The morning of Day Three arrived with a punishing, glaring brightness that practically vibe-checked everyone through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the main farmhouse.
After two days of intense physical warfare, extre culinary indulgence, and late-night roasting sessions that would have gotten them all canceled on the internet, the collective energy of the world's greatest cricketing athletes had hit a massive lag spike. The central lounge looked like a very expensive, highly air-conditioned recovery ward.
David Warner was lying flat on his back on a plush rug, wearing dark sunglasses indoors, an ice pack resting over his forehead.
Rohit Sharma had claid the largest velvet beanbag in the corner and was wrapped entirely in a blanket, operating in power-saving mode, communicating only in soft groans whenever soone spoke too loudly.
Siddanth Deva, naturally, was entirely unaffected.
He sat at the kitchen island, looking completely fresh in a white t-shirt and athletic shorts, calmly drinking a cup of black coffee and reviewing a few NEXUS Tablet and Laptop design schematics on his tablet.
The estate staff had laid out a massive, restorative breakfast buffet on the patio—fresh fruit, eggs made to order, toast, and vats of strong South Indian filter coffee. Slowly, the players began to drag themselves out to the patio, seeking sustenance to restore their HP bars.
"I am never drinking again," Virat Kohli muttered, sitting down heavily next to Siddanth, pouring himself a massive cup of black coffee. He rubbed his eyes. "My brain is still trying to process how Cleopatra slid into Julius Caesar's DMs in a carpet."
"You did well, Cheeku," Siddanth chuckled, closing his tablet. "Team Red dominated."
As the caffeine slowly kicked in and the food brought them back to life, the conversation naturally drifted into the comfortable, familiar territory of locker-room stories.
"You guys think the roast ga was brutal?" Shikhar Dhawan grinned, buttering his toast. "Nothing beats the 2014 tour of England. We were playing a tour match, and Jadeja cos out to bat. Jimmy Anderson is bowling, right? Jimmy walks up to Jaddu and says sothing incomprehensible in a thick Lancashire accent."
"Oh, I rember this," Virat started laughing, covering his face.
"Jaddu doesn't understand a single word of the sledge," Dhawan continued, his eyes lighting up with the mory. "So Jaddu just stares at Jimmy, nods very seriously, and says in broken English, 'Yes, brother, I also like the spicy chicken.' Jimmy was so confused his brain literally blue-screened. He completely lost his run-up. The umpire had to turn around because he was laughing too hard."
The table erupted. Jadeja, sitting a few chairs down, just offered a shrug. "Psychological warfare, Shikhar. You disrupt the bowler's mind. Spicy chicken is a universal language."
"It's true," Dale Steyn agreed, wiping a tear from his eye. "Sotis the best defense against a sledge is sheer, absolute confusion. I once tried to sledge Kane in a Test match. I went full sweat-mode, gave him the worst death stare I had, told him I was going to break his helt."
Steyn pointed across the table at the incredibly polite New Zealand captain. "Do you know what this guy did? He smiled at , tapped the pitch, and said, 'That looks like it requires a lot of effort, Dale. Make sure you stretch your shoulders properly so you don't pull a muscle.' I was so angry I bowled a wide."
"I was genuinely concerned for your rotator cuff, Dale," Williamson offered softly, taking a sip of his tea, which only made the entire lounge howl with laughter again.
The relaxed, nostalgic atmosphere was perfect. It was exactly the kind of bonding session a bachelor party required.
But as the laughter died down, Arjun frowned, adjusting his glasses. He looked around the patio, then peered back into the living room.
"Wait a minute," Arjun said, his voice dropping.
"What's wrong?" Bhuvneshwar Kumar asked, pausing with his coffee cup.
"Where is Saer?" Arjun asked, his eyes scanning the periter. "And Feroz? Neither of them have been at breakfast."
The squad looked around.
"They were up late cleaning the hookah pipes," Yuvraj suggested. "Probably still sleeping."
"No," Arjun shook his head, a look of existential dread crossing his face. "Saer doesn't sleep in when there is an opportunity to cause chaos. He's plotting sothing. I have a very, very bad feeling about this."
HOOOONK!
A massive, deafening blast of a heavy airhorn rattled the glass windows of the farmhouse. The floorboards literally vibrated beneath their feet.
Rohit Sharma bolted upright in his beanbag inside the lounge, his blanket falling off him. "What is that?! Are we being raided?!"
HOOOONK!
Siddanth stood up, walking toward the massive glass doors leading to the front driveway. Everyone followed him, abandoning their breakfasts and walking out onto the front porch, squinting into the glaring morning sun.
Rolling slowly and aggressively through the main iron gates of the estate, kicking up a massive cloud of dust, was a convoy of three gigantic, heavy-duty container trucks. Each truck was hauling a massive, 40-foot corrugated steel shipping container.
The trucks hissed loudly as their air brakes engaged, parking in a staggered, tactical formation across the sprawling gravel driveway.
"What on earth..." Virat muttered, leaning over the wooden railing.
Suddenly, Saer stepped out from behind the lead truck. He was wearing a pair of aviator sunglasses, a highly obnoxious, brightly colored Hawaiian shirt, and holding a gaphone. Feroz stood beside him. Saer was rubbing his hands together with the giddy, manic excitent of a supervillain whose master plan was finally coming together.
"Good morning, princesses!" Saer yelled through the gaphone, his voice echoing over the idling engines of the trucks. "I hope you enjoyed your breakfast and your little tea party! Because the tutorial level of this weekend is officially over!"
"Saer, what did you do?" Arjun asked, stepping out beside Siddanth, his instincts instantly calculating the potential property damage of whatever was inside those trucks. "I explicitly banned helicopters."
"No helicopters," Saer promised, grinning wickedly. "Just a little ground transportation. Gentlen, please step forward!"
Saer signaled to the truck drivers. The drivers hopped out of their cabs, walked to the rear of the three massive 40-foot containers, and unlocked the heavy steel latches.
With a loud, tallic screech, the container doors swung open simultaneously.
The cricketers peered inside the dark containers.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding ," Dale Steyn breathed out, his eyes widening to the size of saucers, a massive, adrenaline-fueled smile breaking across his face.
Resting inside the containers, strapped down tightly with heavy-duty ratchet straps, were a fleet of chanical beasts.
Saer walked up and patted the hood of the nearest machine.
"Gentlen, I present to you the Polaris RZR XP Turbo EPS," Saer announced, sounding like a chaotic car salesman in a GTA lobby. "These are not golf carts. These are 168-horsepower, turbocharged, off-road assault vehicles. They have 16 inches of suspension clearance, reinforced steel roll-cages, and enough torque to climb a vertical wall. I had them imported in twelve different custom colors."
The boys sward the containers as the staff began unstrapping the buggies and lowering the tal ramps.
The vehicles looked terrifyingly aggressive. They were low to the ground, incredibly wide, equipped with massive, knobby all-terrain tires, LED light bars, and aggressive, angular bodywork. There was a matte black one, a neon orange one, a li green one, a bright red one, and several others.
"I call the orange one!" David Warner yelled instantly, vaulting up the ramp and jumping into the driver's seat of the neon orange RZR, gripping the steering wheel like Mad Max.
"This is insane," Bhuvi muttered, walking around a dark blue buggy, inspecting the massive coil-over shocks. "These are professional Baja racing buggies."
"Saer, my estate insurance premium is going to skyrocket by four hundred percent," Arjun sighed, massaging his temples, though even he couldn't hide a smile as he looked at the sheer engineering of the machines.
"I bought premium damage waivers, relax," Saer waved him off. "But before we race, we need to do a track reconnaissance. Everyone, pair up and get in a buggy. We are going for a slow, mandatory exploration ride to get a feel for the estate and the machines. Follow Feroz's lead buggy."
The pairings happened naturally. Siddanth climbed into the driver's seat of the sleek, matte-black RZR. Arjun took the passenger seat, buckling the heavy five-point racing harness with extre caution. Virat Kohli and Yuzvendra Chahal took the red buggy. Shikhar Dhawan grabbed the yellow one, with a highly reluctant Rohit Sharma in the passenger seat. MS Dhoni and Ravichandran Ashwin took a dark blue one. Saer and Feroz, officially joining the fray, took a loud neon pink buggy, with Feroz at the wheel. the others rode solo.
The engines fired up. The synchronized roar of twelve turbocharged 925cc engines was deafening, a chanical symphony that vibrated the gravel driveway.
"Keep it under twenty kiloters an hour!" Feroz commanded through a walkie-talkie. "Just follow my line!"
The convoy rolled slowly away from the farmhouse, kicking up a light trail of dust.
The 100-acre estate was breathtakingly beautiful in the morning light. Feroz led the convoy down a winding dirt path that plunged directly into the massive fruit orchards. Thousands of mango, guava, and chikoo trees ford a dense, green canopy overhead, casting dappled sunlight onto the dirt trail. The sweet, earthy sll of ripening fruit mixed with the scent of high-octane exhaust.
"This is actually quite nice," Kane Williamson noted politely from the passenger seat of Warner's orange buggy, adjusting his sunglasses as they drove under the mango trees. "Very relaxing."
"It won't be," Saer promised over the open radio channel, laughing maliciously.
They erged from the orchards and crested a small hill. Below them lay the massive, sparkling central lake of the estate. The dirt track hugged the shoreline tightly, offering zero margin for error before dropping off into the water.
From the lake, the terrain grew harsher. Feroz led them into a deep, dried-out creek bed. The walls of the ravine were steep and muddy, littered with exposed tree roots and sharp rocks. The buggies crawled over the uneven terrain, their massive suspension systems absorbing the deep ruts effortlessly.
"Look up, boys," Siddanth pointed out to Arjun.
Hovering silently fifty feet above them, tracking their every move, were half a dozen high-end NEXUS cara drones. Saer had deployed an entire aerial fleet to capture the cinematic chaos from every possible angle.
After a scenic, twenty-minute tour that covered nearly five kiloters of diverse, brutal terrain, the convoy arrived back at a wide dirt clearing near the edge of the orchards, which had been marked with white chalk lines and starting flags.
"Alright, reconnaissance is over!" Saer announced, stepping out of the pink buggy with his gaphone. "Listen up! Last night, while you were all arguing about Julius Caesar, the ground staff mapped out this exact 5-kiloter dirt track. We are doing a 10-lap endurance race."
"The rules are simple," Saer declared, ignoring them. "No intentional ramming into trees, no taking off your helts, and whoever crosses the finish line first... gets to keep their buggy."
The entire grid froze. Engines idled.
"Wait, what?" Shikhar Dhawan asked, his eyes wide behind his goggles. "You're giving away a fifty-lakh off-road racing buggy to the winner?"
"It's a bachelor party!" Saer yelled. "Go big or go ho! But first, to make it fair, we are drawing lots for grid placent. Feroz, bring the hat!"
Feroz walked down the line of idling buggies, holding a cap filled with folded pieces of paper.
Virat Kohli reached in and pulled out a slip. He unfolded it and pumped his fist. "Number One! Pole position, baby!"
"Oh, we are so winning this," Chahal cheered from the passenger seat, already calculating their victory.
Dhoni pulled out number four, placing his blue buggy neatly in the second row. Dhawan pulled out number eight, much to Rohit Sharma's relief, hoping a middle-pack start would an less chaos.
Siddanth reached into the hat. He unfolded the paper.
Number 12.
"Dead last," Arjun sighed from the passenger seat of the black buggy. "Well, at least we won't get caught in the first-corner pileup."
"Don't worry," Siddanth smiled, his hands tightening around the leather steering wheel. "We won't stay in last for long."
The buggies lined up in a staggered, two-by-two grid formation. The noise was apocalyptic. Exhaust fus clouded the air. Saer stood at the edge of the track, holding a green flag high.
"Ten laps! Winner takes the beast! On your marks!" Saer shouted, pointing at the grid.
Siddanth closed his eyes for a microsecond.
[Passive Skill: Driving Skills (Gold Tier) - ACTIVE]
[Active Skill: Predator's Focus - ENGAGED]
His vision tunneled. The chaotic noise of the other engines faded. He felt the exact vibration of the transmission beneath his feet, calculating the precise torque output required for the loose dirt surface.
"GO!" Saer scread, dropping the green flag.
The starting line exploded. Twelve massive buggies launched forward simultaneously, knobby tires desperately clawing for traction in the loose gravel. A massive, impenetrable cloud of brown dust completely swallowed the pack.
"LEROY JENKINS!" David Warner scread at the top of his lungs from row three, completely flooring the accelerator. His neon orange buggy shot forward, instantly lost traction, fishtailed wildly, and slamd sideways into a massive mud pit before they even reached the first corner.
"Well, that was optimal," Williamson noted politely from the passenger seat, wiping thick brown mud off his pristine visor.
At the back of the grid, Siddanth didn't floor it imdiately. He feathered the throttle perfectly, avoiding the initial wheel-spin that plagued the others. The matte-black RZR shot forward like a bullet, cleanly navigating through the dust cloud and taking the inside line of the chaotic first corner.
"Hold on!" Siddanth yelled.
He whipped the steering wheel to the left, tapping the brakes. The buggy snapped sideways into a flawless, high-speed Initial D-style Tokyo drift. Mud and rocks sprayed violently into the air as they carved through the tight corner leading into the mango orchards, instantly passing three struggling buggies.
At the front of the pack, Virat Kohli was leading, literally leaning forward in his seat in maximum gar sweat-mode, his eyes wide behind his goggles.
"Keep the pace, Virat bhai!" Chahal yelled over the radio.
Further back, anarchy reigned.
Shikhar Dhawan hit a massive mud puddle at sixty kiloters an hour. The muddy water exploded upwards, completely covering his yellow buggy and showering Rohit Sharma in the passenger seat.
"Shikhar, I am going to murder you!" Rohit yelled, wiping thick, brown mud off his goggles. "I am giving you a one-star rating!"
"It's just a little facial scrub, Ro! Good for the pores!" Dhawan laughed hysterically, drifting wildly around a corner and nearly swiping Dale Steyn's green buggy.
The track was brutal. It featured steep, vertical drops into the dry creek beds and sharp, blind corners through the guava trees.
Siddanth was putting on a masterclass. His Driving Skills (Gold Tier) allowed him to perceive the exact traction limit of his tires. He didn't fight the terrain; he danced over it. When they hit a massive jump over a ravine on Lap 3, the matte-black buggy launched into the air, flying gracefully before landing perfectly on all four shocks, absorbing the impact without losing a single kiloter of speed.
"You drive like a maniac," Arjun shouted over the engine noise, holding onto his harness as Siddanth executed another flawless drift, easily sliding past Steyn and Boult to take third place.
"Just keeping the racing line clean," Siddanth smirked, checking his rearview mirror.
By the fifth lap, the pack had strung out. MS Dhoni was cruising comfortably in fourth place, acting like a NPC on auto-pilot. He took the corners with precision, not sliding, not drifting, just maintaining perfect, unbothered montum.
On Lap 8, Siddanth caught up to the leaders. He was right on the bumper of Kohli's red buggy.
"Move over, Cheeku!" Siddanth yelled, aggressively trying to push the red buggy into the inside lane.
Next to Kohli, Chahal was screaming in sheer terror, his hands gripping the roll cage. "Virat bhai, he's right behind us!" "
Throw sothing at him!" Chahal, fully embracing the Mario Kart rules, literally hung out the window trying to throw an empty plastic water bottle at Siddanth's buggy like a blue shell. It missed entirely.
"I see him, Yuzi!" Kohli roared, violently jerking the wheel to block Siddanth's passing lane.
But Siddanth was relentless. On the final corner of Lap 10, entering the long dirt straightaway that led to the finish line, Siddanth faked a pass to the left. Kohli aggressively moved left to block. Instantly, Siddanth cut hard to the right, finding a tiny patch of hard-packed dirt for maximum traction. He pinned the throttle, roaring past the red buggy, kicking up a massive rooster tail of dust.
Siddanth crossed the finish line three seconds ahead of Kohli.
Saer waved the checkered flag vigorously.
Siddanth hit the brakes, the matte-black buggy skidding to a halt. He pulled off his goggles, laughing as the adrenaline surged through his system. Arjun unbuckled his harness and practically fell out of the passenger seat, his legs slightly shaky but a huge smile on his face.
The rest of the buggies trickled in over the next minute. They looked like they had been through a warzone. The pristine vehicles were caked in thick, wet mud. The players stepped out, removing their helts, coughing up dust, and looking like absolute swamp monsters.
Shikhar Dhawan parked his yellow buggy. Rohit Sharma stepped out. He was completely, entirely brown from head to toe. Mud dripped from his eyelashes. He just stared at Dhawan with a look of murder.
"I am taking a shower," Rohit announced flatly, turning on his heel and walking toward the cottages. "And then I am calling my lawyer to press charges."
"It was a great ride, Ro!" Dhawan called after him, laughing breathlessly.
Saer walked over to Siddanth, holding a clipboard. "And the winner is the groom! Siddanth Deva takes the matte-black beast!"
"Hold on, hold on, I object!" Virat Kohli yelled, ripping off his goggles and marching over, his face covered in a layer of dust. "I demand a steward's inquiry! I call for a review!"
"What are you protesting, Cheeku?" Siddanth smirked, leaning against the roll cage of his winning buggy. "You were three seconds behind."
"You are disqualified!" Kohli pointed a finger at him. "Saer, this is completely unfair! You can't let Sid race! He's literally bugged!"
"He just drove better, Virat," Arjun defended, wiping dust from his glasses.
"No, you guys don't understand!" Kohli argued, turning to the rest of the squad, who had gathered around, panting and drinking water. "Sid is a freak behind the wheel! I still have PTSD from New Zealand!"
"What happened in New Zealand?" Dale Steyn asked, intrigued.
"It was the 2014 tour," Kohli explained, his eyes wide, re-living the trauma. "We had a day off in Auckland. Sid took and Jaddu to a racing track. They gave us these super cars. I thought we were just going to do a few laps."
Kohli pointed dramatically at Siddanth.
"He took in the passenger seat," Kohli recalled, his voice rising. "We hit the first corner at what felt like a hundred and eighty kiloters an hour. I swear to god, my soul left my body. I was holding onto the door handle so hard I thought I ripped it off. The man didn't even blink. He was drifting around hairpins while casually asking what I wanted for lunch! He has robotic reflexes! It is fundantally unfair to race him!"
The entire squad burst into howling laughter at Kohli's dramatic, traumatized recounting.
"He's not wrong," Bhuvneshwar Kumar agreed, laughing. "Sid's reaction ti isn't human. If he's driving, the rest of us are just competing for second place."
Saer tapped his chin, looking at the crowd, then at Siddanth. A mischievous grin spread across his face.
"The people have spoken, Sid," Saer announced through the gaphone. "Your superhuman reflexes are deed a performance-enhancing mod. You are hereby stripped of your victory, nerfed, and banned from driving in Race 2!"
"Banned?" Siddanth laughed, throwing his hands up. "It's my bachelor party!"
"Democracy rules!" Warner cheered, high-fiving Kohli.
"Fine," Siddanth chuckled, stepping away from his buggy. "I will be the race steward. I'll operate the referee drones. Arjun, you take the black buggy solo. But if any of you crash my matte-black buggy, you're paying for it."
---
"Alright, Race 2!" Saer announced. "Sa track. Ten laps. The winner takes a buggy! Drivers, mount up! And rember... Mario Kart rules apply!"
With Siddanth officially relegated to drone duty, the dynamic shifted entirely. The predator was out of the race, which ant every single driver now believed they had a legitimate shot at the prize.
The engines roared back to life. Siddanth walked up to the patio balcony of the farmhouse, holding the dual-joystick controller for the high-end NEXUS cara drone, watching the grid through the 4K monitor. He was fully prepared to spectate like a toxic Call of Duty lobby.
"Green flag!" Saer yelled from his pink buggy, flooring it.
If the first race was competitive, the second race was a lawless demolition derby. Without Siddanth taking the clean racing line and leading the pack, the first corner turned into a massive bottleneck.
Virat Kohli and David Warner went side-by-side into the mud pit. Neither refused to yield an inch. Their buggies slamd together, tires rubbing aggressively.
"I'm on the inside, Davey! Back off!" Kohli yelled over the engine noise.
"Australian rules, mate! No backing down!" Warner roared back. He violently turned his steering wheel, brake-checking Kohli.
"Bro! Lag! I had a massive ping spike!" Kohli yelled in real life, slamming his brakes as both buggies skidded wide, splashing a tidal wave of mud over the track.
This allowed MS Dhoni to execute a tactical masterstroke. The captain had hung back slightly at the start. Seeing Kohli and Warner drift wide, Dhoni calmly feathered his brakes, took the tightest, cleanest inside line possible, and quietly slipped past both of them into first place, utilizing ultra-instinct pathfinding.
"Mahi bhai is in the lead!" Chahal yelled from the passenger seat of Kohli's buggy.
"Not for long!" Kohli gritted his teeth, launching in pursuit.
Back in the pack, Shikhar Dhawan was driving with unhinged madness. Rohit Sharma, strapped in beside him, had given up on complaining and was just holding onto his harness, his eyes squeezed shut in silent prayer.
"Ro, hold on, I know a shortcut!" Dhawan yelled over the radio comms.
"Shikhar, there are no shortcuts! It's a mapped track!" Ravindra Jadeja warned over the open channel from the silver buggy. "Just follow the flags!"
"The flags are just a suggestion!" Dhawan declared.
They were on Lap 4. Instead of turning left into the mango orchards following the marked flags, Dhawan violently jerked the steering wheel to the right, launching the yellow buggy directly down a steep, unmarked dirt embanknt toward the dense forest.
"SHIKHAR, YOU LUNATIC! WE ARE OFF THE MAP!" Rohit scread as the buggy went airborne, crashing heavily into the tall grass at the bottom of the ravine.
Up on the balcony, Siddanth watched the drone feed, laughing uncontrollably. He flew the drone over the creek bed. Dhawan was literally bushwhacking his way through the dense vegetation, completely off the official track, executing a massive GTA 5 off-road exploit to bypass the orchard loop entirely.
"Saer, Shikhar is literally driving through a forest right now," Siddanth called out over the walkie-talkie. "He is trying to unlock a secret achievent."
"Let him cook!" Saer replied from the pink buggy, laughing. "If he survives ten laps, it counts!"
For the next five laps, Dhawan and Rohit were completely missing from the main track. The drone footage showed them navigating terrifying terrain, snapping small branches and plowing through thick mud as they forged a completely illegal path through the estate.
anwhile, the battle at the front was intense. By Lap 9, Dhoni was still driving a perfectly clean race, holding off a hyper-aggressive Kohli. Trent Boult and Dale Steyn were in third, while Kane Williamson politely tapped his horn as he tried to pass them.
"So sorry about your bumper, mate!" Williamson yelled politely with a smile as his neon orange buggy nudged Steyn's. "Have a good one!"
"I can take him on the straightaway," Kohli muttered to Chahal, drafting right behind Dhoni's blue buggy as they entered Lap 10.
They rounded the final corner of the lake loop, entering the long dirt straightaway that led to the finish line. Kohli pulled out to pass, flooring the accelerator. His buggy crept up alongside Dhoni's.
"I got you, Mahi bhai!" Kohli yelled triumphantly.
But suddenly, a deafening, tallic crash echoed from the left side of the track.
Bursting out of the thick brush of the ravine, completely covered in branches, leaves, and a terrifying amount of mud, was Shikhar Dhawan's yellow buggy. They looked like absolute bush wookies. He had successfully navigated his insane, 5-lap illegal shortcut.
He didn't just rge onto the track; he flew out of the bushes, launching over a small dirt mound, and landed violently on the straightaway, directly in front of Kohli and Dhoni.
"GABBAR IS BACK!" Dhawan scread at the top of his lungs.
STUNT JUMP FAILED.
Kohli slamd on his brakes to avoid T-boning the yellow buggy, sending his red RZR into a massive, dusty spin. Dhoni calmly swerved to the right to avoid the collision, but it cost him his montum.
Dhawan, unbothered by the chaos he had just caused, pinned the throttle and crossed the finish line first.
Saer waved the checkered flag from the sidelines, falling to his knees laughing.
Dhawan hit the brakes, the buggy skidding to a halt. Rohit Sharma unbuckled his harness and literally fell out of the passenger seat onto the dirt, kissing the ground. "I am alive. I am actually alive. Never let him drive again."
Kohli parked his buggy, ripping off his helt, furious but laughing at the sa ti. "He drove through a forest! He wasn't even on the track for half the race! That is illegal!"
"The rules said 'first to cross the finish line', Cheeku!" Dhawan cheered, jumping onto the hood of his yellow buggy, covered in leaves and mud, looking like a swamp monster. "I am the Dirt King! The buggy is mine!"
"You can have it, Shikhar," Dhoni chuckled, stepping out of his clean blue buggy, brushing a microscopic speck of dust off his shoulder. "I think you need it to drive back to civilization."
Siddanth brought the drone down, landing it neatly on the patio, and walked down to join the boys.
"Congratulations, Gabbar," Siddanth laughed, high-fiving the opener. "You owe Arjun for the landscaping you just destroyed in the ravine."
"Put it on Sid's tab!" Dhawan cheered, pointing at a wincing Arjun.
The rest of the afternoon was spent washing off the thick layers of mud in the outdoor showers and jumping back into the infinity pool. The adrenaline of the races gave way to a deep, comfortable exhaustion.
As the sun began to set, painting the sky over the 100-acre estate in brilliant hues of orange and purple, Feroz and the staff set up a massive bonfire near the lake.
The final night of the bachelor party was legendary. The mocktails and craft beers flowed. Saer brought out a massive Bluetooth speaker, blasting a chaotic mix of Punjabi rap, classic rock, and Bollywood hits.
There were no more gas. No more competitions. Just an incredibly rare, unfiltered night of brotherhood. They sat around the roaring fire, trading stories from their earliest days in dostic cricket, sharing the brutal lows of injuries and dropped catches, and celebrating the unparalleled highs of World Cups.
Virat Kohli and Shikhar Dhawan took over the "dance floor" near the fire, executing Bhangra moves. David Warner tried to join them, attempting a highly uncoordinated Bollywood step that sent everyone into hysterics.
Siddanth sat back in a low camping chair, a glass of fresh juice in his hand, watching the firelight dance across the faces of his best friends and teammates. MS Dhoni sat quietly next to him, watching the chaos with a small, contented smile.
They didn't sleep. They stayed up talking, laughing, and roasting each other until the sky began to turn a pale, bruised blue with the approaching dawn.
By the next evening, the magic of the estate slowly began to wind down. The fleet of NEXUS SUVs returned to the driveway, ready to ferry the players back to the airport to catch their respective flights to different corners of the globe.
There were long, tight hugs and heartfelt promises.
As the final SUV pulled out of the iron gates, leaving the estate quiet once more, Siddanth stood on the porch with Arjun, Saer, and Feroz. The four of them looked at the ss of empty pizza boxes, deflated volleyballs, and muddy tire tracks on the grass.
"Well," Saer sighed happily, stretching his arms. "I think we successfully threw the greatest bachelor party in the history of Indian cricket."
"You almost got half the national team killed in a dirt ravine, Saer," Arjun pointed out dryly.
"But did they die?" Saer countered with a grin.
Siddanth chuckled, wrapping an arm around Arjun and Saer's shoulders. "It was perfect, boys. Thank you."
The chapter of his bachelorhood had officially closed in spectacular, chaotic fashion.
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