A/N: Just go with the flow for this chapter; no nitpicking!
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Date: April 6, 2014
The heartbreak in Mirpur had sent a shockwave through the subcontinent. The agonizing, last-over defeat to South Africa in the semi-final of the ICC World T20 was a bitter pill to swallow for a nation that had grown incredibly accustomed to watching the Indian team lift global trophies.
Yet, unlike previous generations, where an Indian team's exit from a major tournament resulted in burning effigies and shattered television sets, the reaction this time was surprisingly mature.
The public had watched MS Dhoni and team trying their best, where they dive on the wet grass, sacrificing their own body, desperately trying to save a boundary in the final over.
The internet did not mourn with anger; it mourned with immense respect.
@CricketFanatic99:Sometimes, you just have to tip your hat to the opposition. AB de Villiers played an innings from another planet. Heartbroken, but incredibly proud of how our boys fought. 💔🇮🇳
@Trendulkar:Siddanth Deva bleeding from his knee, picking himself up to fire a throw from the boundary... that is the definition of leaving it all on the field. The Vice-Captain gave us everything.
@SportsJourno_Raj:A tragic end, but let's be objective. Defending 168 with a soaking wet ball against ABD and Miller is practically impossible. The fact that Deva and his bowlers took it to the final over is a testament to their absolute grit. #T20WorldCup
@DelhiBilli:I am officially starting a petition to ban dew from cricket stadiums. It is the only thing capable of defeating Siddanth Deva. 😭☔
@CricCrazyJohns:Please do not troll Mohit Sharma. The kid was asked to bowl the 20th over of a World Cup semi-final against the best batsman in the world with a ball that felt like a bar of soap. He tried his best.
@VirenderSehwag:Tough luck, boys. You played like champions all tournament. Keep your heads high, the future is incredibly bright. 👏🇮🇳
@BCCI_Insider:The dressing room was completely devastated last night, but Dhoni and Deva made sure nobody blamed Mohit. That is true leadership. We will bounce back.
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While the internet continued to dissect the final over of the semi-final, the man at the center of the global conversation was sitting quietly in the driver's seat of a battered, dusty 2008 silver Maruti Swift.
It had been two days since the Indian team returned from Bangladesh.
Siddanth Deva was parked under the shade of a large Neem tree on a quiet, residential street in Tarnaka, Hyderabad. The engine was idling, the air conditioning humming softly against the sweltering April heat.
He was wearing a plain, slightly faded black t-shirt, dark blue jeans, and a pair of simple sneakers. A black baseball cap was pulled low over his eyes, and a dark surgical mask rested on his chin. He had his phone resting on his thigh, his eyes locked onto the blank screen.
For the Vice-Captain of India, the crushing pressure of a World Cup semi-final was a familiar, manageable weight. He knew how to calculate run rates, analyze pitch conditions, and set traps for world-class batsmen. It was a science.
But sitting outside a middle-class independent house, waiting for a text message from his girlfriend so he could walk inside and tell her traditional, fiercely protective father that he was secretly dating his daughter?
That was an entirely different universe of terror.
Siddanth let out a slow, heavy breath, tapping his fingers nervously against the worn plastic of the steering wheel. The thought of confronting the man who had raised Krithika made his chest feel inexplicably tight.
His phone vibrated. The screen lit up.
Headache:Dad is watching the news in the living room. Mom just went into the kitchen to make evening tea. Anjali is waiting in the hallway.
Headache:Come now before I completely lose my nerve and lock the front gate.
Siddanth didn't hesitate. He shifted the car into park, pulled the handbrake, and killed the engine.
He slipped the black surgical mask over his mouth and nose, adjusting the brim of his cap to obscure his face from any passing neighbors. He stepped out of the Swift, the afternoon heat immediately washing over him, and walked with long, purposeful strides toward the modest, two-story house.
He reached the front gate. It was unlatched. He pushed it open, stepping into the small, neatly maintained front yard adorned with potted tulsi plants and a chalk rangoli near the doorstep.
He walked up the two short steps and pressed the doorbell.
Ding-dong.
For three agonizing seconds, nothing happened. Then, the heavy wooden door creaked open.
Krithika stood there. She was wearing a simple, elegant blue cotton kurti. Her face was entirely pale, and she was twisting her fingers together in a clear display of sheer, undeniable nervous panic. She looked like she was about to step onto a battlefield.
"You're actually here," Krithika whispered, clutching the edge of the door, her knuckles turning white.
"I told you I would be right next to you," Siddanth whispered back, his deep voice muffled slightly by the mask. He offered a warm, incredibly reassuring smile that reached his eyes. "Breathe, Shorty. We've got this."
Krithika swallowed hard. She took a deep breath, nodded, and opened the door wider, stepping back to let him inside.
Siddanth stepped over the threshold into the cool interior of the house. He immediately took off his sneakers, leaving them neatly aligned next to the door.
From the living room, the loud, booming voice of a Telugu news anchor discussing local politics echoed through the hallway.
"Krithi, evaramma adhi?" (Who is it, Krithi?) Mr. Rao's voice called out casually from the living room, accompanied by the sound of a newspaper page turning.
Krithika froze. She opened her mouth, but her vocal cords completely failed her. She just looked at Siddanth.
Siddanth gave her a gentle, reassuring nod. He reached up, pulled the black baseball cap off his head, and peeled the surgical mask off his face, stuffing both into his jeans pocket.
He walked past her, stepping directly into the archway of the living room.
The living room was the quintessential portrait of a middle-class South Indian home. A modest, comfortable fabric sofa set surrounded a glass coffee table. A wooden showcase displayed various brass idols, family photographs, and a stack of academic trophies.
Mr. Rao was sitting in his favorite armchair, wearing a comfortable white cotton shirt and traditional pajama pants. His reading glasses were perched on the end of his nose as he looked over the top of his newspaper toward the hallway.
When Mr. Rao's eyes landed on the towering, six-foot-two athletic frame standing in his living room archway, his brain completely and violently short-circuited.
For exactly three seconds, absolute silence reigned in the house.
Mr. Rao blinked. He slowly lowered the newspaper to his lap. He took his reading glasses off. He looked at the television screen, where a scrolling sports ticker at the bottom incidentally displayed the player's name, and then looked back at the living room entrance.
It was the Vice-Captain of the Indian Cricket Team.
He was standing in his living room, wearing a faded black t-shirt.
"Siddanth... Siddanth Deva?" Mr. Rao breathed out, his voice a mixture of absolute shock, sheer disbelief, and the overwhelming reverence of a die-hard cricket fanatic encountering his ultimate idol in his own house.
"Namaste, sir," Siddanth greeted, his voice incredibly polite and deeply respectful.
Mr. Rao practically scrambled out of his armchair. The newspaper fell onto the floor, completely forgotten.
"Namaste, namaste! Please, please come inside!" Mr. Rao stammered, frantically gesturing toward the main sofa, entirely overwhelmed by the presence of cricketing royalty. "My goodness! Siddanth babu... in my house! Please, take a seat! Make yourself comfortable!"
"Please, sir. Just Siddanth, or Siddu," Siddanth requested gently, offering a warm smile as he stepped fully into the living room and took a seat on the edge of the sofa.
Krithika followed him in, standing nervously near the archway.
From the hallway, Anjali offered Siddanth a casual nod, leaning against the wall to watch the impending explosion.
"I... I am so sorry for the mess, we weren't expecting any guests," Mr. Rao apologized rapidly, hurriedly picking up a stray magazine from the coffee table. He looked at Siddanth, his eyes wide with a mix of awe and deep sympathy.
"I watched the match, Siddanth," Mr. Rao said, his tone instantly shifting into the passionate, emotional register of a true Indian cricket fan. "It was tough luck on the semi-finals. We were all praying for you. You played so brilliantly... but sometimes, it feels like the whole world makes sure you don't win. The dew was terrible. Do not worry, you are a champion. You will win the World Cup next time."
"Thank you for the support, sir," Siddanth replied earnestly, leaning forward slightly. "It was a tough pill to swallow. We fought incredibly hard, but AB de Villiers was just too good on the day. Your support means a lot to us."
Mr. Rao beamed with pride at the humble response. He suddenly remembered his duties as a host. He turned his head toward the kitchen.
"Suma!" Mr. Rao yelled, his voice echoing with urgent excitement. "Suma, come here quickly! Bring some hot chai and whatever snacks we have! We have a very, very special guest!"
"I am making the tea, coming!" Suma's voice called back from the kitchen. A few seconds later, Krithika's mother walked out, wiping her hands on her saree, holding a tray with two cups of steaming tea.
Suma turned the corner into the living room. She looked at the sofa.
She stopped dead in her tracks. The tray in her hands tilted dangerously.
"Aiyyo, Rama," Suma gasped, her eyes widening to the size of saucers.
"Careful with the tea, Amma!" Krithika quickly stepped forward, steadying the tray.
"It is Siddanth Deva, Suma!" Mr. Rao announced proudly, as if he had personally invited the cricketer over for a casual evening chat. "The Vice-Captain of India!"
Suma quickly set the tray down on the coffee table, smoothing her saree, her face flush with sudden, anxious hospitality.
"Namaste, Siddanth," Suma smiled widely, folding her hands, though her eyes darted nervously around her own living room. "We are so honored to have you in our home! I am so sorry, I just made normal tea. If I knew you were coming, I would have made a proper feast!"
"Namaste, Aunty. The tea is absolutely perfect. Thank you so much," Siddanth smiled, taking a cup from the tray. He took a sip, appreciating the strong, ginger-infused flavor.
Mr. Rao sat back down in his armchair, his initial shock slowly giving way to curiosity. He looked at the towering athlete sitting on his sofa, and then looked at his daughter, who was standing stiffly by the wall, twisting a loose thread on her kurti.
Mr. Rao frowned slightly, the logical part of his brain finally catching up to the surreal situation.
"If you don't mind me asking, Siddanth," Mr. Rao started, his tone polite but incredibly confused. "Why are you here in Tarnaka? Is there some commercial advertisement shooting nearby? Did your car break down on the main road? I will have my mechanic come from the corner shop."
The room went completely silent. The ambient hum of the ceiling fan suddenly felt incredibly loud.
Siddanth slowly lowered his teacup, placing it gently on the saucer resting on the glass table. The relaxed, polite demeanor of the visiting celebrity vanished.
He didn't look at Mr. Rao. He looked directly at Krithika.
Krithika met his gaze. Her hands were trembling slightly, but seeing the absolute, unwavering support in his dark eyes, she took a deep breath and gave him a small, definitive nod.
It's time.
Siddanth turned his attention back to Mr. Rao. He looked the older man squarely in the eyes, his voice steady, respectful, and entirely devoid of hesitation.
"My car didn't break down, sir. And I am not here for a commercial shoot," Siddanth said softly, but his words carried absolute clarity. "I am here specifically to see you and Aunty."
Mr. Rao blinked. "To see us? I don't understand."
Siddanth took a slow breath. "Sir... Krithika and I have been dating since the 2011 IPL ended," Siddanth stated, the truth finally breaking the silence of the room. "Almost three years now. We met when I went to write a university exam. I am in love with your daughter, sir. And I am here today because I refuse to let her lie to the people she loves the most just to protect my privacy."
The silence that followed was absolute, heavy, and suffocating.
It was not the silence of awe. It was the silence of a middle-class universe colliding violently with a reality it could not comprehend.
Mr. Rao stared at Siddanth and then turned his gaze slowly toward Krithika. The pride he had felt minutes ago was entirely wiped away, replaced by an agonizing shock, laced with a deep, immediate fear.
"Is this true, Krithi?" Mr. Rao asked, his voice barely a whisper, devoid of any anger, only a crushing sense of betrayal and anxiety.
Krithika stepped forward, her voice tight with nervousness. "Yes, Nanna. I'm so sorry I lied to you. I just... I didn't know how to tell you."
Suma sat down heavily on the edge of the sofa, staring at the floor, her hands tightly clasped in her lap, completely overwhelmed by the gravity of the situation.
Mr. Rao took a deep, shuddering breath. He took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. He looked at Siddanth. He didn't see the Vice-Captain of India anymore. He saw a billionaire. A man who lived in a different stratosphere of wealth, fame, and power. A man whose life was surrounded by paparazzi and unrelenting public scrutiny.
The quintessential, fiercely protective Indian father surfaced completely.
"Siddanth," Mr. Rao began, his voice shaking slightly, but carrying the heavy, defensive weight. "You are a great cricketer. You are a billionaire. The whole world watches your every move. We are just normal people. We live in a small house. I work a standard job."
Mr. Rao swallowed hard, looking at his daughter with desperate, protective fear.
"Our worlds are tracks that run parallel," Mr. Rao continued, shaking his head. "They don't meet. You live under floodlights; we live a quiet life. Tomorrow, when the novelty wears off, or when you find someone from your own high society, she will be the one left behind with a broken heart. I am her father; my job is to protect her from storms, and you, Siddanth... you are a very big storm. I cannot let her be a tourist in your life."
It was a blunt, powerful rejection born entirely out of love for his daughter.
Siddanth did not interrupt. He didn't get defensive. He listened to every single word, entirely absorbing the father's valid, terrifying concerns.
When Mr. Rao finished, Siddanth leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Sir," Siddanth began, his voice incredibly gentle, yet carrying immovable weight. "I didn't come here to pull her into a storm. I came here because she is my anchor."
Siddanth gestured to the modest, warmly lit living room around them.
"You look at me, and you see the television screens, the blue jersey, and the company logo," Siddanth said, his eyes locking onto Mr. Rao's, stripping away the billionaire facade entirely. "But I did not grow up with a golden spoon, sir. I grew up in a two-bedroom house in Mehdipatnam. My father was a lawyer before all the fame. My mother haggled with the vegetable vendors at the Rythu Bazaar to make sure we stayed within our monthly budget."
Suma looked up, surprise flickering through her anxiety as she heard the reality of his roots.
"Money comes and goes, sir," Siddanth continued, his tone carrying a deeply emotional resonance, yet entirely grounded in absolute reality. "I am wealthy today because I hit a cricket ball well and wrote some code. Tomorrow, an injury could end my career. The money could disappear. But the values my parents drilled into me in that small house in... respect, loyalty, and duty... those have not changed."
Siddanth turned his head, looking directly at Krithika. The absolute, unadulterated affection in his dark eyes was undeniable.
"If I wanted a passing phase, I wouldn't be sitting in your living room right now asking for your blessing," Siddanth said softly, a warm smile touching his lips. "When we met in the examination hall three years ago, I was wearing a surgical mask to hide my face. She didn't know I was a cricketer. She actually bullied me into showing her my answer sheet because she was failing corporate accounting."
Krithika bit the inside of her cheek, looking away, her nervousness cracking just a fraction at the memory.
"She didn't care about my status then, and she doesn't care about it now," Siddanth said, turning his gaze back to Mr. Rao. "In my world, everyone tells me what I want to hear. Everyone treats me like a god. Krithika is the only person who treats me like a normal human being. She scolds me when I am arrogant. She grounds me when the pressure gets too heavy."
"I am not here to play a game with her heart, sir. I am here because I respect you, and I want to do this the right way. My parents know about us. They have completely accepted her. I am asking for your blessing. Not as the Vice-Captain of India, but just as Siddanth."
The living room fell into a heavy silence.
Mr. Rao stared at the young man. The defensive posture hadn't entirely left him. He had heard the sincerity, but his protective instincts demanded answers to the harsh logistical realities.
"You speak very well, Siddanth," Mr. Rao said, his voice firm and unwavering. "But words are easy. The reality of your life is incredibly complicated. Krithika has just finished her final MBA exams. She has her own ambitions, her own career ahead of her. And what happens when the media inevitably finds out? When news vans camp outside this very gate and scrutinize everything she does?"
Siddanth met the older man's gaze without blinking, completely respecting the pushback.
"She builds her own path," Siddanth answered evenly, his tone absolute. "Her career is her own, and I will support it exactly as she supports mine. As for the media... that is why we kept it a secret for three years. To protect her peace. But when it comes out, I will place every resource I have between her and the cameras. I cannot silence the press, but I can guarantee they will never touch her."
Mr. Rao listened, absorbing the absolute certainty in Siddanth's voice. The silence stretched.
He looked at his wife. Suma met his eyes. A silent, deeply ingrained conversation passed between the parents—a weighing of risks, fears, and the undeniable truth standing in their living room.
Mr. Rao stood up slowly. "Suma. Come with me for a minute."
Without another word to Siddanth or Krithika, Mr. Rao and Suma walked out of the living room, heading toward the kitchen at the back of the house.
The moment they disappeared, Krithika let out a shaky breath she felt she had been holding for an hour.
"I'm going to pass out," she whispered, her hands trembling as she looked at Siddanth.
Siddanth reached out and gently squeezed her hand. "Hold steady, Shorty. They just need a minute."
Two agonizing minutes later, Mr. Rao and Suma walked back into the living room and sat back down. The tension in Mr. Rao's shoulders had noticeably softened. Suma offered a small, reassuring smile to Krithika.
Mr. Rao looked at his daughter. "Is this what you want, Krithi? Do you understand the weight of this?"
Krithika nodded, her nervousness replaced by a resolute, steady calm. "He's not who the TV says he is, Nanna. He's just... him."
Mr. Rao turned his gaze back to the towering cricketer. "If you ever make her regret this..."
"You have my word, sir," Siddanth answered instantly, without a shred of hesitation. "I won't."
Finally, Mr. Rao let out a long, shuddering sigh. He reached up and wiped his tired eyes, a small, incredibly relieved smile breaking across his face.
"Mehdipatnam, huh?" Mr. Rao chuckled softly, his voice thick with emotion. "I used to take the RTC bus from Tarnaka to Mehdipatnam every day for my first job. The traffic at the Sarojini Devi Eye Hospital junction was terrible even back then."
Siddanth grinned, the relief washing over him like a tidal wave. "It hasn't gotten any better, sir. It's still a nightmare."
Mr. Rao shook his head, looking at the young giant on his sofa.
"You have your father's values, Siddanth," Mr. Rao said, his tone turning warm and paternal. "If your parents have accepted her in their home, who am I to stand in the way?"
He paused, his eyes narrowing just a fraction with lingering, protective caution. "But this is not going to be easy, Siddanth. We are trusting you with our daughter's peace."
For the first time since walking into the house, the impenetrable, unyielding armor of the Indian Vice-Captain completely cracked. Siddanth looked down for a fraction of a second, his tightly clasped hands finally relaxing on his lap as he let out a long, shuddering exhale.
"I won't let you down, sir," Siddanth whispered, his voice thick with genuine, overwhelming relief.
Krithika let out a massive, joyful exhale. She practically ran across the room, throwing her arms around her father's neck, burying her face in his shoulder.
"Thank you, Nanna," she whispered happily. "I'm so sorry I lied."
"It's okay, amma. It's okay," Mr. Rao soothed, patting his daughter's back.
Suma immediately stood up from the sofa, clapping her hands together, the crisis officially averted and her hosting instincts firing back up to maximum capacity.
"Alright, enough tension!" Suma announced happily, smoothing her saree. "Siddanth, that tea is completely cold now. I am throwing it away. I will make fresh, hot filter coffee, and I have some hot punugulu (fritters) ready in the kitchen!"
"Thank you, Aunty. I'm starving," Siddanth smiled, leaning back into the sofa, completely relaxed.
As Suma bustled off to the kitchen and Mr. Rao began happily interrogating Siddanth, Anjali finally stepped away from the wall.
She walked straight up to the center of the living room, her arms crossed, looking incredibly unimpressed. She completely ignored the emotional reconciliation that had just taken place.
"That's it?" Anjali asked loudly, looking between her father, her sister, and the Vice-Captain of India. "No shouting? No emotional Telugu movie dialogues about rich boys and poor girls ruining family honor? No threatening him with a cricket bat?"
Krithika glared at her sister, absolutely mortified. "Anjali! Shut up!"
"I brought a bag of chips for nothing," Anjali sighed dramatically, shaking her head in disappointment. "I thought this would be way more serious with a lot more crying. This was way too peaceful. I want a refund on the drama."
Siddanth threw his head back and laughed heartily at the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of the younger sister.
"Sorry to disappoint you, Anjali," Siddanth grinned.
"Whatever," Anjali smirked, high-fiving him as she walked past toward the kitchen. "Welcome to the family, Siddanth. Just remember, my price for keeping your secret this long just went up."
Siddanth looked at Krithika, who was shaking her head in embarrassment but smiling brightly. The fortress of the middle-class family had been successfully breached, not with billions or fame, but with absolute, grounded truth.
The heavy weight of secrecy was finally lifted, and for the first time in three years, Siddanth Deva felt entirely at peace in the heart of the city.