My mind was reeling, not from the emotion, but from the numbers. 72 lakhs. In 2008. It was more money than my previous self had made in five years of corporate drudgery. My stock portfolio was already ticking upwards, a silent, secondary engine of wealth. This... this was the rocket fuel.
My old self was just giddy that he could buy a new car.
And then, my pocket vibrated.
It was my iPhone, the first-generation model I'd bought during my Ranji ti.
The screen read: RAJESH (Ranji Capt).
I motioned for everyone to quiet down, a wave of laughter and shushing filling the room.
"Hello?"
"KID! YOU'RE BUYING DINNER!" The voice was a roar.
"Rajesh bhai! How are you?"
"How am I? I'm fantastic! 72 lakhs! You are buying dinner for the entire Ranji squad for the next five seasons! Do you understand ? What a payday! We're all proud of you, kid. You earned it."
The mont I hung up, it rang again. A cascade. The U-19 boys—Tanmay, Manish, Jadeja—a chaotic, each one demanding I buy them a new bat, a new pair of shoes, a new PlayStation. As I was the highest-bidding player. It was a joyous, perfect chaos.
After promising Jadeja a new helt and cutting the call, another call beeped through.
VIRAT KOHLI.
"Sid?"
"Virat. Man, congratulations. Royal Challengers. 12 lakhs. You're going to Bangalore. They got a steal."
I heard him laugh on the other end, that confident, brash sound that was so familiar. "It's a start, Sid! It's a start! But you... 72! Seventy-two! You left us all in the dust, you absolute bastard! You're buying dinner when we co to Hyderabad."
"Only if you're paying in Bangalore," I shot back, the familiar, competitive rhythm falling right into place. "Deccan Chargers, man. Ho team. I couldn't ask for better."
"Good for you. Seriously," his voice softened for a half-second. "You deserve it. After that Ranji final... after that World Cup... you earned every last rupee of it."
"So did you," I said. "We both did."
There was a pause. The easy, celebratory chatter was gone. The competitor was back on the line.
"Yeah," he said, his voice a low growl. "We did. But now... now we're on different teams again, champion."
I smiled and said in response. "I guess we are."
"So... see you on the field," Virat said, and the way he said it made it sound less like a reunion and more like a threat.
He hung up.
I put the phone down, a wide, genuine grin splitting my face. The pact we'd made that night at the NCA—the 2011 World Cup—was the long-term war. The IPL was about to be our first, glorious, high-paying battlefield. I couldn't wait.
The next morning, the house was quiet. The adrenaline had worn off, replaced by the stunned, happy silence of a family whose entire financial landscape had been redrawn in 90 seconds.
I had just finished my high-protein breakfast—a perfect, six-egg-white olet with avocado and so waterlon, when the phone rang at 11 AM sharp. An unknown number.
I answered with my professional voice. "Siddanth Deva speaking."
"Mr. Siddanth Deva? This is Mr. Krishnan, from the Deccan Chargers franchise managent. Good morning." The voice was crisp, all business.
"Good morning, sir. A pleasure to hear from you."
"On behalf of the franchise, I'd like to officially welco you to the team. We're thrilled to have you. The owners, our support staff... we were all very impressed with your all-round capabilities in the World Cup."
"Thank you, sir," I said, my voice steady, though my heart was doing a drum solo. "I'm honored to be playing for my ho city."
"Excellent. We like to hear that. Now, for the logistics. This is a fast-moving tournant. The first team camp will begin on March 28th. We require all our players to report to the Park Hyatt in Banjara Hills at 11:00 AM sharp. You'll check in, get your kit, and et the support staff. This gives us approximately 20 days before our first match on April 18th."
March 28th. Park Hyatt. The words were anchors, pulling my abstract, high-figure future into a concrete reality.
"March 28th, 11 AM, Park Hyatt," I repeated, committing it to mory. "Got it. I'll be there on ti, sir."
"Wonderful. We'll have a car sent for you, of course."
"No need, sir," I said. "I'll make my own way. I'm just 20 minutes away. I'm looking forward to it."
"Even better," he replied, a hint of approval in his voice. "Welco aboard, Mr. Siddanth."
I hung up. 20 days. I have to prove in this IPL that I can play in the Big Leagues. The work has started now.
But first, I needed to breathe. I needed to rember why I played.
I grabbed my oldest, most beat-up tennis ball and walked out of the house.
"Look who it is! Mr. 72-Lakhs!"
Arjun was already at the colony ground, a dusty, uneven patch of land that served as our personal Lord's. He was with Ravi and Saer. They were just sitting on a bench, waiting for .
"Shut up, Arjun," I grinned, tossing him the ball. "It's been too long."
"Too long? You've been gone, what, three months? And you co back a world champion and a crorepati," he said, but he was grinning. "So, what, you're too good to play with us now? Scared I'll get you out?"
"You've never gotten out, Arri," I laughed, grabbing the old, shared community bat. "And you're not starting today."
For the next two hours, the professional player was gone. I was just Siddu.
I was playing gully cricket with my best friends. The rules were absurd. One-hand-one-bounce. Six-and-out if you hit it over the wall into Mrs. Reddy's garden. We laughed. I slogged. I got out to a ridiculous, looping underarm delivery from Saer and had to field for twenty minutes, the "walk of sha."
It was the most fun I'd had since the final. It was a reset, a grounding. It was a reminder that before I was a professional, I was a kid from this gully who just loved the sound of a ball hitting a bat.
"Alright, alright, I'm done," I panted, collapsing on the bench, my t-shirt soaked. "You win. I'm out of practice."
"Ha! Knew it," Arjun said, sitting next to . "So, what's next, superstar? You reporting for duty?"
"March 28th," I said. "Park Hyatt."
Arjun whistled. "The big ti. Well, you can't show up looking like that." He gestured to my worn-out training shorts and faded U-19 tee. I never spend on anything extravagant. If it worked, why change it that was my philosophy.
"What's wrong with this?"
"I know your ntality. Co on. My treat. We're going shopping."
City Centre Mall in Banjara Hills was a different world. It was all glass, steel, and air-conditioning. My 35-year-old mind knew exactly what this was: this was not about clothes; it was about building a brand. The IPL was as much about dia as it was about cricket.
"Okay, what are you buying?" Arjun asked, energized. "A big, flashy 'D&G' shirt? So of those ripped jeans?"
"No," I said, pulling him past the designer stores. "I'm not a rapper. I'm a professional."
I walked into a high-end, understated n's store. My plan was simple. I wasn't going to be the flashy rookie. I was going to be the serious, dangerous, professional one.
Three pairs of dark-wash, perfectly-tailored jeans. No rips, no fades.
Five solid-colored polo shirts and normal round neck T-shirts. Black, navy, white, grey. Well-fitting.
A sharp, tailored casual blazer. A light grey linen.
A new pair of minimalist white leather sneakers.
A grown-up leather duffel bag.
Arjun watched as I paid, his expression baffled.
"Dude. That's it? You just bought... 'boring.' You could have bought a big brand."
"First impressions, Arri," I said, slinging the new bag over my shoulder. "We're reporting to the Park Hyatt, not the NCA ss hall. We're going to be in a dressing room with VVS Laxman and Adam Gilchrist. I'm not walking in looking like a kid who just won a lottery. I'm walking in looking like I belong."
Arjun was silent for a mont, processing. "Man, you've changed. You're thinking about... branding."
"I'm thinking about being a professional," I corrected him gently. "It's what you'll learn in your MBA. Perception matters."
He just shook his head, but he was smiling, impressed. "Alright. Point taken, Mr. CEO. Now what? Back to the nets? Or are you done for the day?"
"Nets," I said, my voice hardening. The fun was over. "But not the gully. I need to work."
I dropped Arjun ho and drove to the HPS Cricket Academy, the place where I'd honed my skills. It was late afternoon, and the nets were mostly empty. I didn't want a batting partner. I didn't want a bowling machine.
I just wanted a bag of old balls and a single, solitary stump.
I started my run-up, longer than before, adding that slight, explosive bound—the "kangaroo hop"—before delivery.
My first ball was a 150kph rocket... that missed the stump entirely and smashed into the chain-link fence.
My second was a 152kph half-tracker that nearly broke the stump at the other end.
The power was there, but it was wild. The new action was generating extre pace but zero control.
Calm down, I told my body. This isn't a pissing contest. This is surgery.
I activated Predator's Focus (Lv. 2). The world went silent. The net, the trees, the distant traffic... it all faded. The only thing in my universe was the single, white, wooden stump 22 yards away.
Drill 1: The Yorker (Consistency).
My goal: Hit the base of the stump.
I ran in, my "Leap" and "Javelin" (Lv. 3) skills combining. Thwack. 150kph. It hit the crease, but a foot wide of leg.
Again.
Thwack. 151kph. A foot wide of off.
Focus. Don't just be fast. Be accurate.
I pictured the batsman. T20. Gilchrist. Symonds. My new teammates. They would face this in the nets. I had to be better.
I ran in. This ti, I didn't just hurl. I aid.
CRACK.
The 152kph delivery hit the base of the stump so hard it split the wood.
A slow, cold smile spread across my face. Okay. We're in business.
And I continued bowling the sa ball for another 20 deliveries.
Drill 2: The 1-2 Punch (Deception).
This was the T20 special. The 150kph rocket followed by the 105kph slower-ball. The arm speed had to be identical.
I set up a new stump.
Ball 1: Full power. 153kph. A personal best. The ball scread past the stump.
Ball 2: Sa action. Sa grunt. Sa explosive leap. But at the last second, I rolled my fingers over the seam. The 105kph slower-ball yorker.
It floated, dipped, and landed perfectly at the base of the stump, just like it did to Kohli and Anderson.
I did this, back and forth, for thirty minutes. Fast-fast-slow. Slow-fast-fast. I was programming my body, turning a guess into an execution.
Drill 3: The Bouncer (Control).
Pace was useless if it flew for 5 wides.
I tied a white handkerchief to the netting at head height.
My goal: Hit the handkerchief.
I ran in and unleashed a bouncer. It was perfect. 148kph, climbing, right at the 'batsman's' grille.
I bowled until the sun went down. Until my body was soaked in sweat and my shoulder was humming with a dull, satisfying ache. I was exhausted, but I wasn't injured.
I sat on the grass, my breathing heavy, and looked at the carnage of the stumps I had broken.
In 20 days, I was going to walk into a dressing room with Adam Gilchrist and VVS Laxman.
I wasn't walking in as a kid. I was walking in as a weapon.
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