The morning sun filtered through the tall glass windows of the Shamshabad farmhouse. MS Dhoni walked down the teakwood staircase, looking completely refreshed after a solid night of sleep away from the frantic, cara-flashing chaos of the city hotels.
Siddanth was already at the dining table, pouring coffee.
"Good morning, Mahi bhai," Siddanth greeted.
"Good morning, Sid," Dhoni replied, pulling out a chair. He took a slow sip of the filter coffee Sesikala had prepared. "I have to admit, the silence out here is incredible. I actually managed to sleep without hearing a crowd chanting through the hotel walls."
"That's why I bought the land out here," Siddanth smiled. "You're welco to crash here whenever you're in the city."
They ate a quiet, simple breakfast of idli and peanut chutney. An hour later, Rahul had the Range Rover idling in the driveway. Dhoni grabbed his bag, gave Siddanth a firm, brotherly hug, and thanked Sesikala for the hospitality before stepping into the vehicle to head to the airport for his next promotional city.
With the house quiet again, Siddanth checked his watch. He walked upstairs, changed into a comfortable dark blue linen shirt and jeans, and grabbed the keys to his Swift.
He drove into the city and pulled up outside Krithika's house in Tarnaka. Krithika stepped out, wearing a beautiful, simple peach-colored salwar kaez. Right behind her was Anjali, holding her phone and wearing a bright yellow kurti.
Anjali hopped into the back seat, while Krithika took the front passenger side.
"Good morning, Bava," Anjali chirped from the back.
"Morning, Anju," Siddanth chuckled, putting the car in gear. He looked at Krithika. "Ready to see the final products?"
"I'm nervous," Krithika admitted, buckling her seatbelt. "We chose the motifs from digital blueprints. Seeing them physically woven into the silk... I hope it translates well."
"Narayana Kaka is a master. It will be perfect," Siddanth assured her.
They drove out of the city, taking the highway toward the Nalgonda district. After a smooth, two-hour drive, they rged onto the narrow, winding dirt roads that led into the heart of Pochampally.
The village was a hub of ancient craftsmanship. As Siddanth drove the Swift slowly through the narrow lanes, the rhythmic, wooden clack-clack-clack of handlooms echoed from nearly every house they passed. The sll of boiling starch and vibrant fabric dyes hung in the air.
Siddanth parked the car near a modest, immaculately clean single-story house with a small courtyard.
Standing at the wooden gate, wearing a crisp white dhoti and a deeply respectful smile, was Narayana, the head of the weaver's guild.
"Namaskaram, Siddanth Babu. Namaskaram, Amma," Narayana greeted them, pressing his palms together as they stepped out of the car.
"Namaste, Kaka," Siddanth replied warmly.
"Please, co inside. My ho is small, but you are very welco," Narayana said, leading them through the courtyard and into his living room. The walls were painted a simple blue, and a few wooden chairs were arranged around a small central table.
"Sit, sit," Narayana insisted, pulling out the chairs.
Siddanth, Krithika, and Anjali sat down. Narayana imdiately went to a clay pot in the corner and brought them stainless steel glasses of cool, refreshing water.
"Lakshmi!" Narayana called out toward the inner rooms. "The guests are here! Bring the tea and snacks!"
A few monts later, Narayana's wife, Lakshmi, erged from the kitchen. She wiped her hands on her cotton saree, a wide, deeply hospitable smile on her face. She carried a steel tray loaded with three steaming cups of tea and a bowl of fresh, homade sakinalu (traditional crispy rice snacks).
"Thank you, Aunty," Krithika smiled, taking a cup of tea.
"Drink, Amma. It is a long drive from the city," Lakshmi urged kindly.
While they ate the snacks and drank the tea, Narayana walked over to a heavy wooden trunk resting in the corner of the room. He unlocked the brass latch.
"We finished the engagent clothes last night," Narayana said, his voice carrying imnse pride. He carefully lifted two large, cloth-wrapped bundles from the trunk and placed them on the table.
He untied the first bundle.
Krithika and Anjali both let out a simultaneous gasp.
It was an exquisite, pure Ikat silk saree. The color was a deep, srizing shade of traditional maroon, interwoven with subtle, geotric diamond patterns that Pochampally was world-famous for. But the border was what caught the eye—a thick, flawlessly hand-woven band of pure gold zari.
"It is breathtaking, Kaka," Krithika whispered, reaching out to touch the soft, heavy silk.
"Lakshmi," Narayana turned to his wife. "Take her inside so she can try it on. We must make sure the fall and the pleats are exact."
"Co, Amma," Lakshmi smiled, gesturing to the inner bedroom.
Krithika picked up the saree and the matching stitched blouse, following Lakshmi into the room. Anjali imdiately jumped up and followed them inside to help with the draping.
Siddanth sat in the living room with Narayana, discussing the progress of the larger order for the wedding guests.
Ten minutes later, the bedroom door opened.
"Alright, prepare yourselves," Anjali announced theatrically, stepping out first.
Krithika walked out into the modest living room.
The deep maroon silk draped flawlessly around her. The rich color contrasted beautifully with her skin, and the heavy gold zari border caught the simple sunlight streaming through the window. It was pure, unadulterated traditional elegance.
Siddanth stopped talking mid-sentence.
He just stared. His mind went completely blank. He forgot he was sitting in a weaver's house. He forgot about cricket.
Krithika looked at him, noticing his completely stunned, jaw-dropped expression.
She pressed her lips together, fighting a smile, before she and Anjali both burst out laughing.
"Close your mouth, Bava," Anjali teased rcilessly. "You are going to catch flies."
Siddanth blinked, snapping out of the trance. He rubbed the back of his neck, a slightly embarrassed smile breaking across his face.
"It looks great," Siddanth managed to say. He looked directly into her eyes. "You look incredibly beautiful, Krithi."
Krithika's cheeks flushed a soft pink under the direct complint. She looked down at the pleats. "Yeah. It looks great. The fabric feels amazing."
She turned back to Narayana's wife. "Aunty, there are just a few very minor changes. The blouse is slightly tight around the left shoulder, and the fall needs a half-inch adjustnt at the hem."
"I saw it, Amma," Lakshmi nodded professionally. "I will alter the stitches tonight. It is a very easy fix."
Krithika went back inside to change.
Narayana then untied the second bundle for Siddanth. It was a matching maroon silk kurta, heavily textured, paired with a cream-colored lower garnt. Siddanth stepped into the adjacent room to try it on.
When he walked out, the fit across his broad shoulders was nearly perfect.
"Just the cuffs, Kaka," Siddanth noted, checking the sleeve length. "Take them up by a quarter of an inch"
"Done, Babu," Narayana nodded, taking ntal notes.
Once Siddanth changed back into his casual clothes and Krithika returned to the living room, they prepared to leave.
Before Siddanth could step toward the door, Lakshmi walked out of the inner room holding a brass plate. Resting on the plate was a folded, bright yellow cotton saree, betel leaves, betel nuts, bananas, and a small silver container of kumkum.
It was the traditional Pasupu Kumkuma—the highest mark of respect given to a married woman or a bride-to-be when she visits a house for the first ti.
Lakshmi walked up to Krithika. She gently applied a dot of red kumkum to Krithika's forehead and placed the yellow saree and the brass plate into her hands.
"Aunty, you didn't have to do this," Krithika said softly, deeply touched by the gesture.
Lakshmi shook her head, tears suddenly pooling in her eyes. She looked at Krithika, and then at Siddanth.
"You are our Mahalakshmi, Amma," Lakshmi said, her voice trembling with gratitude. She pressed her palms together, looking at Siddanth. "Because of the order you gave us... and paid our wages in advance... we cleared the loan on our debts. My husband does not have to worry about the moneylenders taking our looms anymore. We are sleeping peacefully for the first ti in ten years. This saree is a small gift from our family to yours."
Krithika felt a heavy lump form in her throat. She stepped forward and hugged the older woman warmly.
"Thank you, Aunty," Krithika whispered. "We will cherish it."
Siddanth offered a deep, respectful nod to Narayana. "Keep the work going, Kaka. We will see you next month."
They walked out to the Swift, their hearts incredibly full. The realization of how much their wedding was actively changing lives grounded them completely.
As Siddanth rged the car back onto the highway toward Hyderabad, the emotional weight of the visit slowly gave way to a lighter, joyous energy.
Anjali leaned forward from the back seat, tapping the car's infotainnt screen. "My phone is connected to the Bluetooth. I am taking over the DJ duties."
"No sad songs, Anju," Krithika warned.
"Are you kidding? We are celebrating!" Anjali grinned. She swiped her screen, and the heavy, thumping bass of a massive Telugu dance track instantly filled the car cabin.
It was "Pakka Local" from Janatha Garage.
Siddanth laughed, imdiately recognizing the song from their movie date a few weeks ago. He rolled the windows down slightly, letting the highway breeze rush in.
Anjali started singing at the top of her lungs from the back seat, completely out of tune but hitting the energy perfectly.
"Babu, pakka local! Babai, pakka local!" Anjali shouted, dancing in her seat.
Krithika rolled her eyes, but a second later, she gave in, laughing and joining her sister on the chorus as the heavy drum beats dropped.
"Naa cheera kattu pakka local! Naa raika kuttu pakka local!" Krithika sang, clapping her hands to the beat.
Siddanth kept his hands on the steering wheel, a massive smile on his face. He didn't sing, but he tapped his fingers against the leather steering wheel in perfect rhythm with the teenmaar beats. The drive back to Hyderabad was a blur of loud music, terrible singing, and joy.
---
The next morning, Siddanth woke up at 5:30 AM. His Perfect Rhythm woke him flawlessly without an alarm.
Then he went to his personal gym downstairs and did his regular workout. After finishing it he went to freshen up.
Afterwards he walked down the stairs in a grey t-shirt and track pants. The house was quiet.
His mother, Sesikala, was already in the kitchen. She poured a steaming cup of filter coffee and handed it to him.
"Morning, Amma," Siddanth murmured, taking a sip.
"Morning, Siddu. breakfast will be ready in 10 minutes," she replied, turning back to the stove.
Siddanth walked into the living room. He sat down on the large sofa, set his coffee cup on a coaster, and picked up the television remote. He hit the power button, intending to watch the morning news.
The screen flared to life, currently tuned to a prominent national news channel.
The screen was displaying raw, shaky footage of thick black smoke billowing into the sky from military barracks. The news anchor's voice was frantic, breaking with shock.
The bright red breaking news banner at the bottom of the screen read in bold white letters:
TERROR ATTACK AT URI ARMY BASE IN JAMMU & KASHMIR. MASSIVE CASUALTIES FEARED. JAWANS MARTYRED IN THEIR SLEEP.
Siddanth froze.
The coffee cup stopped halfway to his mouth. His eyes locked onto the screen.
Uri.
The na hit his brain like a physical blow. The date instantly registered in his mind. September 18.
A cold, heavy, suffocating wave of guilt crashed down on him, rooting him to the sofa.
He was a transmigrator. He had lived through this tiline before. He knew the stock market trends, he knew the outcos of World Cups, he knew which tech companies would rise and fall. He had used that knowledge to build a twenty-billion-dollar empire and orchestrate legendary cricket victories.
But he had forgotten this.
He had been so entirely consud by his own life—by the semiconductor Foundries, the IPL finals, the Ramayana movies, and the joyful chaos of his wedding preparations—that he had completely forgotten the geopolitical tragedies that marred this tiline. He had forgotten the seventeen soldiers who had just been burned alive in their tents while they slept.
He sat there in stunned, horrifying silence, staring at the television as the news anchor confird the rising death toll. He felt entirely powerless. The System, the billions of dollars, the global fa—none of it could stop the harsh, brutal reality of the world.
Footsteps echoed on the stairs.
His father, Vikram Deva, walked into the living room, freshly showered and tying his watch around his wrist.
"What's on the news, Siddu?" Vikram asked casually, walking toward the sofa.
Vikram stopped. He looked at the television screen.
The footage showed heavily ard Indian soldiers scrambling across the base, trying to put out the fires as gunshots echoed in the background audio.
Vikram Deva went completely silent. The relaxed, jovial deanor of his vanished. His jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped in his cheeks. His hands curled into tight fists at his sides.
For ten seconds, the father and son just stared at the screen in silence.
Then, Vikram let out a sharp, shuddering breath. The visceral anger of an Indian father seeing his nation's sons slaughtered broke through.
"L***a k***k**u," Vikram hissed, the raw, furious Telugu curse slipping out. (S**s of wh***s).
He stepped closer to the television, his eyes burning with helpless rage.
"Nidrapotunna pillakayala eda daadi chesaru..." Vikram's voice shook with disgust and anger. (They attacked sleeping boys...)
Vikram pointed a shaking finger at the screen, his voice dropping into a dark, unforgiving curse. "Kukka chaavu chustaru ra eru." (You will die a dog's death).
At that mont, Sesikala walked out of the kitchen.
"Vikram, why are you cursing so early in the morning?" she asked, frowning at her husband's harsh language.
She walked past the sofa and glanced at the television.
The news channel broadcasted a photograph of the burning administrative tents, followed by a somber graphic confirming the martyrdom of the Jawans.
She was shocked. Both her hands flew up, covering her mouth as a horrified gasp escaped her lips. Tears instantly sprang to her eyes.
The joy of the previous day, the excitent of the wedding clothes, and the laughter of the car ride were completely extinguished. The Deva household stood in silence, watching the television as the nation woke up to a morning of sorrow.
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