Date: August 26, 2013
The commercial flight from Hyderabad touched down smoothly on the tarmac of Indira Gandhi International Airport.
Siddanth Deva walked out of the VIP terminal holding a simple leather duffel bag, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, a black surgical mask covering the lower half of his face. He seamlessly bypassed the usual throng of waiting media personnel by slipping out through a secondary, restricted exit.
Normally, for a solo media appearance of this magnitude, his executive assistant Rahul would have booked the Presidential Suite at the Taj Palace or the Leela. A fleet of NEXUS security SUVs would have been idling on the curb.
But today, the logistics were completely different.
When Suresh Raina, his national teammate and crucial middle-order anchor, had found out Siddanth was flying into the National Capital Region for a television shoot, he had absolutely refused to let his him stay in a hotel room.
"You are coming to UP, Siddu. You are staying at my house," Raina had demanded over the phone two days prior. "My mother is already buying extra ghee for the parathas. Do not argue with a UP mother, or I'll get dropped from the playing eleven."
Siddanth had laughed and accepted the invitation.
Stepping out onto the curb, Siddanth spotted a white Toyota Fortuner idling in the designated pickup zone. The driver, a burly, middle-aged man wearing a crisp white shirt, immediately recognized the towering athletic frame approaching. He jumped out of the car, rushing forward to open the rear door.
"Deva sir? Suresh bhaiyya sent me. Please, come in," the driver said, his voice brimming with respectful awe.
"Thank you, bhaiyya," Siddanth nodded politely, tossing his duffel bag into the back before sliding into the comfortable, air-conditioned interior.
The drive from the Delhi airport into Ghaziabad, Uttar Pradesh, was a masterclass in organized chaos. The wide, polished avenues of the capital quickly gave way to the dense, bustling, horn-blaring arteries of UP. Siddanth watched the chaotic tapestry of street vendors, auto-rickshaws, and brightly painted trucks weave past the window.
An hour and a half later, the Fortuner pulled into a quiet, leafy residential colony in Raj Nagar, Ghaziabad. The car stopped in front of a beautiful, warmly lit, multi-story independent house.
Before the driver could even put the car in park, the front door of the house swung open.
Suresh Raina, dressed comfortably in a grey t-shirt and loose track pants, walked out onto the porch with a massive, welcoming grin.
"Welcome to UP, Sid!" Raina yelled cheerfully as Siddanth stepped out of the car, pulling down his mask.
Raina jogged down the steps and wrapped Siddanth in a tight, brotherly hug. The camaraderie forged in the crucibles of Cardiff and Sabina Park was instantly evident.
"Good to see you," Siddanth smiled, patting him on the back. "Thanks for having me over. I hope I'm not intruding."
"Intruding? Please," Raina scoffed, grabbing Siddanth's duffel bag from the driver and slinging it over his own shoulder. "If you stayed at a hotel while visiting my city, my parents would have disowned me. Come inside."
Siddanth followed his teammate into the house. The interior was incredibly warm and inviting. It lacked the cold, modern, intimidating minimalism of his own executive offices, completely filled instead with family photographs, traditional wooden furniture, and the rich, undeniable aroma of North Indian cooking.
Standing in the hallway were Raina's parents, Trilokchand and Parvesh Raina.
Siddanth immediately dropped his duffel bag. He stepped forward and respectfully bent down, touching the feet of Raina's father, and then his mother.
"Namaste, Uncle. Namaste, Aunty," Siddanth greeted them with sincerity.
Trilokchand Raina, a proud, retired military man, placed a warm hand on Siddanth's broad shoulder, lifting him up. "God bless you, beta. We are so happy to finally have you in our home."
"Suresh tells us you are a very strict on the field, but you look like such a calm boy," Parvesh Raina beamed, looking up at the towering cricketer with deep maternal affection. She immediately ushered them toward the dining area. "Come, come. You must be starving after the flight. The food is ready."
Siddanth shot Raina an amused look. "Strict captain?"
"Only when Ishant bowls wide," Raina grinned, pushing him toward the dining table. "Sit down. Prepare to surrender your diet plan."
For the next two hours, Siddanth was subjected to the unstoppable force of a North Indian mother's hospitality.
Plate after plate was placed in front of him. There were hot, ghee-drenched aloo parathas, rich paneer butter masala, slow-cooked dal makhani, and massive, condensation-covered steel glasses of thick, sweet lassi. He didn't have to worry about calories because of Metabolic forge.
"Finally, a boy who eats properly!" she praised, glaring pointedly at her own son. "Suresh is always complaining about his fitness trainers and eating boiled chicken."
"Amma, I don't have his metabolism!" Raina protested through a mouthful of paratha. "If I ate three of those, MS Dhoni would make me run laps around the stadium until I passed out!"
Siddanth laughed heartily, tearing off a piece of naan.
The rest of the afternoon was spent in sheer, comfortable normalcy. They retreated to Raina's upstairs lounge, sprawling out on the sofas. They talked about cricket. They discussed the upcoming international calendar, the grueling tour of South Africa slated for the end of the year, and the subtle technical adjustments needed to face Dale Steyn in his own backyard.
As evening fell, they sat on the balcony with cups of hot ginger tea, watching the quiet residential street below.
"So," Raina said, his tone turning slightly more serious as he leaned against the railing. "India TV tomorrow. Aap Ki Adalat."
"Yes," Siddanth nodded, taking a sip of his tea.
"You know Rajat Sharma is not going to throw you easy, PR-approved questions, right?" Raina warned, looking at his captain. "He is extremely polite, but he goes straight for the throat. The media has been foaming at the mouth since the IPL spot-fixing arrests. They are going to ask you about Sreesanth. They are going to ask you about Asad Rauf. They will demand to know what the dressing room knew."
"I know," Siddanth replied, his expression turning calm and analytical. "That is exactly why I agreed to do the show, Suresh. If I sit in a press conference and read a pre-written statement provided by the BCCI, the public won't believe a word of it. It looks like a cover-up. But if I sit in that witness box, look Rajat Sharma in the eye, and dismantle the accusations live on national television... it kills the narrative instantly."
Raina studied him for a moment. He saw the cold, unyielding confidence that made Siddanth the most terrifying Vice-Captain in world cricket.
"You've got the answers ready," Raina noted, smiling faintly.
"I don't need prepared answers. I just have the truth," Siddanth said smoothly. "And the truth is, we are a clean team. I won't let a few corrupt individuals drag the reputation of this squad through the mud. I'll handle Mr. Sharma."
Raina raised his teacup in a silent toast. "Give them hell, Skip."
Date: August 27, 2013
Location: Raj Nagar, Ghaziabad / Noida Film City
The next morning, Siddanth woke up at exactly 6:00 AM, fully refreshed. He went through a quiet, rigorous hour of bodyweight exercises and mobility drills in the guest bedroom before taking a shower.
When he walked downstairs, dressed for the day, Raina was already at the dining table, drinking black coffee.
Siddanth wore a pair of well-fitted blue jeans and a loose, comfortable black t-shirt featuring a graphic of Monkey D. Luffy from the anime One Piece, sitting on the railing of a pirate ship and casually fishing. The sharp, aggressive cut of his beard contrasted heavily with the incredibly casual, nerdy attire.
Raina let out a low whistle, looking at the t-shirt. "Well, you definitely don't look like a billionaire CEO or a terrifying fast bowler today. You look like a college kid going to the mall. The studio audience is going to be very confused."
"Good," Siddanth smirked, taking a seat and accepting a plate of fresh poha from Raina's mother. "Let them underestimate me."
Siddanth's phone buzzed on the table. He picked it up. It was a text from Krithika.
Headache:Don't glare at Rajat Sharma like he's a fast bowler. Smile. Look human. If you look like a Telugu movie villain on national TV, my mother will never let you in our house.
Siddanth smiled softly, typing a quick reply with his thumb: I'll try not to bite him.
He tucked the phone away and focused on his breakfast.
"You sure you don't want to come with me today? Moral support?" Siddanth asked his teammate.
"I would love to watch you get interrogated live, Siddu, but my schedule is completely packed today," Raina apologized genuinely. "I have a mandatory fitness assessment at the local UPCA ground, and then I have to visit an academy. But don't worry, my driver is waiting outside. He knows the exact route to the Noida Film City studios. He'll get you there without dealing with the morning traffic jams."
"No problem. I appreciate it" Siddanth said, finishing his poha quickly.
As Siddanth stood up, grabbing his phone and wallet, Trilokchand Raina placed a firm, calloused hand on his shoulder.
"In the army, beta, when the enemy interrogates you, the man who loses his temper loses the war," the retired military man advised, his voice steady and grounded. "Keep your heart rate slow. Let them do all the shouting. You just state the facts."
"I will, Uncle. Thank you," Siddanth nodded, deeply respecting the stoic advice.
He thanked Raina's parents profusely for their warm hospitality, gave Raina a brief hug, and walked out to the waiting Fortuner, slipping into the back seat.
The drive from Ghaziabad to Sector 16A in Noida—the sprawling hub of Indian television news networks—took about forty-five minutes.
As the Fortuner pulled up to the heavily guarded gates of the India TV broadcasting complex, a small army of private security guards immediately recognized the vehicle's license plate and waved it through the barricades.
The car stopped in front of the main studio entrance.
Siddanth stepped out of the vehicle, pulling down his t-shirt slightly.
The moment he walked through the sliding glass doors into the massive, air-conditioned reception area, the professional decorum of the news network completely evaporated.
Word had clearly spread that he was in the building. Dozens of studio employees, from junior camera operators to senior production assistants, had abandoned their desks and gathered in the lobby.
When Siddanth walked in, a collective gasp rippled through the room. They had expected him to arrive with an entourage of lawyers and PR managers, dressed in a sharp suit. Instead, he strolled in wearing a loose anime t-shirt, looking entirely unbothered by the media storm awaiting him.
"Oh my god, it's him," a young female producer whispered loudly, clutching her clipboard.
"Sir! Deva sir! Can I get a quick photo?" an audio technician pleaded, holding up his phone.
Siddanth offered a warm smile, pausing his walk to the elevators.
"I have a few minutes before call-time," Siddanth said, his deep baritone sending a wave of excitement through the employees. "Let's make it quick, guys."
For the next five minutes, Siddanth patiently took photos, shook hands, and signed a few notebooks. He handled the fanboying with effortless grace, ensuring he left a positive, lasting impression on the ground-level staff before the network's senior PR manager finally broke through the crowd, looking incredibly stressed.
"Mr. Deva! I am so sorry about the commotion," the PR manager apologized profusely, ushering Siddanth toward the VIP elevators. "Please, follow me. We have your private room prepared."
As they walked down a quiet, carpeted hallway lined with framed photographs of legendary politicians and actors, the PR manager looked nervously at Siddanth's casual t-shirt, clearly sweating over the protocol.
"Sir," the PR manager stammered softly, holding his clipboard tight. "Usually, for VIP guests, we ask for a list of banned topics or questions you'd prefer Mr. Sharma to avoid. Do you have a list?"
Siddanth didn't break his stride. "Ask whatever you want. I didn't bring a lawyer."
The PR manager swallowed hard, completely stunned by the absolute lack of media coaching. He hurriedly ushered Siddanth into a spacious, brightly lit green room. It featured a comfortable white leather sofa, a massive lighted vanity mirror, and a table laid out with fresh fruits, imported water, and coffee.
"The makeup artist will be in shortly to prep you sir," the manager explained. "Mr. Sharma will drop by to greet you before we take you to the set."
"Thank you," Siddanth nodded, taking a seat on the sofa.
Two minutes later, a highly efficient makeup artist walked in holding a massive kit. She took one look at Siddanth's flawless, naturally sharp features, the perfectly edged beard, and the clear skin, and realized her job was going to be incredibly easy.
"Just a very light touch-up, ma'am," Siddanth requested politely, closing his eyes. "Just powder to stop the studio lights from glaring. Nothing heavy."
"Of course, sir. You barely need it," she smiled, quickly getting to work with a soft brush.
As the final touches were being applied, the heavy wooden door of the dressing room clicked open.
A man walked in. He was dressed in a sharp, grey tailored suit, his silver hair neatly combed back. He possessed an aura of quiet, immense intellectual authority, accompanied by a polite, almost grandfatherly smile.
It was Rajat Sharma, the legendary journalist and the Chairman of India TV.
The makeup artist immediately stepped back respectfully. Siddanth stood up from his chair and extended a hand.
"Mr. Sharma. It's an honor to meet you," Siddanth greeted warmly.
"The honor is entirely ours, Mr. Deva," Rajat Sharma replied, shaking his hand firmly. His voice was soft, measured, and instantly recognizable to millions of Indians. "Thank you so much for taking the time out of your incredibly busy schedule to join us today. I know you rarely do solo television interviews."
"I rarely find a platform that asks the right questions, sir," Siddanth answered, his eyes locking onto the veteran journalist.
Rajat Sharma's smile widened a fraction.
"We have a very lively studio audience today," Rajat Sharma noted, his hands clasped behind his back. "They love you, of course. But as you know, the format of Aap Ki Adalat requires me to act as the people's lawyer. I will have to ask some very direct, perhaps uncomfortable questions regarding the IPL, the BCCI, and your business ventures. Are you nervous?"
"Not really, sir," Siddanth replied, his voice completely devoid of arrogance, carrying only the terrifying weight of absolute certainty. "I believe that fear only exists when you have something to hide. I have nothing to hide. I am ready for any question you have."
Rajat Sharma studied him for a long, quiet second. He gave a slow, respectful nod of his head.
"Very well. It is going to be a fascinating episode," Rajat said softly. "The floor manager will come to fetch you in two minutes. I will see you in the courtroom, Siddanth."
"See you out there, sir."
Rajat Sharma exited the room. Siddanth turned back to the mirror, adjusting his t-shirt one final time. He took a deep breath, his mind fully engaging, categorizing every single potential legal, cricketing, and corporate trap the journalist could possibly lay for him.
A production assistant knocked on the door. "Mr. Deva? We are ready for you."
Siddanth walked out of the green room and followed the assistant down a dark, cable-lined corridor. The ambient noise grew louder with every step. He could hear the low, buzzing hum of a massive studio audience.
He stopped behind a heavy, black curtain.
"Five seconds to live!" a voice crackled over the floor manager's radio. "Four... three... two... cue lights! Cue Rajat sir!"
On the other side of the curtain, the iconic, dramatic, orchestral theme music of Aap Ki Adalat blasted through the studio speakers.
The heavy curtain was pulled back by the assistant. Siddanth stepped out into the blinding, brilliant glare of the studio lights.
The set was magnificent. It was designed to look exactly like a traditional Indian courtroom. To his left sat the 'Judge' on a raised wooden dais—and today, occupying the seat of respect, was none other than the legendary Kapil Dev. Surrounding the set on three sides were hundreds of audience members, sitting in tiered seating.
The moment Siddanth became visible to the crowd, the studio absolutely erupted.
It wasn't just polite applause. It was a deafening, hysterical roar. People were standing up, cheering, and whistling.
Siddanth walked down the central aisle with a slow, powerful, measured stride. He didn't wave wildly like a politician. He offered a small, respectful nod to Kapil Dev, acknowledging the World Cup-winning captain, and then turned his gaze to the crowd.
He reached the center of the set and stepped into the iconic wooden witness box—the Katghara. He rested his hands casually on the wooden railing, looking out at the crowd as the applause slowly died down.
Sitting a few feet away, holding a stack of papers and a pen, was Rajat Sharma.
The camera's red tally light blinked on.
Rajat Sharma looked directly into the primary lens, offering his signature, incredibly polite, yet razor-sharp smile.
"Namaskar. Aap Ki Adalat mein aapka swagat hai," Rajat Sharma began, his voice smooth and commanding. (Hello. Welcome to Aap Ki Adalat.)
The audience fell into a pin-drop silence.
"Aaj is katghare mein jo shaks khade hain, unhone pichle chaar saalo mein Bhartiya cricket ka itihaas badal kar rakh diya hai," Rajat continued, gesturing smoothly toward Siddanth. (The person standing in this witness box today has changed the history of Indian cricket over the last four years.) "Inki umr baees saal hai. Lekin inke aakde, bade bade diggajo ko piche chhod dete hain. Yeh Team India ke up-kaptaan hain. Duniya ke sabse khatarnak fast bowler, aur ek aise ballebaaz jiske maidan par aate hi, virodhi team ki saansein tham jaati hain. Pura desh inhein pyaar se, aur khauf se, 'The Devil' kehta hai." (He is twenty-two years old. But his statistics leave the greatest legends behind. He is the Vice-Captain of Team India. The world's most dangerous fast bowler, and a batsman whose arrival on the pitch stops the breathing of the opposing team. The entire nation, out of love and fear, calls him 'The Devil'.)
Rajat Sharma paused, letting the dramatic introduction settle over the room. His polite smile vanished, replaced by the sharp, analytical gaze of the prosecutor.
"Aaj, hum Siddanth Deva par lagayenge janta ke aarop. Aur poochenge woh teekhe sawaal, jinka jawaab pura desh janna chahta hai." (Today, we will place the public's charges on Siddanth Deva. And we will ask the sharp questions that the entire country wants answered.)
Rajat looked down at his papers, picking up his pen.
"Siddanth ji," Rajat Sharma said softly, preparing to unleash the first blow. "Aap par pehla aarop hai..." (Siddanth ji, the first charge against you is...)
Standing in the witness box, completely unfazed by the blinding lights and the millions of eyes watching him across the country, Siddanth Deva simply smiled.
The trial had begun.
--
A/N: Hey checkout King Of Bollywood (SI) by DHURANDHAR it's good.