience heard your voice work as Lakshmana, they realized you could carry heavy emotional stakes. It changed how they viewed you."
"It really did," Sushant agreed, a note of gratitude in his voice. "This Hollywood project... it feels like a new chapter. I just hope the world stabilizes soon so we can finish it."
"Stay patient. Use the time. Read the scripts, break down the character arcs. When the cameras roll again, you'll be ready."
They spoke for another twenty minutes, navigating the bizarre reality of the pandemic, the empty streets of London, and the quiet isolation of the hotel room.
"Stay safe, Sushant. Call me if you need anything," Siddanth said as they prepared to disconnect.
"I will, Sid. Thank you. Say hi to the family for me."
The call ended.
Lowering the phone, Siddanth placed it gently onto the wooden surface of the desk.