The Australian summer was finally behind them.
It was early January 2025. Cool winter air sat over the Shamshabad estate. Mornings brought a light mist that clung to the banyan trees and the lawns before the sun burned it off.
For Siddanth Deva, the shift from the Border-Gavaskar Trophy to home was a full stop. The bruises from Starc's short balls were fading from his ribs and forearms. The noise of the Australian crowds had been replaced by birds and the ordinary sounds of the house.
Inside the farmhouse there were no whiteboards and no press conferences. No cricket bats in sight. He was simply a husband.
Krithika was five-and-a-half months pregnant. The bump was clear now, and the tiredness that came with it was starting to show.
On a Tuesday morning the living room was bright with light from the long windows. Krithika lay on the sofa in a loose lavender maternity dress, hair in a messy bun. She looked well, but the dark circles under her eyes said she had not slept through the night.
Deva came out of the kitchen with a small tray. On the tray: chilled mango slices, a few roasted unsalted almonds, and a glass of orange juice without pulp.
"I heard you turning at three," he said. He took a throw from the back of the sofa and settled it over her legs.
"The baby was practicing on my ribs all night," Krithika said, tired but smiling. She took a piece of mango. "This is perfect, Sid. Thank you."
Deva sat on the edge of the coffee table and rested a hand on her stomach. After a few seconds he felt a clear thump against his palm. A slow smile crossed his face.
"Definitely martial arts," he said, rubbing his thumb over the fabric. "Aggressive strike rate already. Takes after its mother."
"Excuse me," Krithika laughed, swatting his shoulder. "The aggression in this family comes from your side, Captain."
The hallway doors opened.
"CHARGE!"
Aadhya tore into the room in pink pajamas, swinging a long cardboard tube like a sword. She ran across the rug and attacked an invisible enemy near the television.
"I am the great warrior! You cannot defeat me!"
Rishi followed a few seconds later in a neat blue polo and khaki shorts. He held a thick hardcover: *The Visual Encyclopedia of Human Anatomy*. He was unmoved by the noise.
"Aadhya, keep your volume down," he said. He looked at his mother's stomach with interest.
"Amma, according to this the baby is in the second trimester. The hearing pathways are working. Aadhya's screaming might startle it."
Krithika covered her mouth, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
Deva stood, took three steps, and lifted Aadhya off the floor with one arm, pinning her against his chest.
"Hey! Unhand me!" she yelled, still trying to swing the cardboard. "I am in the middle of a battle!"
"The battle is moving outside," Deva said, finger to his lips. "Amma is tired today. If you want to fight invisible armies, we do it on the lawn."
Aadhya stopped. She looked at her mother, then waved the cardboard tube.
"Okay, Nana. Sleep well, Amma! I will protect the outside of the house from the bad guys!"
"Thank you, my brave warrior," Krithika said.
Deva tapped the encyclopedia Rishi was holding.
"And you, Professor. Grab your sneakers. You can explain the bones of the foot to me while we walk."
"An acceptable proposition, Nana," Rishi said, closing the book.
Deva winked at Krithika. "Rest. The house is secure. I will tire them out and have them fed by lunch."
"You are a lifesaver," she said, sinking into the cushions as the noise was herded out the front doors.
Deva spent the next three hours on the grounds. He listened to Rishi talk about the strength of the human femur and occasionally dodged cardboard-sword ambushes from behind the banyan trees. It was a normal morning.
---
Four days later a black SUV came up the gravel driveway and stopped near the veranda.
Pawan Kumar stepped out. Twenty-four, Olympic wrestling gold medalist from Haryana. Six-foot-four, shoulders that filled the path. White polo, dark jeans. Despite the size, his face carried quiet respect.
Deva came out in a dark grey sweater.
"Pawan."
"Deva sir." Pawan took the offered hand in a firm grip. "Thank you for having me. It is an honor."
"No 'sirs' here," Deva said, patting his arm. "Welcome to Hyderabad. How was the flight?"
"Very good, bhai."
Pawan pulled a heavy cardboard box tied with string from the back of the SUV.
"Sweets from my village in Rohtak. Pure desi ghee pinni. My mother made them for you and your family. To thank you for what the foundation has done."
"Your mother is kind. I will make sure Krithika hides them from me, or the diet is finished in a day."
Inside, Krithika, Vikram, and Sesikala waited. Pawan bent and touched the feet of Deva's parents. Vikram and Sesikala placed their hands on his head.
Aadhya peered out from behind her mother.
"Are you a giant? Can you lift a car?"
Pawan knelt so he was closer to her height, though he was still taller.
"I am not a giant, little sister. And I cannot lift a big car. Maybe a very small one, if I try hard."
Aadhya nodded, satisfied.
After a full South Indian breakfast, which Pawan finished without trouble, they walked across the lawns to the outbuilding that held the podcast studio.
Deva pushed the soundproofed doors open.
The room was quiet. Soft amber light from a few exposed-filament bulbs. No harsh television glare. No desk between host and guest. Two large distressed brown leather armchairs sat on a Persian rug, angled toward each other, a small oak table between them with glasses of water. Two Shure SM7B microphones hung on boom arms. The cameras were mounted on the walls and run from a control room. No producers in the space. No PR.
It felt like a private room for a long conversation, not a set.
"Have a seat, Pawan."
Pawan sank into the chair and adjusted the microphone. Deva sat opposite, crossed his legs, and leaned back. No clipboard. No earpiece.
The red tally lights came on. Episode 2 of *Talk with the Devil* had started.
"Welcome back to the studio," Deva said. "We started this project so athletes could tell their own truth. Not the medal, not the podium. The rest of it."
He looked at the man across from him.
"Today I have someone who dominated the best wrestlers in the world in Paris and brought the gold home for India. Pawan Kumar. Welcome, brother."
"Thank you, Deva bhai. It is an honor."
"We are not starting with Paris," Deva said, leaning forward. "Everyone saw you win the gold. I want the hardwork it took to get it. Take me back to Rohtak. The akhara, before the funding and the high-performance centers. Tell me about the strugles."
Pawan exhaled. A small smile, half memory, half pain.
"The cold in Haryana in January is different, bhai. It goes into the bones. When I was sixteen, long before Nexus found me, the day started at four in the morning. Pitch black. Fog so thick you could not see ten feet."
He looked at his hands.
"No indoor heating. No synthetic mats. We wrestled in the traditional akhara, the earth pit. Every morning we prepared the mud—mustard oil, turmeric, buttermilk—to keep it soft and clean. At four o'clock that mud is freezing. It feels like wet concrete."
Deva nodded and stayed quiet.
"You strip to a langot and step in. The moment your skin hits the earth, your lungs seize. My ustad stood on the edge with a bamboo stick. No hesitation. You grapple for two hours. Skin scrapes on the earth. Ears get crushed against collarbones—that is how the cauliflower ear comes. You are bleeding, freezing, and finished before the sun is up."
"And you did this every day."
"Every day, bhai. In my village, if you do not fight, you fade. Wrestling was the way out. But the joint pain, the torn ligaments, the hunger because we could not afford proper food—it breaks a lot of boys. They quit and go to the fields."
Deva sat back.
"People see the gold and think talent. They do not see the hours when the body begs you to stay in bed and the mind has to drag you into that mud."
He met Pawan's eyes.
"I know that isolation. Different from the akhara, but the grind is the same. When I was sixteen, trying to break into the Ranji side, I took the five o'clock local from the suburbs. Kitbag almost as heavy as I was."
A dry smile.
"In the monsoon I went to the indoor nets. I paid the groundsman to load the bowling machine with old, hard, scuffed balls. I told him to set it as fast as it would go, aim it at my ribs, and leave the room."
Pawan's eyes widened a fraction.
"I faced those deliveries for three hours. Uneven bounce off the concrete. Balls would rear and hit the forearms, the chest, the thighs. I went home purple. Could not hold a pen. But I knew that if I could survive that machine in an empty hall in Hyderabad, no fast bowler on a proper ground would make me flinch."
"That is the mindset, bhai," Pawan said, slapping his knee. "You walk through the fire when no one is watching."
"The body pain is the easy part," Deva said. "The body heals. Talk to me about the mental side. Talk to me about the diet."
Pawan threw his head back and laughed.
"Do not talk to me about the diet, Deva bhai. That is the real torture. People think wrestlers just eat to get big. They do not understand the weight cuts. Before Paris I had to drop five kilograms in three days to make the class."
"How?"
"You stop drinking water. Completely. Forty-eight hours. Heavy rubber suit, steam room or treadmill until you feel you will pass out. You are draining the fluid. Mouth so dry you cannot swallow. My coach let me chew one ice cube at night to stay sane."
"One ice cube."
"One. And the night before weigh-in you sit in the hotel room, dehydrated, staring at the ceiling, thinking about a hot paratha. You ask yourself why you are doing this. Why not just eat and go home."
"I have seen that look in our dressing room," Deva said. "Our diets are controlled, but nothing like a wrestling cut. Although Virat treats sugar like a banned substance."
Pawan laughed. "I have heard the stories."
"They are true. New York, T20 World Cup. Brutal session. Rishabh managed to sneak a glazed blueberry donut into the park. Virat spotted him from fifty yards. Did not yell. Just looked at him with disappointment and told him to put it down. Rishabh handed it to support staff and ran off to do agility work. Saying no to the food you want is a muscle you train like any other."
The conversation ran for two hours without forced questions. They talked about the federations. Pawan spoke about shoes tearing in important matches before the foundation stepped in with proper gear. Deva listened and said that was exactly why he and Arjun had built Nexus—to go around the systems that wasted careers.
Near the three-hour mark Deva brought it back to the final.
"Paris. Gold medal match. European champion. Heavier, aggressive. Second period, he gets the takedown, you are down on points. Clock running. What happens in your head when the gold is slipping?"
Pawan's jaw tightened.
"The crowd disappears, bhai. No cheering. No lights. Everything narrows to a tunnel. Muscles screaming. Grip failing. He was heavy on my neck."
He closed a fist on his knee.
"When the body says stop, the mind takes over. I did not think about the medal or the country. I thought about the four o'clock mud in Rohtak. The torn shoes. I told myself I did not survive all of that to let this man pin me. Pure refusal to lose. I found something left. Shot for the single leg, drove up, and put him down."
Deva nodded. He knew the feeling.
"The refusal to lose. That is the line between good and great. I have been in that tunnel."
He leaned back.
"Slip, Australia, day four. Forty degrees. Hundred and twenty overs in the field. Back tight. Knees gone. Partnership building. Fast bowlers looking at you with nothing left in the tank."
"The isolation of captaincy in those moments is real. Everyone is waiting for you to fix it. You want to drop the shoulders. You cannot. If the captain's head goes, the side goes with it."
"So what do you do?"
"You cut the noise. You stop feeling the heat. You look at the pitch, the footwork, the length. You set the field and wait for the mistake. You keep the body upright and you do not let them see you struggle."
They sat in the quiet amber light. Different sports. One three-minute burst of grappling, the other five days of endurance. Same core.
"It is a heavy crown, bhai," Pawan said.
"It is," Deva agreed. "But we would not trade it."
He looked into the main camera.
"This has been Episode 2 of *Talk with the Devil*. Pawan Kumar, Olympic gold medalist, pride of India. Thank you for sharing your truth. We will see you next time. Jai Hind."
The tally lights went off.
Pawan let out a long breath and grinned. "Bhai, I was nervous before we started. That felt like talking to a friend at a dhaba."
"That is the point of the room," Deva said, standing and pulling him into a hug. "You spoke well. The young ones need to hear it."
---
Three days later, at six in the evening, the NSF YouTube channel posted a three-hour video.
*Talk with the Devil – Episode 2: The Grind* featuring Pawan Kumar (Olympic Gold Medalist).
Within twenty-four hours the views passed fifteen million. The comments and posts filled in fast.
@SportsNerd_IND: Two hours in and I am still watching. Pawan on the freezing mud at 4 AM, Deva on the bowling machine in empty halls. The obsession is real.
@CricketNerd_IND: Deva as a host is excellent. He does not interrupt. He asks the hard question and then lets the guest talk. Active listening at the highest level.
@WrestlingFan_Haryana: Pawan representing Haryana properly. Torn shoes and hunger before Nexus stepped in. The federations should be ashamed. Thank God for this platform.
@Sonia_Styles12: Deva in that leather chair under the amber lights. The look of the show is film-level.
@MemeCentral_Desi:
Virat: body is a temple.
Rishabh with a glazed donut: I am about to end this man's career.
@TeluguBidda_99: Anna on the isolation of captaincy on day four in Australia. People see the trophies. They do not see the cost.
@TrackAndField_India: Cricket captain and Olympic wrestler bonding over pain and diet. This is what long-form sports talk should be.
@Hitman_Army_Mumbai: One ice cube the night before weigh-in. Olympic athletes are built different.
@UK_Cricket_Pundit: The format works. No PR layer. Just two athletes talking. Deva is changing the media space in India.
@BlueBleeders: The moment they both nodded on the "refusal to lose." You could feel it through the screen.
@Priya_Vlogs: Pawan touching the parents' feet in the BTS clip. Gold medal and still grounded.
@DesiSarcasm:
Me: tired after two flights of stairs.
Pawan: no water for two days, then wrestled for gold.
I need to rethink my standards.
@TiredFastBowler: Standing at slip for 120 overs and not showing the opposition anything. That is mental work.
@Gamer_Boy007: The lighting makes it look like a final boss cutscene. Production is ridiculous.
@HistoryBuff_IN: Primary sources being recorded in real time. Historians will use these conversations later.
@Virat_Army_Delhi: Kohli catching Pant with the donut is the funniest image. Diet monitor on duty.
@CricCrazyJohn: Deva sharing his own struggles so Pawan did not feel alone. That is how you host.
@BCCI_Insider: Federations are not happy. Funding and support gaps are being named out loud. Deva does not care.
@The_Master_Architect: The silence is broken. The grind is on the record. The truth of the gold is out.
---
The sun was low over the Deccan. Long shadows stretched across the lawns.
Deva sat on a rattan chair on the back veranda. The evening breeze moved the banyan leaves and carried the scent of jasmine. He scrolled slowly through the comments on the podcast. A quiet smile. The athletes were getting their voice without the usual filters.
He put the phone down.
On the grass Aadhya was trying to teach Ronny to fetch a pink frisbee. Ronny lay in the cool grass and ignored it while she lectured him. A few feet away Rishi sat on a picnic blanket, drawing a careful sketch of the studio and working out the angles of the walls.