The sun was just up over the mango orchards of the Shamshabad estate. The air was clean, wet earth and jasmine.
Between the cricket turf and a row of banyan trees sat the newest piece of the compound: a blue hard court, US Open acrylic.
The morning was quiet except for a regular thwack.
Siddanth Deva stood a few feet behind the baseline. No cricket kit. White shorts, a navy t-shirt, hard-court shoes.
A graphite racquet hung in his right hand.
In his head, the teaching skill was on.
Roger Federer. Not the full thing. Thirty-seven percent. Not enough to win Wimbledon. Enough to change how he moved.
The stomp and plant of a fast bowler was gone. In its place, the glide.
His feet barely sounded on the acrylic.
A green ball looped over the net.
Deva shifted. No heavy two-hander. Eastern backhand grip, racquet back in a long, unhurried arc. Eyes still, tracking the ball. He stepped in, right foot light, and turned through it.
The strings met it with a clean pop.
One-handed slice. The ball skimmed the tape, heavy backspin, and sat up in the service box. An easy ball for the player on the other side.
Five-year-old Aadhya.
Yellow tennis skirt, matching polo, pink headband holding her curls back. Three months at a junior academy in Hyderabad, and she had taken to it the way she took to everything: she wanted to win.
She saw the ball drop in the box.
She did not guide it. She did not think about a rally. She wanted to put it away.
Teeth gritted, feet wide, she swung as hard as her arms would go.
Smack!
The ball came off the frame, flew the fence, and vanished in the grass by the banyans.
Aadhya groaned, dropped the racquet, and put her hands on her hips.
"I missed it!" She kicked the court. "The ball is stupid! It went the wrong way!"
Deva smiled, lowered the racquet, and walked to the net.
"The ball isn't stupid, monster," he said, forearms on the tape. "It only goes where you send it. Come here."
Aadhya huffed, picked up the racquet, and trudged over.
"You are hitting it with just your arm," Deva said. He tapped her shoulder. "Your arm is strong, but it gets tired. If you only swing the arm, you can't put the ball where you want. It goes in the trees."
She looked up at him, still burning. "I want to smash it, Nana. I want to hit it so fast you can't catch it."
"I know you do." He almost laughed. "But the best players don't smash everything. They use the whole body. Legs, tummy, shoulders. All together."
He showed her, slow. Side on, knees bent, racquet back.
"You step in, you turn, and you let the racquet do the work. Like a dance, Aadhya. You don't fight the ball. You guide it."
She watched his feet. Nodded. Copied the stance, side on, small knees bent. A slow two-handed swing, hips turning the way he had shown.
"Exactly like that," Deva said. "Now I am going to feed you three. Do not smash them. Turn, step, guide them back. Keep them inside the lines and we take a water break."
Her eyes lit. "Okay. Send them!"
He jogged back, pulled a ball from his pocket, and fed her a looping forehand.
She did not swing wild. She remembered. Step, turn, controlled swing. The ball cleared the net and landed inside the baseline.
"Brilliant!" He blocked it back, soft.
They held a six-shot rally. For five, her timing was already there. Not Federer's touch. But she saw the ball early.
"Alright, champion, water break," Deva said, catching the ball and nodding at the benches by the umpire's chair.
Aadhya dropped the racquet and sprinted for the shade. Deva followed, towel to his forehead.
They sat. He filled a cartoon bottle from the jug and handed it over.
She drank, wiped her mouth with her wrist, unbothered by the heat.
"So," Deva said, stretching his legs. "How was the academy? Making friends?"
The tired athlete was gone. Storyteller, on.
"Yes! I have friends," she said, swinging her legs. "But Nana, there is a boy in my group. His name is Kabir. He is seven. He is very tall."
"Okay. What about Kabir?"
"He cried," Aadhya said. No sympathy.
Deva raised an eyebrow. "He cried? Why? Did he fall?"
"No." She shook her head. "We were playing the points game. The coach threw the ball, and Kabir hit it to me. But his hit was very slow. So I stepped inside the line, and I dropped my shoulder..."
He knew that line. Same words she used for her football feints.
"...and I smashed it right past him!" Her eyes gleamed. "It went zooming! Fwoosh! He didn't even move his feet, Nana. Then he dropped his racquet and he started crying. He told the coach I hit it too fast."
Deva pressed his lips together. Five years old. Making a seven-year-old cry with a groundstroke.
"Aadhya," he said, trying for stern, eyes giving him away. "You cannot make the older kids cry. That is not good sportsmanship."
"I didn't make him cry on purpose!" Arms crossed. "I just hit the ball. If he is seven, he should run faster. He has longer legs."
"Be that as it may." He poked her nose. "You still have to be nice. Did you apologize?"
"I was nice! I walked up to the net and I said sorry. But then I told him he needs better footwork."
Deva dropped his face into his hands. She had beaten the boy and then coached him.
"You are a menace, monster," he said, looking up. "You are a menace."
"I am a champion," Aadhya said.
"Are you two going to live on this court, or are you coming inside before the sun cooks you?"
They turned.
Krithika stood at the gate. Beige linen kurta, two towels. Amused.
"We were having a debrief," Deva said, standing, racquet in hand. "Aadhya was telling me about her week at the academy."
"I heard." Krithika walked over and tossed him a towel. "The head coach called me yesterday. He said she hit a forehand winner so hard it dented the water cooler. He asked if we feed her raw meat for breakfast."
Aadhya beamed.
"Alright, champion, playtime is over." Krithika kissed her sweaty cheek. "Go inside, shower, get dressed. Thatha and Ammamma are arriving in an hour. We have a lot to do today."
Aadhya grabbed her racquet and ran for the farmhouse.
Deva wiped his face, towel over his shoulder, and walked with Krithika toward the house.
"She is getting good, Krithi," he said. "Her timing is ahead of her age. She sees the ball early."
"I know." She linked her arm through his. "She has your eyes, Sid. She can see everything clearly."
---
A few days later, Sunday, the end of Ashada, the estate had changed.
The farmhouse did not smell of cut grass or sports drinks. Jaggery roasting, milk boiling, turmeric, camphor.
Suma, Subba Rao, Vikram, and Sesikala. Krithika parents had arrived the night before and taken over the kitchen. The house was full of overlapping talk, family getting ready for Bonalu.
On the kitchen island, Sesikala and Krithika were preparing the Ghatam.
A brass pot on a silver tray. Turmeric paste on the outside, red kumkum dots. Inside, the Bonam — rice cooked with milk and jaggery. Neem branches around the rim, a small clay lamp on top.
Deva walked in. Deep crimson silk pancha, cream raw-silk lalachi.
"The cars are ready," he said.
"We are ready," Sesikala said, lifting the pot.
Fifteen minutes later they were on the front steps.
Rishi in a small cream pancha. Aadhya in a yellow and red pattu pavadai, jasmine in her braid.
They climbed into the Range Rover. Deva drove. Krithika in the passenger seat, the brass pot on her lap. Vikram and the grandparents followed in another SUV.
On the highway, Rishi leaned forward. Eyes on the pot: turmeric, red dots, leaves.
"Amma," he said. "Why are you carrying that heavy pot? We have a trunk. It is safer to put things in the trunk."
Krithika turned, holding a smile. "It isn't cargo, Rishi. It is an offering. It is called a Bonam."
"Why does it have leaves on it?" He pointed.
Deva glanced at him in the mirror. Rishi did not take "because I said so." He needed the story.
"Rishi, Aadhya, listen."
The cabin went still.
"A long time ago, in the 1800s, before the big hospitals, a sickness came to Hyderabad and Secunderabad. A plague. Many people got very sick, and the doctors did not know how to stop it."
Aadhya's eyes went wide. "Did they fight the sickness?"
"Not with swords, monster. The people were scared. They went to the Mother Goddess, Mahakali. They believed she protected the city. They asked her to take the sickness away and save their families."
Rishi nodded. "Did she save them?"
"Yes. The sickness went. The city was safe. When someone saves your life, or protects your family, what do you do?"
Rishi did not pause.
"You say thank you. If someone protects you, you must always say thank you. It is polite."
"Exactly." Deva caught Krithika's eye in the mirror. "You say thank you. And the Bonam Amma is carrying is how we say it. Sweet rice and jaggery, made for the Goddess, to thank her for protecting our city, our family, and keeping you both well."
"And the leaves?" Rishi was not letting that go.
"Neem," Krithika said, touching the branches. "Neem cleans and heals. We put it on the pot to remember how she healed the city, and to keep harm away."
Rishi sat back. Looked out the window. The ritual made sense now. A thank you.
"Okay," he said. "We will say thank you to the Mother."
Aadhya had caught a different part.
"Is the Mother Goddess strong, Nana?" She leaned as far as the belt would let her.
"She is the strongest." Deva smiled. "She rides a tiger, and she carries a sword to protect good people."
Aadhya whispered, to herself: "I want to ride a tiger."
---
As they came into the streets around the temple, the quiet of the car was gone.
Police had closed the roads. Camphor, wet pavement, jasmine and marigold on every shopfront.
And the noise.
Teenmaar off the buildings. Hide drums, fast, heavy. You felt it in your chest.
Deva parked in the VIP lot. The family stepped out into the heat.
Krithika and Sesikala adjusted their sarees, lifted the Ghatams, and set them on their heads.
They walked toward the gates. People knew them. It was not a stadium crowd. Police escorted them. The street opened. Respect for the player, yes. Respect also for a family walking with the Bonam.
"Nana, look!" Aadhya pointed down the road.
The Potharajus were clearing the path.
Men, chests and faces in turmeric and vermilion. Bells at the ankles.
They danced to the Teenmaar. Leaping, turning, heavy rope whips in their hands. A crack of the wrist and the whip hit the ground like a shot.
Brothers of the Goddess. There to protect the procession.
Rishi stopped. He watched the turmeric, the snap of the whips. He reached up and held onto Vikram.
Vikram lifted him onto his shoulders.
"They are very loud, Thatha," Rishi said, holding his grandfather's hair. "Are they angry?"
"No, Rishi. They are dancing. They are scaring the bad things away so Amma can take the pot to the temple."
Rishi thought about that. A path being cleared for his mother. He eased, watching from up high.
Aadhya had no fear at all.
She stood on the pavement, eyes on the dancing. The drums suited her.
She let go of Deva's hand. Silk skirt and all, she started to jump and spin, trying to copy the Potharajus, small feet on the stone, on the beat.
Deva laughed. He did not stop her. He stepped back and watched her take the festival as her own.
They reached the temple gates.
Inside, the stone was cool. Incense and oil lamps. The drums fell back behind the walls.
Deva held Aadhya's hand and followed Krithika and his mother into the sanctum.
They lowered the pots. The priests took the Bonam.
The family stood in a line before Mahakali. Outside, the drums. Inside, the priests chanting.
Deva closed his eyes. Hands together.
He did not ask for hundreds. He did not ask for World Cups.
Krithika's shoulder against his arm. Rishi quietly repeating a shloka Vikram had taught him. Aadhya's hand around his fingers.
He bowed. A thank you.
For a while, in those walls, he was not a bowler or a name on a hoarding.
He was a father, with his family, at the roots.
The racquets could wait. The West Indies could wait.
Today was Bonalu.
@HyderabadDiaries: Just saw Siddanth Deva and his family at the Ujjaini Mahakali Temple for Bonalu! No massive VIP security pushing people around, just a family walking with the crowds and offering their Bonam. Massive respect! 🙏🌺
@TeluguBidda_99: Anna in a red silk pancha is a whole different level of aura! He looks like a literal Kakatiya king walking through Secunderabad! The pride of Telangana! 🔥👑 #SiddanthDeva #Bonalu
@Sonia_Styles12: Krithika carrying the Ghatam perfectly balanced on her head in that gorgeous saree... she is the ultimate definition of grace and strength. The ultimate power couple! ✨❤️
@MemeKing_Hyd: Everyone is talking about Deva, but can we talk about his daughter?! Aadhya was literally jumping and stomping to the Teenmaar beats right next to the Potharajus! That kid has zero fear! 😂🥁
@CricketNerd_IND: The captain who destroys fast bowlers for a living just standing in the crowd, smiling and watching his tiny daughter dance in the street. My heart cannot handle this level of wholesome. 🥺💙
@Local_Uncle: Very proud to see the youth staying connected to their roots. Siddanth Deva has all the wealth in the world, but he makes sure his children know the deep traditions of our state. This is true wealth. 🙏🌿
@Virat_Army_Delhi: Wait, Siddanth Deva is just casually walking through the most crowded festival in India and people are actually giving him space? The respect he commands in his home city is absolutely insane. 🤯
@DesiSarcasm:
Potharajus: cracking whips, painted in turmeric, looking terrifying
Aadhya Deva (5 years old): "Challenge accepted." 👧💨🔥
@Priya_Vlogs: Rishi Deva sitting safely on his grandfather's shoulders looking at the festival. He is so cute and serious! 🤓🥁
@BlueBleeders: Devil of the pitch. Billionaire. Proud Hyderabadi. The Bonalu pictures just prove that no matter how high Siddanth Deva flies, his feet are always firmly on the ground. 🐐🌾