The morning after the chaotic turmeric water fight began slowly. The rhythmic beating of the tribal Dappu drums from the previous night had left a slight ringing in everyone's ears.
By 9:00 AM, the guests started filtering out of their respective manors and walking toward the main dining hall. The catering staff had completely transformed the setup from the previous night. Today, multiple live cooking stations lined the edge of the dining area.
Siddanth walked in wearing a simple white t-shirt and grey track pants. The yellow stains from the turmeric were still heavily visible on his neck and forearms. He grabbed a ceramic plate and stood in line at the dosa counter behind Rohit Sharma and Shikhar Dhawan.
The cooks were pouring thick batter onto massive, flat iron griddles, spreading it out in perfect circles, and generously applying ghee.
"Three paper dosas, please," Rohit instructed the cook. "Extra crispy."
Dhawan looked at the array of side dishes. There were steel bowls filled with coconut chutney, tomato chutney, sambar, and a bright, angry-red pickle.
"What is that?" Dhawan asked Sameer, who was standing nearby with his own plate.
"That is Avakaya," Sameer said with a perfectly straight face. "Mango pickle. It is very mild. Very sweet. You should take a spoonful."
"Perfect," Dhawan said. He scooped a massive spoonful of the bright red pickle onto his plate next to his dosa. Rohit did the same.
Siddanth watched them walk to the table. He looked at Sameer. "They are not used to Guntur chilies, Sameer. You are going to kill my opening batsmen."
"They need to build their tolerance," Sameer shrugged, grabbing an idli.
Siddanth sat down at the long table with the rest of the Indian Test squad. Dhawan tore off a piece of his dosa, dipped it heavily into the Avakaya pickle, and put it in his mouth.
For two seconds, Dhawan chewed normally. Then, his eyes widened. His face turned a deep, bright shade of pink. He stopped chewing.
"Water," Dhawan choked out, grabbing his throat. "Need water."
Rohit, who had just taken a bite himself, started coughing violently, reaching blindly for a jug of water. "What is in this? Battery acid?"
Siddanth pushed a bowl of sweet yogurt toward them. "Eat this. Sameer lied to you. That is pure chili powder and raw mango. You only eat a tiny pinch of it."
"My tongue is completely numb," Dhawan gasped, downing the yogurt. "Sameer, I am going to kill you."
Sameer laughed loudly from across the table.
Once breakfast concluded, the younger guests and the cricketers migrated directly toward the volleyball area.
"Alright, let's play," Virat announced, stepping onto the sand barefoot. "Six on six."
They formed teams quickly. Virat, Rahul, Bumrah, Feroz, and two of Krithika's cousins took one side of the net. Dhawan, Rohit, Jadeja, Ashwin, Warner, and Bhuvneshwar Kumar took the other.
"Aren't you playing, Sid?" Virat asked, holding a yellow volleyball.
Siddanth shook his head, holding up his hands. "I have to go to my manor. It is time for the Mehendi and the Gorintaku. If I don't show up in five minutes, the women in my family will drag me there by my ears."
"Good luck," Dhawan laughed, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Don't cry when they paint flowers on your palms."
Siddanth left the recreation area and walked toward the Groom's manor. Behind him, he could hear Sameer climbing up onto the referee's tall wooden chair.
"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the Kakatiya Sand Volleyball Championship," Sameer's voice boomed through a portable megaphone he had acquired from the logistics staff. "On my left, we have Virat's team, looking highly uncoordinated. On my right, Dhawan's team, still recovering from the spicy pickle."
"Shut up and blow the whistle, Sameer!" Virat yelled.
Sameer blew a plastic whistle sharply. Virat tossed the ball into the air, took two quick steps forward, jumped, and spiked it over the net.
The ball sailed fast. Bhuvneshwar, standing in the back row, bumped it up effortlessly. Ashwin set it perfectly near the net. Warner jumped and spiked it down the line.
"Point to Dhawan's team!" Sameer announced over the megaphone. "Terrible block by Virat. Absolutely zero footwork."
"It was out!" Virat argued, pointing at the sand. "The ball landed outside the line!"
"I am the umpire," Sameer declared. "The ball was in. Stop crying and serve."
Inside the Groom's manor, a completely different type of chaos was taking place.
Siddanth walked into the central living room. The air conditioning was running at full blast to combat the heat outside. The entire room smelled strongly of eucalyptus oil, crushed henna leaves, and sweet tea.
He was instantly surrounded by the women of his extended family.
His older cousin, Swathi, sat on the floor, organizing several small plastic cones filled with dark green Mehendi paste. His other cousin, Shruthi, sat beside her. His aunts—his mother's older sister (Peddamma) and his father's sister (Athamma)—occupied the surrounding large armchairs, drinking filter coffee.
His young nephews, Tarun and Aryan, sat on the carpet near the corner, playing a racing game on a tablet, completely ignoring the ceremony.
"Sit down," Peddamma commanded, pointing to the wide, comfortable sofa in the center of the room.
Siddanth sat down dutifully.
"Give me your right hand," Swathi instructed, pulling a small silk pillow onto her lap.
Siddanth extended his large right hand, resting his wrist on the pillow. Swathi looked at his broad palm. She sighed heavily and looked at Shruthi.
"His hand is too big," Swathi complained. "Look at the surface area. It is going to take me an hour just to cover this one palm."
"Just draw bigger flowers," Shruthi suggested practically, snipping the tip off her Mehendi cone with a pair of scissors. "Don't do the fine, intricate lines. We will be here until the Sangeet starts."
"I cannot draw massive, ugly flowers," Swathi argued defensively. "It is his wedding Mehendi. It needs to be traditional and detailed."
"Just draw whatever is fastest," Siddanth requested, keeping his hand perfectly still. "My shoulders are still sore from the dancing yesterday."
"Keep quiet and hold still," Peddamma scolded him lightly from the armchair. "The groom must have full Mehendi. It is good luck for the marriage."
Swathi pressed the plastic cone. A thin, dark green line of paste extruded onto the center of Siddanth's palm. She began drawing a small circle, then surrounded it with tiny, intricate petals.
"You know," Shruthi said, watching Swathi work carefully, "most cricketers today have full sleeve tattoos. Look at Virat. Look at Dhawan. Why didn't you ever get a tattoo, Sid?"
"I was never really interested in getting ink on my skin," Siddanth replied honestly. "I always focused on my game. Tattoos didn't seem necessary."
"That is a lie," Swathi said without looking up from her drawing. She squeezed a dot of paste onto his lifeline. "He didn't get a tattoo because you are terrified of your mother."
The room erupted into laughter. The aunts chuckled, their gold bangles clinking against their coffee cups.
"It is true," Siddanth admitted with a small smile. "If I came home with a massive tiger tattooed on my forearm, Amma would have dragged me to the bathroom and scrubbed my arm with a wire brush."
"Yes, she would have," Peddamma agreed firmly, nodding her head. "Our bodies are temples, not drawing boards. You are a good boy, Siddu."
"He listened because he was afraid," Athamma added, laughing. "Do you remember when he was seven years old? He broke the neighbor's window playing cricket in the street. When Sesikala went to scold him, he hid inside the empty water drum on the terrace for four hours."
"Athamma, please," Siddanth groaned, closing his eyes. "I am getting married tomorrow. Can we not talk about the water drum?"
"Krithika needs to know these things," Swathi laughed, starting on his fingers. "Let me ask you a serious question, Sid. You are getting married. In the future, if there is a massive argument between Krithika and your mother regarding how to run the house... whose side will you take?"
The room went completely silent. The aunts stopped drinking their coffee. Even the two nephews paused their racing game and looked up from the tablet.
It was the ultimate, inescapable trap question in an Indian household.
Siddanth looked at Swathi. He looked at Shruthi. He looked at the circle of aunts waiting eagerly for his answer. He realized there was no correct answer that would not cause immediate trouble.
He decided to deflect. He looked at his uncles, who were sitting in the far corner of the room reading newspapers. "Mama, let me ask you. When Athamma and my grandmother used to argue over the kitchen management... what did you do?"
His Mama slowly lowered the newspaper. He looked at his wife, then at Siddanth. "I did nothing. The moment the voices got loud, I put on my sandals, picked up my scooter keys, and walked out the front door. I went to the tea stall and read the newspaper until they settled the matter themselves."
"Perfect," Siddanth declared, nodding his head seriously. "Thank you for the excellent advice, Mama. I will do exactly the same thing. I will just walk out of the house, go to the stadium, and bowl in the nets until the house is quiet."
"Coward," Swathi laughed, shaking her head. "We will see how long that strategy works. Krithika knows how to lock the doors."
It took two full hours for Swathi and Shruthi to completely cover the palms and the backs of both his hands with dark green, highly detailed Mehendi designs. Once his hands were finished, Athamma walked over carrying a small, silver bowl.
Inside the bowl was a thick, dark green paste. It was not the smooth, commercial Mehendi from the plastic cones. This was coarse and grainy.
"Gorintaku," Athamma announced. "Freshly ground from the leaves in our village, mixed with betel nut and a few drops of lemon juice."
"Put it on his fingers," Peddamma instructed.
Athamma took small pinches of the wet Gorintaku paste. She rolled them into little caps and placed them directly over the tips of Siddanth's fingers and thumbs.
"This cools the body heat," Athamma explained, pressing the wet leaves onto his skin. "And it stains a perfect, deep, dark red. Much better than that chemical Mehendi."
Siddanth sat perfectly still on the sofa, holding both his hands up in the air, his fingertips covered in thick green caps of leaves. He could not touch his phone. He could not scratch his nose. He could not eat.
The heavy wooden door opened. His mother, Sesikala, walked into the room carrying a silver plate loaded with warm food.
"Is it dry yet?" Sesikala asked, looking at his hands.
"No, it is still wet," Siddanth said. "My shoulders are killing me."
Sesikala sat down next to him. She mixed the white rice with a generous amount of yellow dal and a spoonful of ghee using her fingers. She formed a small, neat ball of food. She lifted her hand and carefully fed it directly into Siddanth's mouth.
Siddanth chewed the food silently. He just opened his mouth again when he was finished. Sesikala fed him the entire plate of food, bite by bite, exactly as she had done when he was a child. The aunts watched quietly, smiling at the simple bond between the mother and her son.
By 5:00 PM, the Mehendi and the Gorintaku leaves had completely dried and flaked off. He washed his hands in the sink. The intricate designs on his palms were a deep, dark orange, while the tips of his fingers were stained a brilliant, blood-red from the natural leaves.
He changed into a comfortable, dark blue silk kurta and walked out to the main courtyard.
The Sangeet setup was fully complete.
The massive stone seating areas surrounding the Banyan tree were covered with bright, colorful cushions. The catering stations were firing up, the smell of roasting kebabs filling the air.
On the large wooden stage constructed at the far end of the courtyard, a team of technicians was actively running thick black cables and adjusting microphone stands.
Anirudh Ravichander, wearing a dark jacket and his signature sunglasses, stood in the center of the stage. He was pointing at a massive, complex DJ console his team had just unpacked.
Siddanth walked up to the edge of the stage. "Anirudh."
Anirudh turned around and smiled. He jumped down off the stage and shook Siddanth's hand.
"Sid," Anirudh said. He looked around at the towering, solid-looking walls of the Kakatiya palace surrounding them. "This place is unbelievable. The acoustics here are insane. I did a sound check ten minutes ago. The bass bounces perfectly without distorting."
"I am glad you approve," Siddanth said. "Is everything set up?"
"My team is patching the final output cables into the main amplifiers now," Anirudh confirmed. "We have the Telugu tracks loaded for the family performances, and then I have a custom, heavy mass-beat set completely ready for when the elders go to sleep and the actual party starts."
"Perfect," Siddanth nodded.
At 7:00 PM sharp, the heavy teakwood doors of the main venue entrance swung open. The staff, managed by Rahul, stood by to guide the VIP arrivals. Tonight was the Sangeet, a night purely dedicated to music and dance.
Siddanth stood near the entrance archway, alongside his parents and Krithika's parents, to officially receive the guests. Krithika stood beside him, wearing a stunning, deep green lehenga intricately embroidered with gold thread. Her Mehendi was much darker and far more elaborate than his, covering her arms up to her elbows.
The first vehicle to pull up to the drop-off point was a black Range Rover.
S.S. Rajamouli stepped out, followed by his wife, Rama. They walked through the stone archway. Rajamouli did not look at the couple immediately. His eyes were scanning the sheer scale of the Kakatiya architecture.
Rajamouli walked straight up to one of the massive, intricately carved pillars. He raised his knuckles and knocked on the surface.
Thud. Thud. It did not sound like solid rock. It sounded hollow and dense.
"Fiberglass and high-density plaster of Paris over a reinforced steel frame," Rajamouli noted, looking at Siddanth with absolute respect. "Incredible texturing, Siddanth. It genuinely looks and feels like ancient Kakatiya stone. Who was your art director for this?"
"Sameer handled the contractors, sir," Siddanth smiled proudly. "We hired the master artisans from Ramoji Film City to build the outer shells."
"It is magnificent," Rajamouli admitted, finally looking at the couple. "Congratulations to both of you. Rama and I are very happy to be here."
As Rajamouli and Rama moved into the courtyard, the next car arrived.
Prabhas stepped out, wearing a simple black Pathani suit. He was followed by Rana Daggubati in a dark blue kurta, and Gopichand, who wore a white linen shirt.
Prabhas walked up and pulled Siddanth into a tight hug.
"Darling, you look stressed," Prabhas laughed, patting Siddanth's back. "Relax. The hard part is over."
Siddanth pulled back and grinned. "I am fine, anna. But I am officially out of the bachelor club now. Let me ask you... when are the biggest bachelors in Tollywood getting married?"
Rana laughed loudly and pointed his finger at Prabhas. "Ask him. He is the older one."
Prabhas shook his head dismissively. "Ask Salman Khan. When Salman Khan gets married, I will get married the next day. Until then, don't ask me."
Gopichand laughed and shook Siddanth's hand. "Congratulations, Siddanth. Don't listen to them, they will be single forever."
Siddanth introduced Krithika's parents to the actors, who offered greetings.
Victory Venkatesh arrived next with his family. He offered calm, sincere congratulations to the couple and their parents, his presence bringing a sense of quiet dignity to the loud entrance.
As the Tollywood stars settled into the venue, the cricketing legends began to arrive.
Sachin Tendulkar walked through the archway, accompanied by his wife, Anjali, and his children, Sara and Arjun.
Siddanth immediately stepped forward and respectfully touched Sachin's feet. Sachin pulled him up and hugged him warmly.
Arjun Tendulkar, now a tall, developing fast bowler himself, walked up and shook Siddanth's hand. "Congratulations, Captain."
"Thanks, Arjun."
Rahul Dravid and his wife, Vijeta, walked through the archway right behind the Tendulkars, joining the group at the entrance.
Sachin turned to Krithika. "Siddanth is a very calm and focused captain on the field, Krithika. He never lets the pressure show. I am sure he will bring that same calm and discipline to your home."
"I am counting on that, sir," Krithika replied respectfully.
Sachin pulled Siddanth slightly aside. "Listen to me, Sid. The media will hound you. Keep your home completely private. Leave the cricket and the business outside the front door."
Dravid, standing right next to them, nodded in agreement. "Sachin is absolutely right, Siddanth. Cricket is just a part of your life. This... this is your actual life. Build a strong partnership, and ignore the outside noise."
"Thank you, Sachin paji. Rahul bhai," Siddanth said.
A loud, booming voice interrupted the quiet moment.
"Arre Siddu!"
Virender Sehwag walked through the entrance, his wife Aarti beside him. Sehwag was grinning widely, looking around at the massive fiberglass palace walls.
"This is not a wedding, Siddu, this is a massive film set!" Sehwag declared loudly, walking up and giving Siddanth a massive hug. He turned his attention to Krithika.
"Listen to me carefully, beta," Sehwag told Krithika with complete seriousness. "If he ever starts acting like a captain inside the house, or tries to tell you how to run the kitchen... just tell him he is playing on a turning track. Tell him to defend his wicket and keep his mouth shut."
Krithika burst into laughter. "I will definitely remember that, Sehwag sir."
Siddanth shook his head, smiling.
As the guests moved further into the Kakatiya set, they found a specifically designated, open-air stone courtyard situated just off the main path. The logistics team had set up a massive, heavy wooden bar and erected a shamiyana for it.
Bartenders in crisp white shirts were pouring single malts, mixing cocktails, and opening cold beers. Soft, instrumental music played in this section.
Virat, Rohit, Sameer, Feroz, Rana, Gopichand, and Prabhas were already standing near the wooden counter, holding crystal glasses filled with amber liquid and ice. They were talking loudly, laughing, and completely unwinding from the travel and the strict traditions of the day.
Siddanth walked in, grabbed a glass of sparkling water with lime, and leaned against the stone pillar next to his friends. The drinks were poured, the guests were relaxed, and the stage was set. The Sangeet was ready to begin.