Cricket: Template system

The Board of Control for Cricket in India had issued a notice following the 2023 World Cup. Every senior multi-format player who had carried the weight of the month-long campaign was given rest.

The white-ball bilateral series against Australia that immediately followed the tournament was handed over entirely to the younger reserves. For the newly crowned Kings of the sport, their calendars were wiped clean until December 21st, the date they were required to report for the red-ball Test tour of South Africa.

For Siddanth Deva, the notice was embraced with full dedication.

The heavy iron gates of the Shamshabad estate were firmly pulled shut and locked. The security detail was instructed to turn away every courier, every brand manager, and every corporate liaison. The outside world, still vibrating with the euphoria of the World Cup victory, was banished from the premises.

The cold-blooded Master Architect of Indian cricket had vanished. In his place, an unbothered domestic father in loose sweatpants had emerged.

For the first three weeks of December, Deva did not touch a cricket bat. He did not look at a spreadsheet for Nexus. He did not open the sports pages of the morning newspapers that his father, Vikram, left on the veranda table.

His routine was one of slow, deliberate domestic peace.

The mornings began late, usually dictated by whenever Aadhya decided that sleep was no longer useful. The house would fill with the smell of freshly brewed filter coffee, prepared by Sesikala, the rich aroma drifting through the long sunlit corridors of the farmhouse.

In the early afternoons, the strict home tutor would arrive to give the twins their lessons. Deva would use this quiet window to sit on the veranda with Krithika, sharing a pot of tea, watching the peacocks wander across the lawns, and talking about nothing of consequence.

When the tutor packed her bags and departed at three o’clock, the chaos of the day began.

Deva would spend hours rolling around on the thick living room carpets, playing endless games of hide-and-seek with the kids. He built large, wobbly forts out of sofa cushions and heavy blankets, surrendering to his daughter’s demands to act as the dragon guarding the fortress door.

The evenings were reserved for the family sanctuary: the home theater.

They would all pile onto the large U-shaped velvet sofa. Vikram and Sesikala would sit on one end, sharing a bowl of roasted makhana, while Krithika and Deva occupied the center, with the twins sandwiched between them. They worked their way through a catalog of animated movies, shutting out the noise, the fame, and the pressure of the world outside the thick stone walls of the farmhouse.

It was an unbroken bubble of family life.

The home theater was dark, illuminated only by the glow of the wall-to-wall projection screen. The musical numbers of a popular animated movie about a magical Colombian family were playing softly through the speakers.

Aadhya was mesmerized, sitting cross-legged on the floor right in front of the screen, singing along to the songs at the top of her lungs, ignoring the lyrics she didn’t actually know. Krithika was leaning against Deva’s chest on the sofa, her eyes half-closed, enjoying the quiet comfort of his steady heartbeat.

Rishi, however, was not watching the screen.

The five-year-old boy, ever the quiet and polite observer, had grown slightly restless. He slipped off the velvet sofa, his sock-clad feet making no sound on the thick carpet, and wandered over to the far wall of the theater room.

The wall was lined with tall, dimly lit glass display cabinets. Most of them held Deva’s personal collection.

Rishi pressed his hands against the cool glass, his dark eyes scanning the neatly arranged action figures. He had seen them before, but he had never really paid close attention to them.

His eyes settled on one particular figurine standing in the center of the shelf.

It was a man with bright green hair, wearing a dark green coat. But it wasn’t the hair that caught Rishi’s attention. It was the stance. The figure was posed aggressively, holding two long, curved swords in his hands.

More confusingly, the man had a third sword gripped firmly between his teeth.

Rishi frowned slightly, his young mind trying to process the practical application of this fighting style. He turned around, walking back over to the plush sofa.

He stood politely next to his father’s elbow, waiting for a break in the movie’s singing.

“Nana,” Rishi whispered softly, tapping Deva’s arm.

Deva opened his eyes, shifting his weight slightly so as not to disturb Krithika. He looked down at his son. “What is it, buddy? Do you need water?”

“No, Nana,” Rishi replied, pointing a small finger toward the glass display cabinet in the corner. “I was looking at the shelf. Who is the man with the green hair?”

Deva followed his son’s pointing finger. A slow, warm smile spread across his face as he recognized the figure.

“Ah,” Deva murmured, keeping his voice low. “That is Roronoa Zoro. He is a very famous swordsman.”

Rishi thought about this for a second, his brow furrowing in polite confusion.

“Why does he have a sword in his mouth, Nana?” Rishi asked, leaning closer. “That seems very unsafe for his teeth. And it would be difficult to talk.”

Deva chuckled softly, the sound rumbling in his chest.

“It’s a special fighting style, Rishi,” Deva explained warmly. “He uses three swords to protect his friends. He is a character from a Japanese anime called One Piece.”

Rishi looked back at the figurine, absorbing the new information. “Is it a good story?”

Deva’s smile deepened, a spark of pure fanboy appreciation lighting up his dark eyes.

“It is one of the greatest stories ever told,” Deva replied with unironic sincerity.

Rishi nodded slowly, trusting his father’s critical assessment. “Can I watch it with you?”

Deva laughed, a quiet sound, reaching out to gently ruffle his son’s neat hair. “Not yet, buddy. The fights are a little bit too intense for you right now. You have to be a little older to watch this one. We will stick to the singing movies for a few more years.”

“Okay, Nana,” Rishi accepted the ruling with his usual calm politeness, turning to walk back to his spot on the sofa.

Suddenly, a loud gasp echoed from the front of the room.

Aadhya, who had abandoned the magical Colombian family the second she heard the word ‘story’, popped up from the carpet like a bright pink jack-in-the-box. She marched directly over to the sofa, her hands planted firmly on her hips, her dark eyes blazing with curiosity.

“What is the story about?!” Aadhya demanded loudly, shattering the quiet atmosphere of the home theater. “Who has three swords?! Does he fight monsters?! Tell me the story right now!”

Krithika woke up with a start, blinking sleepily at the sudden noise.

Deva looked at his five-year-old daughter. He looked at the fierce demand in her eyes. He thought about the endless lore of pirates, devil fruits, grand lines, and world governments that spanned over a thousand episodes.

He took a long breath, leaning his head back against the plush velvet cushions.

“Well…” Deva sighed, a look of humorous resignation settling over his features. “Brace yourself, monster. It is going to be a very, very long story.”

—

The grandfather clock in the main hallway of the farmhouse chimed softly, marking the hour.

It was 2:30 AM.

The entire Shamshabad estate was silent, wrapped in the cold embrace of the December night. Krithika, Vikram, Sesikala, and the twins were fast asleep in their respective bedrooms, the heavy wooden doors shut tight against the chill.

But deep inside the soundproofed sanctuary of the home theater, a solitary figure remained awake.

Siddanth Deva was sprawled across the large U-shaped velvet sofa. The thirty-four-year-old billionaire, the man who had dismantled the Australian and English bowling attacks just weeks prior, was currently wrapped tightly in a thick grey fleece blanket, looking comfortable and unbothered.

On the wall-to-wall projection screen, a highly stylized, animated, violent fight sequence was flashing with speed.

Deva held a bowl of popcorn resting on his chest, ignoring it as his dark eyes remained locked onto the screen with the same unblinking focus he usually reserved for facing 150 kmph inswinging yorkers.

He was finally catching up.

For two months, the relentless schedule of the World Cup had severed his access to his weekly escape. Between the tactical team meetings, the sponsor commitments, the intense training sessions, and the actual matches, he had fallen behind on the latest seasons of Jujutsu Kaisen and Bleach.

The stress of avoiding internet spoilers during the World Cup had arguably been more taxing than facing Shaheen Afridi with the new ball.

But now, the crown was secured.

Deva took a handful of popcorn and shoved it into his mouth as the screen exploded in a blast of animated blue cursed energy.

A slow, satisfied grin spread across his bearded face.

He adjusted the fluffy blanket, grabbed the remote, and immediately hit ‘Next Episode’. The Devil had a lot of catching up to do.

—

The crisp, cool air of a late December morning hung over the Shamshabad estate. The mist was slowly lifting from the manicured lawns, revealing the clear blue sky of the approaching Telangana winter.

At the back of the property, the rhythmic sound of a tennis ball striking synthetic strings echoed across the private hard court.

Siddanth Deva was standing near the baseline, wearing a thick grey hoodie and black sweatpants. He wasn’t serving at full power. He was patiently feeding soft, high-bouncing balls across the net.

Standing on the opposite side of the court, gripping a junior-sized neon-pink tennis racket with two hands and a look of pure aggression, was Aadhya.

She was wearing a matching pink tracksuit, her breath pluming slightly in the cold air.

“Hit it harder, Nana!” Aadhya demanded, bouncing lightly on her toes. “I want to smash it!”

“If I hit it harder, it will bounce over your head, monster,” Deva chuckled, tossing another yellow ball into her strike zone. “Watch the bounce. Step in.”

Aadhya waited this time. The ball bounced. She stepped forward, transferred her weight, and swung with clean contact. The ball cleared the net with a solid thwack and landed deep on Deva’s side.

“Yes!” she shouted, already resetting her feet. “Again! Harder!”

Deva smiled and fed her another one. She met it cleanly again, driving it cross-court. The third ball she tried to go too big, swinging a little early. The shot flew long, sailing over the baseline and into the fence.

“Out!” she groaned, stamping her foot once before quickly recovering her stance. “That one was going out on purpose. Next one I will place it.”

“Good recovery,” Deva called, already tossing the next ball. “Keep your head still. You already have the basics. Now we work on control.”

They continued for another thirty minutes. Aadhya’s contact was mostly clean. She was still aggressive by nature, still trying to hit winners on every other ball. When she finally sent one cleanly past Deva’s reach and into the far corner, she dropped her racket and threw both arms up.

“Winner!” she declared. “I am the champion today!”

“You played well,” Deva said, walking to the net with the basket of balls. “Your coach will be happy. Now let’s go get breakfast before your mother starts looking for us.”

Aadhya grabbed her water bottle and sprinted ahead toward the main house, pink sneakers squeaking on the pavement.

Deva followed at a slower pace, enjoying the quiet chill of the morning air. The light session with his daughter felt good.

He walked through the heavy back doors and into the farmhouse kitchen.

Sesikala and Krithika were already there, beginning the morning preparations. Deva gently steered both of them away from the counters.

“Amma. Krithi. Sit,” he said, guiding them toward the dining chairs near the kitchen island. “I am cooking today.”

Sesikala raised an eyebrow but allowed herself to be seated. She rested her chin on her palm, watching her son with a quiet smile as he rolled up the sleeves of his grey hoodie. Krithika settled into the chair beside her.

Deva washed his hands, dried them, and stepped up to the stove.

He placed the heavy black cast-iron tawa over the flame and waited until the heat was right. He wiped the surface lightly with sesame oil. The oil sizzled.

He stirred the well-fermented dosa batter, scooped a full ladle, and poured it onto the centre of the hot tawa. The batter hissed. With the flat bottom of the ladle he spread it in smooth expanding circles until it formed a large, thin, even crepe.

He reached for the small silver container of homemade desi ghee and drizzled it generously around the edges and a few drops in the centre. The ghee melted at once. The edges began to turn a deep golden brown.

While the dosa roasted, he prepared the chutney — roasted peanuts, fresh coconut, green chillies, tamarind and salt ground into a coarse paste. Then he made the tadka: coconut oil, mustard seeds that popped, a dry red chilli, a pinch of urad dal, and a sprig of curry leaves that sputtered and filled the kitchen with their sharp aroma. He poured the tempering over the chutney.

As he worked, Sesikala kept watching him, chin still resting on her palm.

“So,” she said after a while, “will Sameer get married next year or not? The year is almost over and there are still no signs.”

Deva laughed while folding the dosa. “I don’t think so, Amma. But his parents are nagging him all the time.”

Sesikala shook her head. “Dealing with him after marriage will be a difficult task. With all the chaos he creates every time.”

Deva glanced over his shoulder. “I don’t hear you saying not to invite him.”

“He is not bad of heart,” Sesikala replied. “He just celebrates so wildly sometimes that everyone beside him gets confused. They don’t know if he is doing it on purpose or by accident. But he is a good kid. He just wants to have fun as if there is no tomorrow. Which is fine — we all meet only on special occasions, so a little over the top is okay. But Sameer takes it to a different level.”

Deva chuckled, sliding the golden dosa onto a plate. “Remember the time he brought playing cards and alcohol a few days before my wedding? You confiscated everything.”

Sesikala’s smile widened at the memory. “I gave him a lecture for nearly an hour.”

Just then Vikram walked into the kitchen, drawn by the smell of ghee and roasted dosa.

“What are you two talking about?” he asked, pulling out a chair.

“Sameer during parties,” Deva said.

Vikram grinned. “What about it? He is the heart of the party.”

Sesikala gave her husband a dry look. “Coming from the man who drinks a little and then starts dancing like no one is watching.”

Vikram only laughed and reached for a plate.

By now the rest of the family had begun drifting in, drawn by the aroma. Aadhya and Rishi were already at the table. Deva plated the first two dosas and set them down in front of the twins.

Aadhya immediately grabbed her spoon. “More ghee.”

“There is plenty of ghee on it, monster,” Deva said, taking his seat beside Krithika. “If I put any more on it, it will swim away.”

“I want it to swim,” Aadhya replied. “More ghee, Nana. Please.”

Deva shook his head, smiling, and drizzled a little more over the centre of her dosa. Aadhya tore off a piece at once, satisfied.

Beside her, Rishi tapped the edge of his dosa with his fork.

Crunch.