The sprawling entertainnt lounge on the second floor of the Shamshabad farmhouse had been completely commandeered.
Saer was pacing back and forth, holding a phone to his ear, arguing passionately with a luxury entertainnt booking agency. Arjun was rapidly typing on his tablet, cross-referencing security protocols for his property, while Feroz was simply sitting back on the leather sofa, laughing at Saer's increasing volu.
"I don't care if the DJ is booked in Ibiza," Saer barked into his phone. "Tell him Siddanth Deva is getting married. Yes. We are hosting it at a private farmhouse, but I want club-level acoustic rigging. Na your price. Call back."
Saer hung up and pointed a pen at Siddanth, who was quietly sitting in the armchair, nursing a protein shake. "You," Saer commanded. "Your only job for your own bachelor party is to make the phone calls. Arjun, Feroz, and I are handling the logistics, the venue, the food, and the entertainnt."
"I am slightly terrified of what you consider entertainnt, Saer," Siddanth replied dryly.
"Don't worry about it," Arjun chid in without looking up from his screen. "I'm auditing his plans. I vetoed most of his plans."
"The date is set for July 1st," Feroz added. "It's the dead center of the off-season. There are no international tours scheduled for the Indian team, and the overseas guys are on break. No excuses allowed."
Siddanth nodded, pulling out his phone. The instruction was clear. He already had his PA, Rahul, block-book open-ended first-class Emirates and Singapore Airlines tickets for his overseas friends.
His first call was to Virat Kohli.
"Sid! Tell you are calling to rescue from my gym routine," Virat Kohli's energetic voice bood through the speaker.
"Better," Siddanth smiled. "July 1st. Block out a minimum of three days. My best friends from childhood are hosting my bachelor party at a private farmhouse."
"A bachelor party? Finally!" Virat laughed loudly. "I wouldn't miss it for the world. Just send the dates and the location, I'll clear the schedule."
Next was MS Dhoni. The phone rang three tis before the calm, familiar voice answered. "Deva. Are you calling to gloat about the IPL final again?"
Siddanth chuckled. "Never, Mahi bhai. I'm calling to invite you to the bachelor party. July 1st. The whole core team is coming."
"A bachelor party with you young boys?" Dhoni sounded amused. "I might need to sleep for a week beforehand to keep up. But I'll be there, Sid. Just make sure there is a quiet corner for ."
"I'll make sure of it," Siddanth grinned.
The calls continued deep into the evening. Rohit Sharma complained about the travel but imdiately caved when Siddanth ntioned the nu was going to be an absolute feast.
Then, Siddanth moved to his Sunrisers Hyderabad brotherhood.
When David Warner picked up, it sounded like he was at a beach in Sydney. "Captain! Please tell we are having a massive party."
"July 1st, Davey. I've already had my PA email you the first-class flight confirmations. You just have to get on the plane."
"You absolute legend," Warner cheered. "A Hyderabadi bachelor party? I'm packing right now. I'll bring the sunscreen and the sunglasses for the hangover."
Kane Williamson's reaction was characteristically different.
"Oh... a bachelor party?" Williamson's polite, soft-spoken voice ca through the line. "That sounds lovely, Sid. Is there a dress code? Should I bring anything specific?"
"Just yourself, Kane," Siddanth laughed, appreciating the Kiwi captain's unending politeness. "I will definitely be there, Sid. Thank you for the tickets, that was incredibly generous. I can't wait."
Dale Steyn and Trent Boult were next. Both legendary fast bowlers possessed a fierce, aggressive energy off the field that perfectly matched the vibe of a private farmhouse blowout. Boult was just excited to reunite with the bowling cartel.
It took two solid hours of calling, laughing, and catching up, but by the ti Siddanth put his phone down, the guest list was locked. The greatest cricketers on the planet were all flying in for one private, highly classified weekend.
---
The next morning, the Shamshabad estate was bathed in the warm, golden light of the early Hyderabad sun.
Siddanth walked down the marble staircase, dressed comfortably in loose grey sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt. The house was quiet, but the incredibly distinct, mouth-watering aroma of roasted peanuts, sizzling ghee, and fernted batter drifted through the hallways.
He followed the scent directly to the kitchen.
His mother, Sesikala, was standing at the custom six-burner stove. She was wearing a simple cotton saree, her hair tied back, deeply focused on spreading a ladle of dosa batter in a perfect, expanding circle across the smoking-hot cast-iron tawa.
Siddanth smiled. With the silent steps of a world-class athlete, he crept up right behind her.
He leaned down slightly. "Boo."
Sesikala shrieked, her shoulders jumping to her ears. She whirled around, her eyes wide with shock, holding the wooden dosa spatula (garita) like a weapon.
When she saw Siddanth laughing silently, her shock instantly turned to maternal fury.
Thwack!
Thwack!
Thwack!
She brought the wooden stick down hard on his bicep repeatedly.
"Ow!" Siddanth feigned injury, rubbing his arm while still laughing. "Sorry, sorry! You were just too focused!"
"You overgrown child!" Sesikala scolded him, though a fond smile was already breaking through her stern expression. "Is this what a national captain does? Sneaks around kitchens scaring his mother? You nearly made drop the batter!"
"It was worth it," Siddanth grinned, leaning against the marble island.
"Quiet," she commanded, turning back to the stove. She deftly flipped the golden-brown dosa, the ghee sizzling perfectly along the crispy edges. "Go take a plate. The chutney is on the table."
Siddanth obediently grabbed a ceramic plate from the cabinet and sat down at the large dining table. A bowl sat in the center, filled with fresh, vibrant peanut-ginger chutney topped with a sizzling tempering of mustard seeds and curry leaves.
Sesikala walked over and slid the steaming, perfectly crisp dosa onto his plate.
"Eat," she ordered softly, her eyes full of affection as she watched him imdiately tear into it.
"Amma, this is incredible," Siddanth mumbled, his mouth half-full. No matter how many Michelin-star restaurants he ate at around the world, nothing would ever beat his mother's dosa.
After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Siddanth looked up. "Amma, who all are we inviting for the engagent ceremony? I need to tell Rahul so he can sort out the security logistics."
Sesikala poured herself a glass of warm water and sat opposite him. "Your father and I spoke with Krithika's parents last night. We all agreed. Just family mbers and your four friends. We will do it very quietly. No outside noise, no dia, no grand spectacle. You have enough of that in your life, and the wedding is already going to be a massive affair. The engagent should be intimate."
Siddanth nodded in complete agreent. "Perfect. Where is it happening? We still haven't confird the location."
"Your father, myself, and Krithika's parents are going to look at a few heritage properties and private venues today," Sesikala explained. "We will decide in a few days. Don't worry about it, we will handle the venue."
Sesikala then narrowed her eyes, pointing a stern finger at him. "And Siddu, listen to carefully. She is going to be the daughter of this house soon. If I hear you call her 'Shorty' or 'Headache' in front of the priest or the guests on the day of the engagent, I will hit you with the dosa stick again. Use her proper na."
Siddanth laughed, raising his hands in surrender. "Noted, Amma. Proper nas only in front of the priest."
"Good," she huffed.
"Oh, by the way," Siddanth added, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "The date for the bachelor party is locked. July 1st. The boys are organizing it at Arjun's farmhouse."
Sesikala paused, giving him a deeply knowing, highly scrutinizing look.
"I know Saer and the boys are organizing it," she said evenly. "And I know there will be a lot of alcohol involved. I can't stop you from drinking, and I won't try. You are a grown-up now, Siddanth. You know your limits, and you know when to stop. But I am warning you right now... if you boys act like hooligans, I am sending Rahul as a spy to report everything back to ."
Siddanth laughed out loud at the threat, knowing full well that his hyper-efficient, stone-faced PA was significantly more terrified of Sesikala Deva than he was of any corporate rival.
"I promise, Amma. We'll behave," he said, standing up. He walked over to the sink, thoroughly washing his hands with soap and drying them.
He walked back to the stove. "Now, you sit. I'll make the next batch."
Sesikala smiled fondly, completely used to her son taking over the kitchen. Since he was young, his cooking skills had always been phenonal. She obliged, sitting back at the dining table and resting her chin in her hand, watching him work.
Siddanth wiped the tawa down with a slice of onion dipped in oil to perfectly season the iron. He poured the batter, spreading it into a paper-thin, perfect circle, and drizzled the ghee along the edges with expert precision.
Just as the edges began to lift, turning a beautiful golden brown.
His father, Vikram Deva, walked in, wearing his reading glasses and holding the morning newspaper. He stopped, sniffing the air, and looked at Siddanth manning the stove.
"Oh, excellent," Vikram said, folding his newspaper and sitting next to his wife. "Make one for too, Siddu. Extra crispy."
"Right away, Nanna," Siddanth chuckled, deftly flipping the dosa onto a plate and bringing it to his mother before starting on his father's.
As Siddanth expertly poured the next batch of batter, Vikram opened the sports page, briefly scanning an article before looking up over his glasses.
"Siddu, your mother and I were discussing the wedding guest list last night," Vikram said casually. "Are you going to invite the Bollywood stars? The industry people? I know you have endorsents with several of them."
Siddanth sprinkled so chopped onions onto the cooking batter and shook his head without looking away from the stove.
"No, Nanna. Only Amitabh Bachchan sir and his family. He has always shown imnse respect, and it's a matter of absolute courtesy."
He expertly slid the spatula under the dosa, lifting it perfectly onto a fresh plate, and brought it over to his father, setting it down in front of him.
"As for the Telugu industry," Siddanth continued, leaning against the counter, "I'll invite Venkatesh sir. He cos to cheer for us at every SRH match and every India ga played in Hyderabad. He's a genuine cricket lover, and we always talk when he's at the stadium. Then there's Rajamouli sir, Prabhas, Rana, and Gopichand. We are actively working together on the Ramayana project, and I've spent ti with them."
Vikram nodded. "And the rest?"
"The rest, I don't interact with much," Siddanth stated simply, his tone utterly grounded. "Why should I invite people I barely know to the most important day of my life, just for the sake of an invite? I don't need their presence for status, and I don't want the wedding to turn into a corporate networking event or a red carpet. It's for our family, our real friends, and the people who actually matter to us."
Sesikala looked at her husband and smiled, a sense of pride in her eyes. Despite his unimaginable wealth, global fa, and the absolute chaos of his professional life, Siddanth's core values hadn't shifted an inch.
"I completely agree," Vikram said, taking a bite of the crispy dosa. "This is excellent, by the way. Better than your mother's."
"Hey!" Sesikala swatted her husband's shoulder, making Siddanth laugh out loud.
"Alright, alright, I'll go get dressed," Vikram chuckled, finishing his breakfast quickly. "We need to go pick up Subba Rao and Suma. We have a lot of engagent venues to scout today."
"Take your ti," Siddanth said, turning back to the stove to finally make a dosa for himself. "Find sothing you all love. I trust your judgnt completely."
As his parents left the kitchen, bickering playfully about who took longer to get ready, Siddanth smiled to himself. The world outside this house was a whirlwind of pressure, fa, and billion-dollar decisions. But inside these walls, over a plate of hot dosa, everything was exactly as it should be.
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