Cricket: Template system

The NEXUS SMART Stadium in Nagole, Hyderabad, lay under a January morning sun. The stands were empty, the arena silent save for the cracks of leather striking willow from the practice nets behind the main pavilion.

The Indian Test squad had assembled in the city. The five-match Test series against England—and their “Bazball” approach—was less than a week away.

But the English batting lineup was secondary to the atmosphere that had settled on the Indian dressing room.

Virat Kohli had taken a leave of absence from the series for personal reasons.

For years, the King had been the buffer in the squad. He was the bridge between the personalities, the man who could match Rohit Sharma’s Mumbai ease and Siddanth Deva’s cold focus.

With Kohli gone, the buffer was gone.

And the fallout from the phone call between the Captain and the Hitman had left the team environment cold.

Inside the practice nets, the tension sat on the shoulders of every player and support staff member.

Shubman Gill and Yashasvi Jaiswal, the two young openers, stood near the mesh of the fast-bowling net. They were padded up, waiting for their turn to bat, but neither of them was speaking. They were watching the duel in front of them.

Siddanth Deva was bowling to Rohit Sharma.

There was no banter. There was no chatter between deliveries. There was no clapping from the bowlers waiting in line.

Deva walked back to the top of his mark. He didn’t look at Rohit. His eyes were locked on the red SG Test ball in his hands, his fingers tracing the seam.

He turned and ran in.

He didn’t bowl a gentle warm-up delivery. He hit the popping crease in rhythm, unleashing a 144 kmph ball on a back-of-a-length line. The red ball hit the deck and jagged in off the seam.

Rohit Sharma, his jaw set, a muscle ticking in his cheek, shuffled across his stumps. He dropped his wrists, letting the delivery pass his ribs and thud into the net behind him.

“Good leave,” Head Coach Rahul Dravid murmured from the umpire’s position, his voice the only sound in the enclosure.

Rohit didn’t acknowledge the praise. He tapped his bat on the pitch, staring at the ground.

Deva didn’t offer a nod. He turned on his heel and walked back to his mark, his face set.

“I can’t even breathe,” Yashasvi Jaiswal whispered to Shubman Gill, his voice low under the sound of Deva’s spikes on the turf. “It feels like the air is frozen. They haven’t looked at each other or spoken a word since we assembled yesterday.”

“Don’t stare,” Shubman hissed back, keeping his eyes ahead. “Just do your drills. The skip is locked in. If you lose focus, he will work you over in the nets.”

Deva had not let the personal fallout affect the preparation of the squad for a single delivery. He was running the camp to a hard standard. He bowled with hostility, he batted with a straight bat, and he ran the fielding drills without giving an inch.

But the silence held.

When the net session ended, Deva and Rohit walked back to the pavilion side by side, three feet apart, with the old understanding gone. They entered the dressing room, took off their pads on opposite sides of the room, and drank their recovery shakes without a glance.

The old guard had split.

The Warlord had taken the sentiment out of his side, and the chill showed.

—

Forty-eight hours later, the tension of the nets was left behind, replaced by family, tradition, and a quiet warmth.

It was the morning of January 22, 2024.

The Indian team had received invitations to the Pran Pratishtha ceremony of the Ram Mandir in Ayodhya. For most players, the schedule made attendance difficult.

But for Siddanth Deva, attendance was required. He was not just the captain; he was the man behind Nexus, a company whose work sat close to the top of the Indian government. He had to keep the relationships that held his side of the game together.

At the private terminal of Begumpet Airport in Hyderabad, the Nexus jet waited on the tarmac, black in the morning sun.

It was not a solo trip. It was a family trip.

Inside the cabin, the air smelled of filter coffee and jasmine.

The captain from the Hyderabad nets and the man in the leather seat were not the same picture.

Deva wore an ivory silk kurta with silver thread, and a saffron raw-silk shawl over his shoulders made by Telangana handweavers.

Across the aisle, Krithika adjusted the gold zari border of a crimson Banarasi saree. Her hair was tied in a bun, with jasmine in it.

“Amma, Rishi is reading a book instead of looking out the window!” Aadhya complained, bouncing in her seat. She wore an orange and pink pattu pavadai, her gold bangles moving as she did.

“I am reading the homework teacher gave, Aadhya,” Rishi replied, not taking his eyes off the book on his lap. He wore an ivory silk kurta that matched his father’s. “You should also read it when you have time or you will muck up everything in last minute.”

“It is boring!” Aadhya declared, unbuckling her seatbelt and climbing out of her chair. “I am going to play with Harini!”

She ran down the aisle toward the back of the jet.

The rest of the family sat in the rear. Deva’s parents, Vikram and Sesikala, sat opposite Krithika’s parents, Suma and Subba Rao, talking over filter coffee, all in silk.

In the middle of the lounge sat Arjun and Anjali. Arjun wore a navy silk kurta. Anjali held their one year old daughter, Harini, who was chewing on a silver rattle.

“Babai!” Aadhya called, throwing herself at Arjun’s legs.

“Hello, monster,” Arjun laughed, catching his niece and lifting her. “Are you ready to see the temple?”

“Yes! And I am going to see the helicopters!” Aadhya said, pointing out the window. “Thatha said there will be helicopters throwing flowers from the sky!”

“There will be,” Arjun said, setting her down next to Anjali so she could play with the baby.

Arjun patted Anjali’s shoulder and walked up the aisle, taking the seat opposite Deva.

“The flight clearance is in, all the way to Maharishi Valmiki airport, Sid,” Arjun said, his voice dropping. “Our security liaison has confirmed the VVIP gate. The boundary is held by the SPG.”

“Good,” Deva said, taking a sip of his black coffee.

“We have three meetings after the ceremony,” Arjun went on, tapping his phone. “The Minister of Road Transport wants to close the contract for the Nexus EV charging corridors along the new expressways. And the Home Minister wants a word on the close-in field Nexus is setting for the new campuses.”

“You take care of the meetings, I have to return for the practice tomorrow.”

Arjun grinned. “I will take care of it. They won’t push back today. Not when you are the man they want in the frame.”

The engines lifted them off the runway, carrying the family toward Ayodhya.

—

The descent into Ayodhya filled the window.

Even from the air, the size of the day was clear. The city was covered in saffron flags. The streets were full, and the air around the airport carried incense, sandalwood, and marigold.

On landing, the Nexus group was taken to a line of black SUVs under state security.

They drove through the closed roads, past floral work and screens showing the temple. “Jai Shri Ram” ran through the streets without a break.

In the second SUV, the children sat between their grandparents.

Aadhya had her knees on the seat and her face to the glass. The flags ran from pole to pole. The chant came through even with the windows up.

“Thatha, why is everyone saying the same words?”

“Jai Shri Ram,” Vikram said. “Victory to Lord Ram. This is Ayodhya. He was born in this city. These people have come to welcome him.”

“Welcome him where?” Rishi asked. “He is God. Where was he before?”

Subba Rao answered. “In the stories. In the houses. In the name this city already had. Today they open his temple and ask him to live in the idol. That is different from a picture on a wall.”

“The flags are saffron because that is his colour,” Suma said. “When a street has this many, it means the street is of one mind.”

Aadhya frowned at a screen on a crossing, Ram’s face ten feet high, bow in hand. “Is he a baby in the temple? On that screen he is big.”

“Both,” Sesikala said. “He was a prince, and then a king. Inside, they have made him as a child. Ram Lalla. A child is how he came into the world, in this place. You will see him.”

“And the helicopters?” Aadhya said, bright again. “You promised helicopters.”

“I said there would be,” Vikram said. “They come at the end. First the prayers. Sit properly. We are at the gate.”

The SUVs came through the last check and stopped at the Ram Janmabhoomi complex.

The pink sandstone, cut in fine detail, rose into the winter sky.

Deva, Krithika, Arjun, and the family were taken into the VVIP enclosure in the courtyard, facing the sanctum.

The enclosure held the people who run Indian public life. The heads of Reliance, Tata, and Adani sat in the front rows. Musicians and religious leaders sat through the middle.

Together in one cluster were the familiar faces of film and sport. Sachin Tendulkar, Rajinikanth, Amitabh Bachchan, Ranbir Kapoor, Alia Bhatt, Katrina Kaif, and Vicky Kaushal were there, in traditional clothes.

As Deva and Krithika walked the aisle to their seats, the usual order turned over.

In most rooms, people crowd the actors. The actors are the faces.

Siddanth Deva was not an actor. He carried the weight of a man who had won on his own terms. He took up the space around him without raising his voice.

Ranbir Kapoor, near the aisle, saw him coming. He stepped forward and put out his hand.

“Siddanth, what an honor,” Ranbir said. “The World Cup final… your innings in Lucknow… I have not seen a better one. You made the country proud.”

“Thank you, Ranbir,” Deva said. “You are looking well. A good day for it.”

Alia Bhatt, beside her husband, smiled at Krithika. “Your saree is lovely, Krithika.”

“Thank you, Alia,” Krithika said.

A few feet away, Rajinikanth stood. He gave a slow nod to the Indian captain who defended the World Cup.

Deva bowed his head and brought his hands together.

Then the requests started.

Vicky Kaushal and Katrina Kaif came over with their phones.

“Captain, would you mind if we took a picture?” Vicky asked. “My brother will not believe it if I don’t.”

“Of course,” Deva said.

He stood between them. He smiled, wide and easy, and Vicky took the picture before anyone had to ask him to hold it.

Ayushmann Khurrana was a step behind, in an off-white kurta, phone low until he was sure of the moment.

“One for my mother,” he said. “She will have it printed before I reach Mumbai.”

“Then we should give her a good one,” Deva said.

He smiled again. Ayushmann laughed once, surprised by it, and took the shot.

Ram Charan crossed from the row where Chiranjeevi was seated. He kept his voice down.

“Captain. If I go back without a picture, my father will say I came all the way to Ayodhya and forgot my manners.”

Deva’s smile shifted, smaller, the one from the house and not the poster. “Come. We will not give him that line.”

They stood together. Charan grinned. Deva smiled into the lens and let it stay until the click.

Kangana Ranaut did not linger on a greeting. Marigold was still caught at her wrist from the walk in.

“A picture,” she said. “Then I will go back to my seat. I don’t want to miss the start.”

“Stand this side,” Deva said. “The light is better.”

He smiled for her as he had for the others. She took two, checked the screen, and nodded like the frame had done its work.

A few more phones came after that. He did not turn them away. The smile held for each one.

Aadhya pulled at Sesikala’s pallu. “Ammamma, why do all the film people want photos with Nanna? They already have photos.”

“They do,” Sesikala said, bending. “Today they want his. That is a good thing. You can wave. Then we sit, kanna. The prayers are about to start.”

Rishi had been watching, unimpressed and precise. “They are asking because of the World Cup.”

“And because your father smiled at them,” Sesikala said. “Now hush.”

Aadhya waved at Kangana’s back, satisfied.

—

The talk in the VVIP enclosure dropped.

Security moved through the aisle and set a ring.

Prime Minister Narendra Modi, in a golden kurta and a cream shawl, walked in. He greeted the religious leaders and the guests with folded hands.

As he came down the aisle, his eyes found the Indian captain.

Modi smiled and changed his line, walking to Deva’s seats.

Deva stood and brought his hands together. Krithika, Arjun, and the elders did the same.

“Siddanth,” the Prime Minister said. “It is good to see you here.”

“It is an honor to be here, Prime Minister,” Deva said, inclining his head.

“And your family?” Modi asked, looking at the people behind him.

Deva stepped aside. “My parents, Vikram Deva and Sesikala Deva. You already know my wife, Krithika, and her parents, Suma and Subba Rao.”

The Prime Minister greeted the elders, and nodded to Krithika.

Deva put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “And my children, Rishi and Aadhya.”

“Namaste,” Rishi said, bowing, his eyes up.

Aadhya waved. “Hello Thatha!”

“She means to say Grandfather.” Deva clarified.

Modi laughed. “Namaste beti.”

Deva indicated the man to his right.

“And you already know, Arjun Reddy.”

Modi looked at Arjun. The smile stayed, but the look changed.

“Arjun Reddy,” Modi said. “The CEO of Nexus. Who doesn’t know him. Good work young man.”

“We are only holding our end, Prime Minister,” Arjun said, bowing, the noise gone out of him.

It took less than ten seconds. In that time the Prime Minister had greeted Siddanth Deva as the man who had won the final, and Arjun Reddy as the man who runs the other game. They moved between the pitch and the rooms where the deals are made.

“Please, sit,” Modi said, and went on toward the temple. “The ceremony is about to begin.”

The family sat.

Aadhya could not sit properly.

She leaned into Suma. “Ammamma, what is happening? Why did it go quiet?”

“The priests are about to begin,” Suma said, close to her ear. “The puja is called Pran Pratishtha. Pran means life. They will chant, and they will request God to come into the murti. After that, the idol is not only stone. It is Ram, here, in his house.”

Rishi was watching the doors. “Thatha, why is everyone folding their hands if the doors are still closed?”

“Because the prayer has already started,” Sesikala said. “You do not wait for a curtain to respect a thing. Fold yours.”

Rishi folded them. Aadhya copied him, forgot, and copied him again.

The courtyard went quiet.

The doors of the Garbha Griha opened. Vedic mantras from the priests came through the speakers and sat in the chest.

The idol of Ram Lalla was unveiled.

For Vikram, Sesikala, Suma, and Subba Rao, it was too much to watch dry-eyed. They folded their hands and did not look away.

Rishi looked up. His grandfather’s eyes were wet, and he had not wiped them.

“Thatha,” he whispered. “Why are you crying? Is the prayer not working?”

Vikram kept his palms together. “It is working. I waited a long time to see this with my own eyes. When a wait ends, the face does what it wants. Don’t be afraid of it.”

On the other side, Suma had both hands over her mouth. Aadhya patted her arm, unsure.

“Ammamma is not sad,” Subba Rao said. “None of us are sad. Remember this, both of you. You were here on the day Ram Lalla came home.”

“Came home from where?” Aadhya asked.

“From the waiting,” Subba Rao said. “Look at the doors. Don’t look at us.”

Krithika rested her head on Deva’s shoulder, eyes closed, listening. Deva sat still, watching the temple.

A low thud came from above.

“Look!” Aadhya said, pointing up.

Three military helicopters came over the spires in formation. As they passed, the doors opened.

Rose petals fell over the sandstone and into the enclosure, bright in the winter sun.

“Flowers from the sky!” Aadhya said, hands up, trying to catch them.

Krithika laughed and pulled her in.

Aadhya caught one petal and held it up to Vikram, fierce with proof.

“Thatha, they did it. Why flowers? Why not flags from the sky also?”

“When a guest comes home, you offer flowers,” Vikram said. “He is not a small guest. So the sky offered them.”

Rishi turned a petal in his fingers. “So the mantras were the invitation. And this is the welcome.”

Sesikala kissed the top of his head. “Yes. That is what it means.”

—

When the ceremony ended and the guests left the complex, the phones found a signal again.

Within minutes the pictures were up. The internet, already on the event, went after the faces.

@Bollywood_Updates: Ranbir Kapoor, Alia Bhatt, and Katrina Kaif in a selfie in Ayodhya. Siddanth Deva is in the middle of the frame. He is smiling.

@CricketNerd_IND: Vicky Kaushal asked first. Then Ayushmann. Then Ram Charan. The actors look like fans, and he smiled for every one of them.

@MemeCentral_Desi:

Bollywood: “We have the posters and the openings.”

Siddanth Deva: smiles for the photo.

Bollywood: “He smiled. We need a minute.”

@BCCI_Insider: PM Modi walked over to greet Deva and his family. The skipper is not being touched right now.

@HistoryBuff_IN: The Cup, the run of form, and now this. He has gone past the scorecard.

@BlueBleeders: Rishi and Aadhya in their silks. The family looked settled today.

@TiredFastBowler: Three selfies. Three smiles. The silk kurta is not the threat. The threat lands next week with a new ball.

@Sanju_Fan_Club_Kerala: Sachin Tendulkar and Siddanth Deva in the same enclosure. God and Devil of the Cricket.

@DesiSarcasm:

Me: “Does Siddanth Deva ever get starstruck?”

The selfie: he is the one smiling. They are the ones who look nervous.

@Gamer_Boy007: Do not confuse the smile in the photo with the man from the Hyderabad nets. England still has to face the other one.

@MemeKing_Hyd:

Photographer: “Say cheese.”

Deva: smiles.

Group chat: “He did it. I owe you fifty.”

@AyodhyaLens: Kangana, Ayushmann, Vicky. Three phones. Same smile from the captain. Somebody tell the nets this version exists.

@RamCharan_FC: Charan waited his turn and came back grinning. Charan looks like he won a Friday.

@SportsFreakIN: Arjun Reddy just behind Deva in the pictures. The Nexus CEO. Two men, one who bats and one who runs the other innings.

@AnandMahindra: A historic day for the country. Good to see the players there with their families. Jai Hind.

@The_Master_Architect: The trip is done. The prayers are in. The Warlord goes back to the ground. England lands next week. Pads on.