The centralised air conditioning of the Taj Lands End in Mumbai hummed with a quiet, expensive efficiency, standing in stark contrast to the humid, salt-heavy breeze blowing off the Arabian Sea just beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass windows.
Inside the suite, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of fresh coffee and the palpable tension of high-stakes commerce.
On the flat-screen television mounted on the wall, a news ticker from a sports channel scrolled relentlessly in red and white. The volume was muted, but the headline was screaming loud enough to be heard without sound: TEAM INDIA SQUAD ANNOUNCED FOR Tri-Nation Tournament.
The names flashed in a loop: Gautam Gambhir, Virender Sehwag, Siddanth Deva, Virat Kohli, Rohit Sharma, Suresh Raina, Ravindra Jadeja, Yuvraj Singh, MS Dhoni (C), Harbhajan Singh, Zaheer Khan, Ashish Nehra, Sreesanth, Amit Mishra, Ashok Dinda.
Deva sat on the edge of a plush beige sofa, his posture upright but his shoulders carrying a slight stiffness. Across the glass coffee table sat three representatives from Nike, dressed in sharp business casual blazers over t-shirts, a carefully curated look that screamed "corporate but cool." Next to Deva sat Arjun, looking far more composed than he had any right to be.
Arjun had been Deva's anchor. From the gully cricket days in Secunderabad to this ocean-view suite in Bandra, he had transitioned from best friend to manager with a surprising amount of acumen.
For the past two months, Arjun had been locked in a battle of emails and conference calls with these representatives, hammering out image rights, royalty clauses, and performance bonuses.
"We believe," began Mr. Rohan Verma, the lead marketing director for Nike India, leaning forward and clasping his hands, "that this partnership defines the next decade. The World Cup win changed everything. But now? Now we build the legacy. We want the passion, the hunger. We see that in you, Mr. Deva."
He slid a heavy, bound document across the glass table. "It's not just about a sticker on a bat. It's about identity. We want you to be the face of our 'Future of Force' campaign. Billboards, TV spots, the works. We are investing in youth."
Deva looked at the contract. It was thick. It represented more money than his father had earned in a lifetime of service. He glanced at Arjun.
Arjun gave a barely perceptible nod, his eyes steady. " Everything is as we discussed, Rohan. We checked the final draft this morning. The exclusivity clause regarding footwear is the only thing we tweaked, and your legal team signed off on it an hour ago."
"Correct," Verma smiled. "We are ready if you are, Deva."
Deva reached for the Montblanc pen resting on the table. For a second, his mind flashed back to the dusty grounds of the colony, the taped-up tennis balls, and the chipped bat he used to cherish. Now, he was signing a deal that would put his face on showrooms from Kashmir to Kanyakumari.
He uncapped the pen and signed. Deva. A signature he had practised a thousand times in the back of his school notebooks was now worth crores.
"Fantastic," Verma beamed, the tension in the room instantly evaporating. The other two representatives, a woman named Priya and a creative director named Steve, stood up, clapping softly.
"Let's commemorate this," Steve said, pulling out a high-end DSLR camera. "Just a candid shot for the internal newsletter and the press release. Shake hands with Rohan."
Deva stood up, smoothing out his Indian team training polo. He gripped Verma's hand. The flash popped—once, twice, thrice. It captured the smile of a young man who had just secured his financial future, and the smile of a corporate shark who knew he had just signed a future legend at a bargain price compared to what he would be worth in two years.
"Welcome to Nike, Deva," Verma said, pumping his hand. "We'll have the kit bags sent to your room before you fly out for the Tri-Nation Tournament. Good luck in Bangladesh."
"Thank you," Deva said, his voice steady. "I'm looking forward to it."
After a flurry of business cards were exchanged and polite well-wishes were offered, the Nike team exited the suite, leaving a silence that felt heavy and sudden.
As the door clicked shut, the professional veneer dropped from Deva's shoulders. He exhaled a long breath, puffing out his cheeks, and collapsed back onto the sofa.
"Holy shit," Deva whispered, staring at the ceiling.
Arjun walked over to the mini-bar, grabbed two bottles of cold water, and tossed one to Deva. "Holy shit is right, brother. You just signed the biggest endorsement deal for a debutant since Ishant in '08. Maybe bigger."
Deva caught the bottle, cracking the seal. "It feels surreal, Arri. Ten months ago, I was worrying about selection. Now I'm a brand ambassador."
"You're a commodity now," Arjun said, sitting on the opposite armchair and crossing his legs. He looked tired but satisfied. "But a commodity with a hell of a left hook. You earned this."
Deva took a long drink of water, letting the cold liquid ground him. He looked at Arjun, really looked at him. "You handled them well. Seriously. I wouldn't have known where to start with those royalty clauses."
"That's my job," Arjun grinned. "You hit the ball; I hit the suits. It's a partnership."
They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the hum of the AC the only sound. The TV was still scrolling the squad list. Gambhir... Sehwag... Deva...
"So," Deva shifted, turning his body toward Arjun. "Enough about the money. Tell me about home. I haven't spoken to Ma in two days because of the training camp."
Arjun chuckled, taking a sip of his water. "The Colony is... well, it's the Colony. It's in a state of permanent hysteria. You know how it is. Since the news broke that you made the cut for the Tri-Nation tournament, the local grocery store uncle has basically declared himself your personal nutritionist to anyone who will listen."
Deva laughed, a genuine, belly-deep sound. "Let me guess, he's telling people he gave me extra almonds?"
"Cashews," Arjun corrected with a grin. "And Sharma Aunty has started a puja circle specifically for your batting average. It's sweet, really. But it's chaotic. The road outside your house? It's jammed every evening. People just come and stand there, looking at the gate."
Deva's smile faded slightly. He stared at the condensation dripping down his water bottle. "And Father? How is he handling it?"
"Uncle is... Uncle," Arjun said diplomatically. "He's proud. Incredibly proud. He walks to the market with his chest out. But I can tell he's getting tired, Deva. He spends half his day answering the door. Couriers, fans, distant relatives asking for loans, media guys trying to get a quote. He shouldn't have to be a security guard in his own home."
Deva nodded slowly, his expression darkening. This was the part of success nobody warned him about. The suffocation. "That brings me to the other thing. The project."
Arjun sat up straighter. "Right. The construction."
"How is it going?" Deva asked, his voice dropping an octave, as if his father could hear him all the way from Secunderabad.
"It's going well," Arjun said, switching to a more serious tone. "I visited the site yesterday before flying out. The foundation work is done. The pillars are going up. The architect says we are on schedule. It's going to be a fortress, Deva. High walls, automated gates, security cabin at the front. Located in Shamshabad, so it's quiet."
Deva nodded, visualising it. A sanctuary.
"But," Arjun hesitated, turning the water bottle in his hands. "I have to ask again, Sid. Are you sure about doing this without Uncle's permission? You know how he is about 'roots' and 'remembering where we came from.' Building a multi-crore villa without telling him... if he finds out from someone else, he will be furious. He'll think you've let the fame go to your head."
Deva stood up and walked to the window. Mumbai lay spread out below him, a chaotic tapestry of slums and skyscrapers, ambition and desperation.
"I know he'll be mad," Deva said, his back to Arjun. "I know he'll give me the lecture about simplicity and how the Colony is our blood. He'll say I'm trying to act like a 'Nawab' or a film star."
He turned around, his face hard. "But Arjun, it's a safety net. You just said it yourself—he's playing security guard. Last time I went home, there were three news vans parked blocking the driveway. Ma couldn't even go to the temple without someone sticking a camera in her face asking how she feels about my game. It's not sustainable."
Deva walked back to the sofa and leaned over it. "There is no privacy left. The Colony is open. Anyone walks in. I found a guy sitting on our verandah last month, just waiting to 'take a photo.' He had been there for two hours. What if it's not a fan next time? What if it's someone crazy?"
Arjun nodded grimly. The security concerns were real. The kidnapping threats to cricketers' families weren't unheard of.
"So, here is the plan," Deva continued, his voice firm. "We build the house. We finish the interiors. We keep it ready. Empty, but ready. There will come a time, Arjun—maybe in six months, maybe in a year—when Father himself will snap. When the intrusion becomes too much. When he realizes that living in a fishbowl is hurting Ma's health."
Deva clenched his fist. "When he says, 'I wish we had some peace,' that is when we tell him. That is when I hand him the keys. Until then, he doesn't need the stress of knowing I'm spending crores on real estate. He needs to think I'm just saving my match fees. So, keep it between us. Please."
Arjun looked at his friend. He saw the burden in Deva's eyes. It wasn't arrogance; it was a desperate need to protect the people he loved from the monster his own success had created.
"Okay," Arjun said softly. "I get it. My lips are sealed. I'll handle the payments through the trust account, so no bank statements go to the house address."
"Thanks, Arjun," Deva exhaled, the tension leaving his body. "You're the only one I can trust with this."
"That's what managers are for," Arjun smiled, lightening the mood. "Managing the chaos."
Deva checked his watch. It was nearing lunchtime. "You have to catch the flight back to Hyderabad at 4, right?"
"Yeah. Need to be at the airport by 2:30. Traffic in this city is a nightmare."
"Let's order some food then," Deva said, grabbing the room service menu. "I'm starving, I'll have my cheat meal today to celebrate this moment. I need some proper Biryani."
Arjun laughed. "You can take the boy out of Hyderabad, but you can't take the Hyderabadi out of the boy. Order two. And some kebabs."
They ordered an excessive amount of food—Mutton Biryani, Chicken Tikka, Dal Makhani, and a basket of naans. For the next hour, the conversation shifted away from contracts and construction.
They talked about the upcoming Tri-Nation Tournament in Bangladesh.
"Bangladesh at home is never easy," Arjun said, tearing a piece of naan. "Especially in Mirpur. Those pitches are slow, they turn square. You know how Shakib and their spinners operate."
"I know," Deva chewed thoughtfully. "The ball stops on you. We have to be careful not to play across the line too early. And Sri Lanka is the third team... Sangakkara is in the form of his life."
"And watch out for Malinga," Arjun added, pointing with a chicken tikka skewer. "Those yorkers are deadly on the slower Dhaka wickets. They skid through."
"I've studied the tapes," Deva said. "I've been practising on the dustbowls here in Mumbai just for that. Staying low, using the depth of the crease. If we can handle the spin, we have the firepower. Viru paaji and Gauti bhai at the top... we should be fine."
They finished the meal in a comfortable rhythm, the kind that only exists between friends who have shared cheap tiffins before sharing five-star buffets.
As Arjun wiped his hands and stood up to leave, the reality of the separation hit them. Deva was flying to Dhaka for the tournament; Arjun was going back to the chaos of Secunderabad to manage the fort.
"Alright," Arjun said, slinging his laptop bag over his shoulder. "I'm off. Driver is downstairs."
Deva stood up and hugged him. It was a tight, solid embrace. "Take care of them, Arjun. Check on Amma."
"Always," Arjun said, pulling back and gripping Deva's shoulders. "You just focus on the ball. Don't worry about the house in Shamshabad, don't worry about the press, don't worry about the Colony. I'm the goalkeeper. You're the striker. Go score."
Deva grinned. "I'll try to hit a few into the stands for you."
"Do that. And wear the Nike shoes when you do it," Arjun winked.
"Get out of here," Deva laughed, shoving him toward the door.
Arjun left, the heavy door clicking shut once again.
Deva was alone.
He walked back to the window. The afternoon sun was glistening off the sea. Far below, tiny cars moved like ants in a line. Somewhere in that mess was Arjun, heading home. Somewhere across the border was Bangladesh, waiting with its turning pitches and passionate crowds.
Deva walked to the bedroom, where his kit bag lay open. The blue jersey of India was folded neatly on top.
He ran his hand over the BCCI logo.
The meeting was over. The deals were signed. The house was being built. The distractions were managed.
Now, there was only the game.
Deva zipped up the bag. He was ready.