The campus of Nexus Park in Hyderabad sat in the city's tech corridor. Glass and steel towers, linked by green walkways.
On the top floor of the main tower, Arjun Reddy's office was busy.
A desk sat in the center, with modern art, framed prototypes of early Nexus phones, and windows over the city.
Siddanth Deva sat on a leather sofa facing the windows, a cup of black coffee in his hand. He wore a navy suit.
"I am telling you, Sid, the numbers are big," Arjun said, pacing behind his desk with a tablet. He wore a maroon blazer.
Arjun tapped the screen.
"The Olympic bump is real," Arjun said. "Since the closing ceremonies in Paris, domestic sales are up by ten percent. Across the board. Consumer electronics, smartphones, laptops, Ambassador EV cars and bikes. Ten percent in less than a month."
Deva took a sip of his coffee. "A ten percent bump in the cars and bikes is not small, Arjun. What is driving it?"
"It is the story, Sid," Arjun said, coming around the desk. "The youth are watching the news. They saw Pawan Kumar, Sanjali, and Meera Devi on those stages with their gold medals, and they saw them skip the politicians to thank the Nexus Sports Foundation. The public sees that we are not just sitting on the money. We are putting the profits back into sport in this country."
Arjun pointed the tablet at Deva.
"They come to the brand because they want to be in that story," Arjun said. "Every time they buy a Nexus phone or an EV bike, they feel they are funding the next lot of Olympic athletes. We are pushing the Chinese tech brands back. They cannot match that loyalty."
"Loyalty is what keeps a brand standing," Deva said. "Keep the standard. If demand rises, the making cannot drop."
"Already handled," Arjun said, tossing the tablet on the desk. "The quality teams are on double shifts. But sales are only half of it today."
Arjun crossed his arms.
"The sponsorship fight for the Nexus Sports League has started," Arjun said. "Because the NSL athletes ran the Olympics, the big companies want their logos on the broadcast. TATA is worried. They want to extend their title sponsorship for another five years. They are putting a lot of money down to lock it."
"And the others?" Deva asked.
"Jio," Arjun said, shaking his head. "They want exclusive streaming rights, and they want their name on the high-performance centers. They are trying to bid over TATA."
Deva finished his coffee and set the cup down. He trusted the man in front of him.
"Handle it, Arjun," Deva said. "You built the commercial side. If TATA offers the steadier deal, extend them. If Jio gives the athletes a better place to be seen, take their money. Do what is best for the brand. You have my word."
"I will work both of them, Sid. We will get the right deal for the foundation."
Deva stood.
"Good," Deva said. "The athletes deserve the spotlight. Which brings me to the next item."
Arjun raised an eyebrow. "I thought we were done. What else?"
"I called the Olympic medalists yesterday morning," Deva said. "I invited Pawan, Sanjali, Meera, Amit, Neeraj, and others to the Shamshabad estate for lunch. Just the foundation and its champions, away from the press."
"That is good, Sid," Arjun said. "They deserve it. I can have the PR team draft a press release—"
"No press release, Arjun," Deva said. "This is private. But I want you there. Bring Anjali and baby Harini. We will eat together as a family."
"I will be there," Arjun said. "I wouldn't miss it. But if there is no press, how do we use their stories?"
"We don't use them. We let them speak," Deva said. "We are launching the Nexus Champions Podcast."
Arjun waited.
"When they come for lunch," Deva said, "we sit them in front of the microphones. No journalists. No politicians asking about sports budgets. Just the athletes telling their stories. The poverty, the broken shoes, the federations failing them, and what it took to get through Paris."
"A line from the champions to the youth," Arjun said. "Sid, a kid in a village hears that, and it travels."
Then after talking about other businesses for a while, Deva left the towers and went home.
---
The drive to Shamshabad took nearly an hour in the evening traffic.
The armored SUV passed the iron gates of the Deva estate, and the noise of the city dropped away. The banyan trees closed over the drive. The air smelled of damp earth and jasmine.
Deva stepped out, took off his jacket, and loosened his tie.
A soft thump of a tail against the porch floor greeted him. Ronny rose from his usual spot by the steps, eleven years old now, moving a little slower than he once had. He leaned his head against Deva's leg and waited. Deva scratched behind the ears once, then continued up the steps and opened the doors of the farmhouse.
The living room was lit by lamps.
Deva stopped. A smile touched his mouth.
Krithika sat on the sofa in a cotton kurti, her hair tied up. She was laughing, hands on the cushions.
Aadhya knelt beside her. The six-year-old had her ear flat against Krithika's stomach, eyes shut.
Rishi sat on the floor, building a tower of magnetic blocks, watching his sister. Ronny had settled nearby, chin on his paws, eyes half-closed.
"Shh! Be quiet, Rishi, I am listening!" Aadhya said, though Rishi had not spoken.
She kept her ear there, then pulled back, frowning, arms crossed.
"It is broken, Amma," Aadhya said. "I can't hear anything. Why can't I hear the baby? Is it sleeping?"
Krithika laughed and stroked her cheek. "It is not broken, sweetie. The baby is just very small right now."
Deva came in and tossed his jacket over a chair.
"She is right, monster," Deva said.
"NANA!" Aadhya shrieked.
She jumped off the sofa. Deva caught her, threw her up, and caught her against his chest.
"Nana, I tried to hear the new baby, but it is hiding," Aadhya said, arms around his neck.
Deva walked to the sofa, kissed Krithika on the forehead, and rested a hand on her shoulder.
"The baby is hiding because it is only one month old, Aadhya," Deva said, tapping her nose. "It is the size of a seed. It doesn't have a loud voice like you yet. Even if it was awake, you wouldn't hear it."
The second pregnancy was one month old.
"When will it be big enough to hear?" Aadhya asked.
"In a few months," Krithika said, leaning her head against Deva. "You have to be patient."
"I am very patient," Aadhya said, and climbed down onto the sofa. Ronny lifted his head just enough for her to pat it twice before settling again.
Deva looked at his wife and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear.
"How are you feeling today?"
"I feel ok, Sid," Krithika said, covering his hand with hers. "A little tired this afternoon, but no nausea today. I rested on the veranda for most of the day."
"Good," Deva said. "Where are Amma and Nanna?"
"They went to the temple in the city for the evening pooja," Krithika said. "They should be back any time soon. The house has been quiet."
"Too quiet," Deva said. He opened the top buttons of his shirt and rolled his sleeves.
He clapped his hands.
"Alright, who is hungry?"
Aadhya jumped.
"ME! I AM HUNGRY!" she yelled, running around the coffee table. "I want Mirchi Bajji!"
Rishi dropped his blocks and stood.
"Nana, can we make the Cut Mirchi too? The ones that are double crispy?" Rishi said.
Deva looked at Krithika.
She waved a hand toward the back. "Go. The kitchen is yours. Make a mess. Just bring me a plate when it's done."
"You heard your mother," Deva said. "To the kitchen! Wash your hands!"
Aadhya and Rishi ran down the corridor, socks sliding on the floor. Ronny rose and followed at his own pace, nails soft on the tiles.
Deva followed them in. He tied a black apron over his shirt.
"Nana, I washed my hands with the bubbly soap!" Aadhya said, holding up two wet hands and ignoring the towel. She shook them and sprayed Rishi.
"Hey! Stop splashing me!" Rishi said, wiping his face and splashing her back.
"Alright, cease fire," Deva said, handing them towels. "If you want to help, follow the Head Chef. Rishi, you wash the chilies. Aadhya, you handle the batter."
He took a basket of Bhavnagari chilies from the fridge, the kind used for Hyderabadi Mirchi Bajji, and set it by the sink. He pulled a stool up for Rishi.
"Wash them carefully. Get the dirt off."
"I will, Nana!" Rishi said, scrubbing, water all over his shirt.
Deva set a glass bowl in front of Aadhya on her stool.
"Gram flour, rice flour, ajwain, baking soda, and a little red chili powder," he said.
He poured the besan in. A cloud of flour rose.
"It looks like dust!" Aadhya said, waving her hand, and smeared yellow powder across her nose.
Deva handed her a whisk. "Mix it, monster. Slowly. Do not throw the flour out."
While she whisked, Deva slit the washed chilies and scraped out the seeds so they would not be too hot for the kids. He filled them with tamarind paste, roasted cumin, and salt.
"The stuffing smells sour, Nana," Rishi said.
"The sour cuts the fried batter," Deva said. "That is how a Bajji should taste."
Aadhya had mixed the bowl, and also coated the counter, her shirt, and both arms in gram flour.
"I am ready for the water!" she said, holding the whisk up.
"I can see that," Deva said. "I pour. You whisk. Thick batter. No lumps."
He poured. She whisked, tongue out.
"Nana, look! It is turning into slime!"
"Keep going. It needs to be smooth," Deva said, adding salt and a little hot oil so it would crisp.
"Can I whisk now? My turn!" Rishi said.
"Share the whisk, Aadhya."
Rishi whisked in fast circles.
"Whoa, it's making bubbles!" he said. "Make mine crunchy, Nana! I want the extra crispy ones!"
"I will," Deva said, taking the bowl. "Step back. Both of you. The hot oil is next."
They climbed down and stood by the pantry. Ronny sat a safe distance from the stove, watching with mild interest.
Deva set a cast-iron kadai on the biggest burner, poured in peanut oil, and turned the flame up. He held his hand over the oil and judged the heat.
It was ready.
He dipped a stuffed chili in the batter and lowered it in. The oil hissed. The smell of gram flour and spices filled the kitchen.
Deva dropped five more in and turned them with a slotted spoon. The batter went from pale yellow to brown. He lifted them onto paper.
"Are they done?!" Aadhya yelled, hopping on one foot.
"The regular ones are," Deva said. "Rishi wanted Cut Mirchi."
He cut three of the fried Bajjis into thick pieces and dropped them back into the oil. The cut edges went darker and crisp. He lifted them into a steel bowl and sprinkled chaat masala and roasted cumin.
"Alright," Deva said, taking off the apron. "Grab the plates."
Deva carried the tray and the bowl of Cut Mirchi into the living room. Aadhya and Rishi followed with plates and napkins. Ronny trailed behind them and settled again near the sofa.
Krithika sat up. "That smells good."
The front doors opened. Vikram and Sesikala came in from the temple. Vikram wore a white kurta. Sesikala wore a cotton saree and carried a small brass plate of prasadam.
They stopped.
"What smells so good?" Vikram said. "Have we hired a new chef?"
Aadhya stepped forward, covered in gram flour, batter on her cheek, water on her shirt.
"I made them, Thatha!" she said, pointing at the tray. "I made the Mirchi Bajji for everyone!"
"Hey, wait a minute!" Deva said, hands on his hips. "Don't steal the credit! I made those!"
Aadhya crossed her arms.
"No, you didn't! I washed my hands! I put the yellow powder in the bowl! I mixed the slime with the big whisk! And I brought the plates to the table!"
She pointed at him.
"Nana just fried them in the hot oil, that's all. I did all the hard work."
The room went quiet.
Then Vikram laughed. Sesikala covered her mouth. Krithika wiped her eyes.
"She is right, Sid," Vikram said, kissing Aadhya on her flour-covered cheek. "Frying is the easy part. The batter is the real work."
He looked at Deva.
"I am telling you, Siddu. This girl is going to be a politician. She will take the credit for someone else's work, and she will defend it."
"I am not a politician! I am a chef!" Aadhya said, and grabbed a Mirchi Bajji.
Rishi was already on the carpet with a plate of Cut Mirchi.
"These are good, Nana," he said, cheeks full.
Deva sat on the floor beside him and took a chili. The morning's deals and the sponsorship fight felt far off.
Ronny shifted closer and rested his head near Deva's knee, content with the quiet and the smell of food.
The room was full of them eating, laughing, and arguing over who had made the snacks. The Devil of Cricket took a bite, home with his family.