The Indian national team was finally going home.
Players moved through the reception area in varying states of wakefulness. The sharp, focused intensity that had defined their posture for the past two months had evaporated, leaving behind a group of young men who simply looked tired.
Rohit Sharma was sitting on top of a massive suitcase, leaning against a pillar with his eyes closed. Virat Kohli was standing near the front desk, quietly scrolling through his phone while holding a half-eaten croissant.
In the center of the room, resting securely inside a custom-built, heavily padded travel case, was the World Cup trophy. Two members of the security detail stood on either side of it, though the players occasionally walked by and gave the reinforced glass case a light, affectionate tap.
Deva stood near the revolving doors, a travel backpack slung over one shoulder, watching the overcast London sky. He had slept for perhaps four hours, but the heavy, pleasant soreness in his muscles felt right.
"Everyone accounted for?" Deva asked, turning as the team manager walked past with a clipboard.
"All bags are on the coach, skip," the manager nodded. "We're just waiting on Hardik to find his passport. Again."
Deva let out a short, quiet laugh. "Tell him he has three minutes, or we're leaving him in England."
Ten minutes later, the team was loaded onto the private coaches, pulling away from the hotel and navigating through the early morning London traffic toward Heathrow. The drive was quiet. A few players had headphones on; others were simply staring out the windows, watching the English architecture roll past for the last time this summer.
By the time they boarded the chartered flight to New Delhi, the collective energy of the group had settled into a comfortable lull. As the aircraft leveled out at cruising altitude, the cabin became a relaxed, private sanctuary. There were no cameras here.
Deva walked down the aisle, checking in on his teammates. He found Kuldeep and Chahal huddled around a single iPad, laughing quietly at a compilation of memes that fans had made about the final. A few rows up, Jasprit Bumrah was already fast asleep, a blanket pulled up to his chin, dead to the world.
Deva eventually took his seat near the front, stretching his legs out. Kohli leaned across the aisle, holding up his phone to show a video of a street in Delhi where thousands of people were dancing around a makeshift bonfire.
"This was at three in the morning," Kohli said, a distinct note of awe in his voice. "The whole country was awake."
"It's going to be loud when we land," Deva replied softly, looking at the screen.
"You ready for it?"
"I don't think you can ever really be ready for it," Deva said, leaning back against his headrest. "But yeah. Let's get them home."
The flight passed in a blur of scattered naps, quiet conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter from the back of the plane. But as the aircraft began its final descent into Indira Gandhi International Airport, the atmosphere inside the cabin subtly shifted. Players sat up, stretched, and began putting on their official team blazers.
The moment the aircraft doors opened, the sound hit them.
It wasn't a cheer; it was a vibration that rattled the glass of the terminal windows. As the team made their way through the aerobridge and into the designated arrival hall, they were met by a sprawling, chaotic sea of blue.
Thousands of supporters had packed into the airport. They were pressed against the barricades, waving massive Indian flags, holding up hand-painted signs, and roaring at the top of their lungs. The CISF and local police had formed a tight, multi-layered human chain to create a secured walkway for the players.
Deva walked out near the front of the group, and the noise instantly doubled in volume.
He looked at the crowd, people were standing on luggage carts to get a better view. Airport staff in high-visibility vests had abandoned their posts to line the corridors, clapping and whistling.
Rohit walked beside him, waving a hand toward the upper balcony where a group of children were holding a banner. Kohli was pointing at fans, acknowledging their specific chants. MS Dhoni walked a few paces behind, offering a simple wave that sent a specific section of the crowd into a frenzy.
Kuldeep Yadav, caught up in the overwhelming emotion of the moment, took a step out of line, moving toward the barricades to shake hands with a group of fans leaning over the railing.
Deva instantly reached out, catching the player's arm and gently but firmly pulling him back into the center of the walkway.
"Don't," Deva said, leaning in close so he could be heard over the deafening chants.
Kuldeep looked confused. "I just wanted to—"
"I know," Deva interrupted, his voice steady. "Look at the pressure on the barricades. If you go near them, the people at the back will push forward to get to you. The front row will get crushed. Keep moving. Wave, but keep moving."
Kuldeep looked at the straining metal barriers, realized the danger, and nodded quickly, stepping back into the center line.
Deva continued walking, raising both hands to acknowledge the supporters, making eye contact with as many people as he could. He gestured his appreciation, smiling at the joy radiating from the crowd, but he maintained the strict pace set by the security detail, guiding his team safely out of the terminal and into the waiting fleet of secured vehicles.
They were then taken to a hotel were they got freshened up.
---
The transition from the chaotic airport to the Prime Minister's residence was a stark contrast in atmosphere.
The team arrived at the official compound in New Delhi, stepping out of their vehicles into a quiet, heavily manicured environment. The security here was silent and absolute. The players were guided into a large, formal reception room lined with intricate woodwork and traditional Indian art.
Despite the formality of the setting, the meeting was surprisingly warm.
When Prime Minister Narendra Modi entered the room, the players stood up in unison. The Prime Minister smiled broadly, holding his hands together in greeting before moving down the line of players.
He took the time to speak with the players individually, displaying a clear awareness of the tournament.
"Rohit," the Prime Minister said, shaking his hand firmly. "Five centuries. You made batting look very easy on difficult pitches."
Rohit smiled modestly. "Thank you, sir. The team set it up well."
Moving down the line, he stopped in front of Kohli. "The energy you brought to the field never dropped, Virat. Even in the tightest overs, you kept the spirit high."
Kohli nodded respectfully. "It's easy to have energy when you're playing for this country, sir."
He paused in front of Dhoni, offering a warm smile. "You kept everyone calm, MS. Experience speaks when the pressure is highest."
Dhoni simply smiled and nodded. "Thank you, sir."
He spoke to Bumrah about his yorkers in the death overs, joked with Jadeja about his aggressive fielding and sword celebrations, and congratulated Hardik and Rahul on their crucial partnerships.
Finally, he reached the end of the line, stopping in front of Deva.
"Captain," the Prime Minister said, extending his hand.
Deva took it, shaking it firmly. "Sir."
"An unbeaten campaign," Modi noted, his tone appreciative. "You led this team with a very clear, focused mind. When the entire country was holding its breath, you looked like you were just playing a quiet game in your backyard. That requires a different kind of discipline."
"It's easy to be disciplined when you have ten other players executing their roles perfectly, sir," Deva replied naturally. "This was a collective effort from the very first match."
Modi smiled, patting Deva on the shoulder. "A good leader always points to his team. Congratulations, Siddanth. You have all given the nation a reason to celebrate together."
Following the individual greetings, the team gathered around the center table where the World Cup trophy had been placed. Official photographers took several pictures of the squad with the Prime Minister. The formality of the photo session eventually gave way to a relaxed, private lunch hosted in the adjoining dining hall.
The players finally sat down around a massive table, the tension of the formal meeting fading away as plates of authentic North Indian cuisine were served. Deva sat between Rohit and Ashwin, enjoying a plate of rich dal makhani and fresh naan, participating in the quiet, easy conversation that flowed around the table.
The quiet, however, was strictly temporary.
The following morning, the team boarded a domestic flight to Mumbai. If Delhi had been the formal, official welcome, Mumbai was the heart of Indian cricket, and the city was ready to explode.
When the flight touched down at Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj International Airport, the players realized immediately that the celebration had followed them. The crowds outside the Mumbai airport were even larger than the ones in Delhi. As the team boarded their buses to head toward the Trident Hotel at Nariman Point, they looked out the windows in disbelief.
The highways were lined with people. Supporters were standing on the dividers, sitting on the roofs of stationary cars, and hanging out of the windows of high-rise apartment buildings just to catch a glimpse of the team bus passing by.
After checking into the hotel and taking an hour to freshen up, the players gathered in the lobby, changing into matching, crisp blue team t-shirts.
They walked out of the hotel and toward the open-top bus waiting on the street.
The bus was massive, wrapped in the colors of the Indian flag, with the words CHAMPIONS OF THE WORLD printed in bold, towering letters across the sides. The World Cup trophy was securely mounted on a small podium at the front of the upper deck.
As Deva climbed the narrow stairs to the open roof..
Marine Drive was unrecognizable. The entire curving, three-kilometer stretch of the coastal road, often called the Queen's Necklace, was a solid, unbroken sea of humanity. Millions of people had packed into the streets, spilling onto the promenade and climbing up the lampposts.
The moment the players became visible on the upper deck, the roar from the crowd was deafening.
The bus began its slow, two-hour crawl toward Wankhede Stadium. It moved at walking pace, the driver carefully navigating the narrow corridor created by the heavy police escort.
Up on the deck, the atmosphere was pure joy.
Deva stood near the front railing, looking out at the endless expanse of faces. He saw families standing on the balconies of the Art Deco buildings, waving massive flags. He saw a father holding a small boy on his shoulders, the child wearing an oversized Indian jersey with Deva's name on the back. He saw people throwing handfuls of colorful paper confetti from the rooftops, letting it drift down over the slow-moving bus.
The players naturally gravitated toward the edges. Kohli was pointing at fans, hyping up specific sections of the crowd. Rohit was waving toward a group of supporters holding up a massive banner that referenced his centuries. Hardik and Jadeja had found a heavy Bluetooth speaker from somewhere and were blasting music, occasionally breaking into spontaneous dance routines that sent the crowd below into a frenzy.
Deva walked around the perimeter of the bus, making sure to acknowledge the people on the far side of the road as well. When he saw a fan frantically waving a hand-painted portrait of him, he pointed directly at the person, smiled, and gave a sharp, appreciative thumbs up. He spent the journey sharing small moments with his teammates—laughing at a particularly funny sign someone was holding, or catching a water bottle tossed up by a member of the support staff.
It was exhausting, the afternoon sun beating down on them, but the energy of the city was infectious. Mumbai had stopped just to celebrate them.
By the time the bus finally maneuvered through the massive crowds and pulled into the gates of Wankhede Stadium, the evening sky was beginning to turn a deep orange.
The stadium was packed to capacity. Over thirty thousand people had filled the stands, waiting for hours for the team to arrive. As the players walked out of the tunnel and onto the field, stepping onto the hastily constructed stage in the center of the ground, the noise inside was deafening.
The World Cup trophy was taken and placed on a pedestal in the center of the stage. The BCCI officials had organized a felicitation ceremony, and after the initial introductions, the microphone was handed over to the players.
Rohit Sharma spoke first. He stood at the podium, looking up at the stands where he had played so much of his domestic cricket.
"This journey wasn't just about the last two months," Rohit said, his voice carrying a deep, sincere emotion. "It was about the years of preparation. We knew what we wanted to achieve, but seeing all of you here today... this is what makes it real. Thank you for backing us when we were down, and thank you for being here when we're on top."
Kohli took the microphone next, pacing slightly as he spoke, his energy highly infectious.
"The belief in this team never dropped," Kohli told the crowd, his voice echoing through the stadium speakers. "But the belief you guys have in us? That's what drives us. When we were on the field in London, we could feel the energy of the country behind us. This belongs to you as much as it belongs to us!"
When MS Dhoni was asked to say a few words, the crowd began chanting his name so loudly that he had to wait nearly a minute before speaking. He stood comfortably at the microphone, a faint, knowing smile on his face.
"Thank you," Dhoni said, his voice characteristically calm and understated. He paused, looking around the stadium. "I think that was a good final, where it will be memorable for days to come. And I hope Indian cricket team continues to win tournaments."
Dhoni thanked the fans simply and stepped back into the line.
Finally, the presenter called Siddanth Deva forward.
Deva walked to the microphone. The roar from the Wankhede crowd was a unified sound that vibrated in his chest. He stood there for a moment, letting the noise wash over him, before leaning into the stand.
"Everyone has talked about the players," Deva began, his voice steady, carrying clearly over the fading cheers. "And I am incredibly proud of every single man on this stage. But I want to talk about the people who aren't in the cameras."
He pointed toward the stands. "I want to thank the people who set their alarms for three in the morning to watch our matches. I want to thank the families who sat in their living rooms, nervous, praying for every single ball. You are the heartbeat of this sport."
He turned slightly, gesturing toward the edge of the stage where the team physios, throwdown specialists, and analysts were standing in the shadows.
"And I want to thank our support staff. The people who spent hours wrapping knees, icing shoulders, and throwing thousands of balls in the nets so we could be ready. This trophy doesn't happen without them." Deva looked back at the crowd. "We had the privilege of playing the game, but this World Cup belongs to everyone who supported Indian cricket. Thank you."
The crowd roared in approval, appreciating the inclusive nature of the speech.
Following the speeches, the BCCI president stepped forward to make a formal announcement.
"In recognition of this historic achievement," the president announced, his voice echoing through the stadium, "the Board of Control for Cricket in India is proud to announce a collective monetary reward of Hundred Crore Rupees for the World Cup-winning squad."
A ripple of surprise went through the players on stage. ₹100 crore was a staggering amount.
Hardik Pandya leaned over, nudging Rahul with his elbow, and muttered something that made both of them laugh out loud. Chahal raised his eyebrows, clearly doing some rapid mental math, while Rohit just shook his head and smiled. Deva clapped politely, acknowledging the gesture from the board.
Before the team could step down from the stage for their victory lap, the stadium announcer's voice boomed over the speakers, requesting one final, special photograph.
From the VIP pavilion, Kapil Dev walked out onto the field and made his way up the steps to the stage. The Wankhede crowd immediately recognized the legendary former captain, their cheers taking on a reverent, booming quality.
BCCI officials moved quickly, carefully bringing out two additional, highly secured items from the tunnel: the official replicas of the 1983 Prudential Cup and the 2011 ICC World Cup.
Kapil Dev smiled broadly, pulling Deva into a hug before patting him firmly on the back. MS Dhoni stepped up to join them, exchanging a nod with the veteran all-rounder.
An official handed the 1983 trophy to Kapil Dev. Another handed the 2011 trophy to Dhoni. Deva remained in the center, gripping the newly won 2019 World Cup.
The three World Cup-winning Indian captains stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the Wankhede stage, each holding the defining hardware of their respective eras. Kapil Dev on the left, Dhoni on the right, and Deva anchoring the center.
The stadium erupted. The noise was an absolute wall of sound, recognizing the sheer, unprecedented weight of cricketing history standing on a single stage. Flashbulbs went off in a blinding, continuous wave as every photographer in the stadium rushed forward to capture the moment. It was a photograph that would break the internet and be framed in millions of homes by the next morning.
With the historic photograph taken and the formalities finally concluded, the team embarked on a victory lap around the boundary ropes.
This was the purest part of the evening. The players walked slowly, carrying the heavy trophy, waving to the fans in the lower tiers. The stadium DJ began playing loud, upbeat Bollywood music, and the atmosphere quickly turned into a massive party.
Rohit and Kohli, caught up in the energy, began dancing near the boundary line, mimicking the hook steps of popular songs. The crowd cheered them on, throwing flags down toward them.
Deva was walking a few paces behind, carrying an Indian flag over his shoulders. He watched Rohit and Kohli dancing, smiling at the joy of it. Then, he glanced to his right and saw MS Dhoni standing a few feet away, holding his hands behind his back, watching the dancers with an amused smile, clearly intending to stay out of it.
Deva didn't hesitate. He walked over, grabbed Dhoni by the wrist, and firmly pulled him toward the group.
Dhoni immediately anchored his feet, laughing and shaking his head, trying to pull his arm back. "No, no, Sid. Leave me out of this."
"Not a chance, Mahi bhai," Deva laughed, continuing to drag him forward.
Kohli saw what was happening and immediately ran over, getting on the other side of Dhoni and pushing him by the shoulder. Caught between the two, Dhoni eventually gave up his resistance.
As Dhoni reluctantly joined the circle and performed a very brief, stiff little dance step, the Wankhede crowd lost their minds. The roar was deafening. Deva laughed hard, patting Dhoni on the back as the senior player immediately retreated to the safety of the walking group.
They spent another thirty minutes circling the ground, ensuring they acknowledged every single stand before finally disappearing into the dressing room.
As the players began packing their gear and the chaotic energy of the evening started to settle, Deva noticed the BCCI president standing near the entrance of the dressing room corridor, speaking with a few officials.
Deva walked over, excusing the other officials with a polite nod.
"A brilliant evening, Siddanth," the president smiled, shaking his hand.
"Thank you, sir," Deva replied. He kept his voice low, ensuring the conversation remained private. "I wanted to speak to you briefly about the reward announcement."
"Of course."
"It's an incredibly generous amount," Deva said, his tone respectful but firm. "But I want to ensure the distribution isn't limited just to the playing squad. The traveling support staff—the throwdown specialists, the masseurs, the logistics managers—they've been away from their families just as long as we have. They work on a fraction of our contracts."
The president listened, nodding slowly.
"I'd like to formally request that my share of the 100 crore is allocated to the entire backroom staff," Deva finished.
The president smiled, a look of genuine respect crossing his features. "You don't need to request it, Siddanth. It's the right thing to do. I will ensure the logistics team drafts a distribution model that will send the money to them."
"Thank you, sir. I appreciate it," Deva nodded, turning back to join his teammates.
The next morning, the grand, national scale of the celebration finally began to narrow into something much more personal.
Deva boarded a commercial flight, leaving Mumbai behind and heading south.
When he landed at Rajiv Gandhi International Airport in Hyderabad, the reception felt distinctly different. Delhi had been a national welcome; Mumbai had been a chaotic festival. But Hyderabad was home.
As he walked out of the terminal, flanked by local police, the chants were different. They weren't just cheering for the Indian captain; they were cheering for their local boy. The Telugu chants echoed through the arrival hall.
Deva smiled, a sense of comfort settling into his shoulders. He waved to the locals, acknowledging the familiar cadence of his home city, before slipping into the back of a waiting Range Rover.
His assistant, Rahul, was already sitting in the front passenger seat, looking tired but efficient.
"Welcome back, boss," Rahul said, turning around as the heavy doors closed, shutting out the noise of the airport.
"Good to be back, Rahul," Deva sighed, sinking into the leather seats. "Everything smooth here?"
"Mostly. The Chief Minister's office called this morning," Rahul briefed him quickly as the SUV pulled onto the highway. "KCR wants to host a private felicitation ceremony for you at the camp office tomorrow evening. Very brief, just the local officials and some press."
Deva nodded, watching the familiar landscape of the Outer Ring Road blur past the tinted windows. "That's fine. Confirm it with them. But clear the rest of the week."
"Already done," Rahul confirmed.
The drive toward the Shamshabad farmhouse was quiet, the heavy traffic of the city slowly giving way to the quieter, green outskirts. As the SUV turned onto the final stretch of road leading to the Deva estate, the driver slowed the vehicle.
"Sir," the driver said, looking in the rearview mirror. "There's a crowd."
Deva leaned forward, looking through the windshield. Gathered outside the towering, fortified steel gates of his farmhouse were roughly two hundred people. They were mostly locals from the surrounding areas, holding small flags and standing patiently by the walls.
"Keep moving slowly," Deva instructed.
The driver navigated the heavy SUV toward the gates, the crowd naturally parting to let them through, cheering as the vehicle approached.
Deva didn't want to just drive past them. These were the people from his own community. He reached up, pressing the button to open the panoramic sunroof. He unbuckled his seatbelt, stood up, and emerged through the roof of the moving car.
The crowd cheered loudly, waving their hands.
Deva smiled, waving back, making eye contact with the people standing closest to the vehicle. He didn't say much; a grand speech wasn't needed here. He simply brought his hands together in a respectful namaskaram, thanking them silently for their time.
As the car inched closer to the gates, Deva noticed that many of the people looked tired. It was a hot, humid afternoon, and they had likely been standing out there for hours waiting for his flight to land.
He slid back down into his seat, leaning over toward the front.
"Rahul," Deva said quietly.
"Yes, boss?"
"Look at the crowd. They've been waiting in the heat. Go to the estate kitchen, get the staff together, and arrange for tea and Osmania biscuits to be brought out for everyone standing by the gates."
Rahul nodded immediately. "I'll handle it right now."
The car stopped just outside the gates. Deva stepped out of the vehicle for a few minutes, signing autographs for a few children and taking a handful of quick selfies with the locals standing near the front. He thanked them, asking them to return safely to their homes, before finally walking through the pedestrian entrance of the gate. Then he told the fans to wait as tea and snack will be given.
Rahul stayed behind on the street, already making calls to arrange the food, as the heavy steel gates slowly pulled shut behind Deva, locking with a solid, echoing click.
The moment the gates closed, the noise of the world outside was severed.
Deva stood in the paved courtyard of his farmhouse, the sprawling mango orchards stretching out in the distance. The silence was absolute.
He walked up the short pathway toward the main entrance of the house. The heavy wooden double doors were already open.
Standing on the threshold, holding a silver thali with a small, flickering camphor flame, was Krithika. She was wearing a simple, elegant cotton saree, a warm smile on her face.
Behind her stood the anchor points of his entire existence. His mother was wiping her eyes with the edge of her pallu. His father was beaming with quiet pride. Krithika's parents were standing nearby, each balancing a toddler in their arms. Anjali was leaning against the doorframe, a familiar, mischievous smirk on her face.
Deva stopped on the steps, the heavy travel bag slipping off his shoulder and hitting the floor with a soft thud.
Krithika stepped forward, performing the traditional aarathi, moving the flame in slow circles in front of him to ward off the evil eye after his monumental success. She applied a small tilak of kumkum to his forehead, her touch light and familiar.
"Welcome home," she whispered, her eyes bright.
Deva smiled, reaching out and gently squeezing her hand.
He stepped fully into the house. Vikram stepped forward, wrapping his son in a tight, firm hug. "Well done, my boy. Very well done."
"Thanks, Nanna," Deva murmured.
He moved to his mother next. Sesikala hugged him fiercely, ignoring the fact that he was sweating from the travel. Before he could even say a word, she pulled back, holding him by the shoulders, and looked him up and down with a critical eye.
"You look thin," Sesikala announced, her tone leaving no room for argument. "What were they feeding you in London? Only bread and eggs? Look at your cheeks. They have sunken in."
Deva let out a genuine laugh, the tension in his chest evaporating. He had just won the World Cup, he was holding the trophy yesterday, but in this house, he was just a son who hadn't eaten properly.
"I'm fine, Amma," he smiled.
"Go wash your hands and freshen up," she ordered, pointing toward his room. "I have made Mutton Biryani. And I am not letting you get up from the table until you eat two full plates."
Deva dutifully obeyed. He walked over to his in-laws, and greeted them. Subba Rao clapped him on the back, looking like he might burst with pride. Suma gently handed him Aadhya, while Subba Rao passed Rishi over.
Deva held his children, burying his face in their soft hair, inhaling the familiar scent of baby powder and home. They babbled happily, pulling at the collar of his shirt.
After a quick shower, trading his formal clothes for a simple, worn-out t-shirt and loose track pants, Deva returned to the massive dining table.
The afternoon stretched out in a slow, comfortable rhythm. The dining table was covered in an absurd amount of food. Sesikala stayed true to her word, piling a mountain of fragrant, spicy Mutton Biryani onto his plate, hovering nearby to ensure he actually ate it.
The conversation around the table was mundane.
Subba Rao talked at length about how the entire revenue department office had taken the day off to watch the match, and how his boss had nearly broken a chair jumping up when India won. Anjali teased Deva relentlessly about his speech in Mumbai, claiming he sounded like a politician running for office.
"I was just trying to thank the fans," Deva argued, his mouth half-full of rice, pointing a spoon at her.
"You sounded like you were about to announce a new tax policy," Anjali fired back.
Krithika sat right beside him, her knee resting comfortably against his under the table. She didn't say much, simply enjoying the sight of him relaxed.
After dinner, the family naturally migrated to the large living room that overlooked the gardens.
Deva sank into the sofa. His father and father-in-law were sitting in the armchairs, quietly discussing crop yields and some minor repairs. His mother and mother-in-law were in the kitchen, arguing good-naturedly over the correct way to store the leftover biryani.
On the rug in front of him, Rishi and Aadhya were currently using Ronny as a pillow. The dog was fast asleep, occasionally twitching an ear as the toddlers climbed over his back and pulled at his fur.
Deva leaned his head back against the cushions, letting out a long, slow breath. The exhaustion of the travel, the parades, and the endless handshakes was finally settling deep into his bones, but it was a good kind of tired.
Krithika walked into the room, carrying two mugs of tea. She handed one to him and curled up on the sofa beside him, pulling her legs up and resting her head on his shoulder.
"Good to be back?" she asked quietly, taking a sip from her mug.
Deva looked at his children playing on the floor, listened to his father debating roof tiles, and smelled the lingering scent of his mother's cooking in the air.
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, the quiet peace of the farmhouse washing over him entirely.
"Yeah," Deva murmured into her hair, his eyes heavy and content. "It's really good to be back."