Sounds like fun!

The party was on in full swing when Priya arrived. She didn't know where Dev's house was, and was directed by all the noise. The noise from the stadium, punctuated by the irritating bugle"pa-pa-pa-ra pa-ra-paen", which was inevitably followed by a higher intensity general stadium noise was loudest from the direction of his apartment. 

When she reached the fifth floor, she could barely hear herself think. There were more discernible voices here, Adhi's and Manoj's, she could make out from near the lift, but could that shrieking voice be hers? Was it Kim's voice that she heard? "Dev, come hee-yer," she could recognize that voice anywhere: at least an octave higher than everyone else, and taking at least twice as long as anyone else to say anything. And the giggle--like a lizard's chuckle was cut into smaller bits and played back on loop--it was definitely her. It was like her voiceprint--no one else could possibly have that voice. She had half a mind to turn and run. But she stood her ground and entered. She heard Kim was now going out with Dev, but she couldn't be sure. 

The place was a mess, and there were people everywhere. She recognized most of them as her classmates, but some others were Dev's friends from college. Some of the boys turned to look who had come, and when Laxman Sivaramakrishnan shouted, "What a wonn-der-ful shot that was," returned to the large 42 inch screen. From what she could glean within five minutes of being there, looks did matter. And so did size. 

The sofa, faux leather and cherry, occupied nearly the entire length of the hall. And there were couples of all sizes there. Here and there. She thought a few of them had switched their other halves. It was all very confusing for her. She went to the nearest chair and took a bottle of beer for herself. 

A few overs later, the ruckus had died down a bit. CSK was doing badly, and the opponents were scoring above 10 an over. Ashwin was bowling this over, and the stadium was going crazy for Shane Watson--his home ground.

Amidst the general relative noiselessness, there arose a roar, from next door. "What a wicket," one could hear the unmistakable voice of Ravi Shastri, and then here, in Dev's house, all eyes were on the TV. Which ball got the wicket? And then the roar here. And then, once again, like Deja Vu, the sauve Ravi Shastri, "What a wicket." A pause. "This game keeps changing by the minute." 

Deja vu.