The morning light filtered through the cream curtains of Bharath’s bedroom. The quiet hum of the city waking up reminded him that another day had begun — another day where he had to be more than just a pyer.
Bharath sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, staring at the floor. The events of the previous day — the photos, Priya’s voice when she told him about the girls who had given her their savings, and the fury that trembled in her hands when she spoke of what had been done to her — all echoed in his head.
She could have run. She would have disappeared. But she stayed.
And she wasn’t the only one. Those girls — nameless, faceless to the world — who had held Priya when she was broken, who had offered her coins and crumpled notes when they had nothing else. Bharath had never met them, but he could feel them — hovering behind every word Priya had spoken.
He looked around his room — the ceiling fan rotating zily above him, the neatly stacked books his mother insisted he carry, the framed picture of his family that stood proud on the desk. All the signs of a life untouched by darkness. He had grumbled about missing sambar, hot idlis, and crisp dosas, while others had fought to stay out of cages.
His father’s discipline. His mother’s doting. His sister - Devi’s - fierce intelligence. They had raised him into a world shielded by love and structure. Bharath had been blessed. Sheltered.
He got up slowly and knelt by the window, pressing his forehead against the sill as dawn painted the world gold.
“I don’t want to be a tourist in someone else’s pain,” he whispered. “I don’t want to feel righteous just because I’m helping someone braver than me.”
Bharath’s fingers tightened into fists. “I’ll be your wall, Priya. I’ll be your legs when you’re tired, your eyes when you can’t see. And those girls — I’ll fight for them, even if they never know my name. I’ll be better. I have to be better.” He pressed his palms together and whispered a silent thank you to the gods. For his family. For his health. For waking up in a bed and not on a floor somewhere in fear. When he rose, it wasn’t just to train. It was to serve.
Bharath could hear soft footsteps and spotted Priya, rubbing her eyes as she entered. Her disguise was still half on — hair tucked under a faded dupatta, and kurta too rge for her frame. But the smell of filter coffee made her pause. The table was id. Toast, boiled eggs, cut fruit, a clean pte with a napkin folded into a triangle.
There was a folded note beside the pte in Bharath’s handwriting: “If the toast’s cold, bme the patriarchy. Also, I didn’t poison the eggs. Probably.”
Priya snorted.
The kettle was still warm, the pan on the stove rinsed, the kitchen wiped down. Bharath had done this before leaving. Probably hours ago.
She peeked at the undry pile beside the washing machine. “Since I’m being pampered ... I’ll return the favour. I’ll wash your undry.”
Two minutes ter, she opened the hamper and recoiled dramatically. “Oy Ma! What hell dimension is this stench from? This isn’t undry, this is biological warfare.”
She grabbed a dupatta and wrapped it around her face like a surgical mask, marching toward the washing machine like a soldier entering gas warfare. The socks went in first. She jabbed the start button and stepped back like it might explode. “If this machine survives this load, I’m writing to Godrej. They deserve a medal.” Then came the football shorts. She used tongs. Actual kitchen tongs. Then disinfected the tongs. Halfway through, the machine beeped angrily. Priya smacked it. “Don’t you dare die on me now. We’re in this together.”
Finally, after dumping a heroic amount of detergent, softener, and possibly prayer beads into the drum, she smmed the lid shut and leaned against the counter, panting like she’d run a marathon.
“Next time he leaves me breakfast,” she muttered, “he better leave gloves and a hazmat suit.”
Still wrapped in her make-do mask, she wandered back to the desk and unrolled the maps again. Her smile faded as her mind returned to the weight of what y ahead. She thought of Rekha Das. Of the Syndicate. Of the perfect photographs lying safe in her folder — and how none of it felt like enough.
She outlined pn after pn on how to bckmail Rekha.
Idea 1: Send anonymous prints of the photo to Rekha’s publicist and wait for her to panic. But Rekha wasn’t the sort to panic. She’d spin it. Bme it on age, photoshop, cim it was a political smear.
Idea 2: Anonymously leak the photo to the press. Let the tabloids do the work. But again, Priya feared the outcome. Rekha had media allies. The story could easily be buried or worse, weaponised against some poor scapegoat.
Idea 3: Approach a rival politician with the photo and trade for protection. But that only opened the door to more powerful, more unpredictable enemies. No leverage sted long in Calcutta’s politics. That door had a one-way lock.
Idea 4: Confront Rekha anonymously, demand her withdrawal from certain Syndicate activities, threaten to release the images. But even in that hypothetical, Priya could see Rekha calmly inviting the storm — only to trap her bckmailer in a worse mess.
Idea 5: Frame someone within Rekha’s inner circle using the photograph as bait, ignite suspicion and infighting. But that required precise timing, deeper knowledge of Rekha’s circle, and someone on the inside — something Priya didn’t yet have.
Idea 6: Use the photo in an international sting operation with a human rights NGO. A long shot, requiring connections and a formal legal structure. Too slow. Too risky.
Of all the ideas, two seemed to have potential — if she had allies.
She jotted down notes, circled ideas, crossed others.
She’s too smart. Too experienced. A predator among predators.
Priya sighed. More evidence. More cracks in the armour. That’s the only way.
And so, she returned to the maps, to the whisper network she was rebuilding. There were other routes. Other girls. Somewhere, something would give.
The sun bzed over the turf as the reserves lined up against the starting eleven. The coaches were watching closely. This wasn’t just a scrimmage.
Bharath felt electric.
The first team stood opposite the reserves in their official match kits, Rafael at their center, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. He nodded at them, just a slight dip of his chin—acknowledgment, challenge, warning all at once. The air crackled with unspoken tension. This wasn’t just a training match. This was an audition, and everyone knew it.
Coach Biswas blew the whistle.
In the first five minutes, Bharath pyed conservatively, getting a feel for the rhythm. The first team pressed high, aggressive, trying to establish dominance early. He stayed disciplined, making simple passes, keeping possession. No mistakes. No fancy moves. Just fundamentals.
But then came his moment.
Madhavan, the first team’s defensive midfielder, collected a loose ball near the centerline. He looked up, scanning for options, and Bharath read his body nguage instantly. The defender’s shoulders tilted slightly right, but his hips opened left. A tell. He was going to pass to Kofi on the wing.
Bharath exploded into action before Madhavan even kicked the ball.
Accelerating across the defender’s passing ne, Bharath intercepted cleanly, touching the ball just enough to redirect it while maintaining full speed. Madhavan lunged, but Bharath had already anticipated the tackle, shifting his weight to his right foot and pivoting sharply.
Madhavan slid past Bharath, cursing.
The field opened up. Two first-team defenders converged rapidly, but Bharath could see Sameer, our striker, making a diagonal run behind their back line.
He looked left first—a deliberate feint—before delivering a perfectly weighted through-ball with the outside of his right foot. The ball curved beautifully, skimming the grass, bypassing three defenders and nding precisely in Sameer’s path. “Run!” Bharath shouted, even as he sprinted forward to support the attack.
Sameer took one touch, composed himself, and slotted it past the goalkeeper. 1-0 to the reserves.
The bench erupted. The reserves swarmed Sameer, but he pointed at Bharath, acknowledging the assist. Bharath pumped his fist once, then immediately refocused. The real game was just starting.
Rafael’s eyes found Bharath’s across the pitch. He could see the calcution there, the recalibration. The star striker of Heritage City hadn’t expected this.
The first team kicked off again, more determined now. For ten minutes, they dominated possession, probing the reserve team’s defense, testing for weaknesses. Bharath tracked back tirelessly, helping his defensive line, reading patterns, cutting off passing nes. Sweat poured down his face, but he felt like he could run forever.
In the 23rd minute, disaster struck. The reserve center-back misjudged a long ball, and Rafael pounced, controlling it with his chest before volleying it into the top corner. Unstoppable. 1-1.
As the game reset for the kickoff, Bharath gathered the reserves around him.
“That’s why he’s the star,” he said, not discouraged. “But we’re still level. Keep your shape. Keep believing.”
A few nodded, surprised by Bharath’s leadership but responding to it. They had been pying as individuals. Now they needed to become a unit.
The next phase was brutal. The first team, sensing blood, came at the reserves relentlessly. Tackles flew in, harder than necessary for a training match. Bharath took a knock to his ankle that sent fire up his leg, but he gritted his teeth and kept going.
In the 35th minute, during a rare moment of possession, Bharath dropped deep to collect the ball from the keeper. Scanning the field, he noticed something—a pattern in the first team’s pressing. They shifted as a block, but their right fnk consistently overcommitted, leaving space behind.
He received the ball, drawing two pressers toward him. Instead of rushing, Bharath shielded it calmly, waiting for them to commit. As they closed in, he executed a Cruyff turn—dragging the ball behind his standing leg with his right foot, then spinning away from pressure.
Both defenders lunged past Bharath but it was too te. He was free. “Switch!” he shouted, and unched a 40-yard diagonal ball to the left winger who had acres of space. He charged forward, cut inside, and fired a shot that the keeper parried—but only as far as the onrushing reserve midfielder who tapped in the rebound. 2-1 to the reserves.
As the teams jogged back for the restart, Bharath caught Arvind—the first team captain—looking at him with new respect. He said something to Biswas on the sideline, pointing in Bharath’s direction.
The first half ended with the reserves clinging to their lead, exhausted but eted.
During the break, Bharath gathered the reserves again. “They’re going to come at us hard now. Their pride is hurt. Stay compact. Counter when we can. We can do this.”
The second half began with the first team ying siege to the reserve goal. Wave after wave of attacks tested their resilience. Bharath tracked runners, blocked passing nes, threw his body in front of shots. In the 58th minute, he cleared a goal-bound header off the line, somehow leaping high enough to head it over the crossbar.
But in the 65th minute, the first team broke through. A clever flick from Rafael, a low cross, and a simple finish. 2-2. The momentum had shifted. The reserve team heads dropped slightly. The first team sensed vulnerability and pressed harder. Then came the moment that changed everything.
In the 71st minute, Rafael received the ball near the halfway line and began weaving through the midfield. He dribbled past two pyers, his skill undeniable. Bharath tracked his run, staying patient, reading Rafael’s movements. As the striker approached the edge of the reserve box, preparing to shoot, Bharath timed his challenge perfectly—sliding in to poke the ball away cleanly, no foul.
The ball spilled to his feet. In an instant, Bharath was up and driving forward. Rafael, caught off bance, couldn’t recover in time.
The field opened before Bharath. The first team, committed to their attack, scrambled to get back. He accelerated, the ball seemingly glued to his feet as he slomed between two retreating defenders.
As he approached the box, he had options—a pass to either wing, or take the shot himself. The goalkeeper began to advance, narrowing the angle.
Bharath looked left, then right, tracking the defenders and keeper with his eyes. Then, with minimal backlift, he executed a perfect chip—delicate yet decisive—sending the ball floating over the keeper’s outstretched fingers. Time seemed to slow as the ball arced through the air, hanging against the blue sky for what felt like eternity before nestling into the top corner of the net.
Silence. Then eruption.
The reserves bench stormed onto the field. Bharath’s teammates mobbed him, shouting, ughing. He had scored a goal that would have graced any professional match—against his own first team.
When py resumed, the first team threw everything at the reserves, desperate to equalize. Rafael led the charge, his competitive fire burning brightly. But the reserves defended as if their lives depended on it.
In the dying minutes, Madhavan lunged in with a reckless tackle that caught Bharath’s ankle. He went down, pain shooting up his leg, but refused to stay down. As he limped back into position, he caught Biswas watching him closely—testing not just his skill, but his character.
When the final whistle blew—3-2 to the reserves—Bharath colpsed onto the grass, exhausted but exhirated. They’d done the impossible.
As they lined up to shake hands, Rafael approached Bharath.
“Lucky goal,” he said, but there was a hint of a smile behind his eyes.
“Lucky save,” Bharath shot back, referencing a spectacur stop he’d made from one of their shots.
He ughed, genuinely this time, and cpped Bharath’s shoulder. “Watch yourself in first team training. We won’t go so easy on you.”
It wasn’t just the win that mattered. It was the respect they’d earned—from teammates, from the first team, and from himself. On the sidelines, Coach Biswas turned to Kunal. “Yeh dka sirf talented nahi hai. Yeh khatarnak hai. This boy isn’t just talented. He’s dangerous.”
Kunal shaded his eyes from the sun. “Woh dikhawa nahi kar raha. Woh apnapan chahta hai. That’s rarer.”(He’s not showing off. He wants to belong.)
They weren’t the only ones watching. First-team captain Arvind pulled his sweatband off and walked over to the coaches, motioning toward him.
“You saw that recovery run in the 65th minute? He closed down three zones solo. And then—”
“Turned it into a transition ball without fouling. Haan yaar,” Kunal added. “That’s what impressed me.”
“The through ball to the left fnk in the 71st? He sent their left-back into another postcode. And remember when he took that goal-kick down on the half-turn, one-touch control, and pivoted into space? That’s instinct.” Biswas nodded, arms crossed. “I was watching his reaction to his teammates’ mistakes. He covers, encourages, resets the tempo. Doesn’t sulk or lecture.”
Arvind smiled. “And did you hear how he kept calling out positional shifts for the midfield? He was coordinating and leading. In a scrimmage.”
Kunal folded his arms. “You think he’s ready for a senior call-up?”
“He needs to be with us in training. At least. The boy thinks faster than he runs. And that solo goal — he didn’t just dribble past defenders. He read them. Waited for the shift, anticipated the weight on their heels, and glided through. That’s not luck. That’s vision.”
Biswas cracked a smile. “You sure you’re not just tired of chasing him around the midfield?”
Arvind chuckled. “If he pys with me, maybe I won’t have to.”
By the time Bharath had showered and changed, the news had spread throughout the club. He had earned more than a stat sheet. He had earned the locker room. He had earned the admiration from the coaches. He had earned the respect of the captain himself. And most importantly — he had earned his next test.
The cafeteria buzzed with a post-match hum. Laughter, teasing, and the scent of curry and chicken biryani drifted through the air. Bharath carried his tray quietly, eyes scanning the room for a corner. But before he could escape, a voice called out. “Silver Spoon! Oye, come here! Sit!”
It was Rafael, the club’s star striker from Brazil, fnked by his usual entourage of fshy midfielders — Dinu, Ashu, Jignesh — and two junior marketing reps who’d conveniently parked themselves nearby.
Bharath hesitated, then smiled lightly and slid into the seat offered. Pying dumb was often underrated.
“Big game today,” Rafael said between bites. “Didn’t know you had samba in those South Indian feet.” Laughter. But there was a touch of bite in it.
Bharath offered a modest shrug. “We all py the same ball.”
Rafael studied him, tilting his head. “You py clever. That chip shot? Damn cheeky.”
Ashu leaned forward. “Cheeky’s one word. Arrogant might be another.”
“Word is Biswas might rotate him into our sessions,” Jignesh added, pointedly gncing at the marketing reps. The reps exchanged subtle gnces, clearly aware of the rumours — that Bharath might be positioned as the new face of the club. It hadn’t been confirmed, but whispers had a way of travelling.
“He’s a baby,” Dinu scoffed. “Let’s see what happens when someone actually tackles him. This was just a reserves match.” Rafael sipped his buttermilk, tone deceptively smooth. “Still. He pys to make the team better. That’s dangerous. Means he doesn’t care who scores. That’s leadership.”
But Bharath could feel the tension yered beneath. It wasn’t just about football. He was rich. Well-spoken. Good-looking. And worst of all — untouched by Calcutta’s grime.
“So, Silver Spoon,” Ashu said, voice light but eyes hard. “What do they feed you in Chennai? Gold fkes and caviar? Or just motivational quotes for breakfast?”
Bharath chuckled softly. “Mostly idlis. Sometimes ambition.”
Even Rafael cracked a grin, but Dinu leaned back, arms folded. “So what do we do if the golden boy takes the spotlight?” Rafael smiled faintly, tone darker now. “Then we shine harder. Or ... we make sure he remembers who brought him to the dance.” More ughter. But Bharath noted how the smiles didn’t quite reach their eyes.
Strategy was everything. He wouldn’t fight them. Not yet. Let them think he was harmless. Let them underestimate him. He pyed the part well — polite, humble, deferential — letting charm dilute challenge, letting wit smooth over status. He’d learned early that arrogance built walls, but subtlety opened doors.
Bharath sat on the physio table, shirt off, a towel around his neck. The team physiotherapist, Partho, circled him slowly, his experienced eyes studying Bharath’s body with professional curiosity. The medical room was cool and quiet, a sanctuary from the humid chaos outside. The antiseptic smell mixed with the menthol of muscle balms created that distinct clinical atmosphere he was slowly getting used to.
“You’ve definitely filled out,” Partho said, pressing his fingers against Bharath’s shoulder bde, then along his trapezius muscle. “Not a dramatic change, but the difference is noticeable — leaner lines, more definition, better posture.” He lifted Bharath’s arm, rotating the shoulder joint, testing its mobility. His brow furrowed slightly.
“Strange,” he muttered.
“What is?” Bharath asked.
“Your range of motion has increased since your entry assessment two weeks ago.” He continued his examination, pressing points along Bharath’s spine. “Most pyers take months to achieve these adaptations.” “Been working hard,” Bharath said, keeping his voice casual despite the flutter of unease in his stomach. Even he had noticed changes that seemed ... accelerated.
Partho moved to his legs, testing the flexibility in his hamstrings, the stability in his knees. He made notes on a clipboard, his expression growing more intrigued.
“No doubt. But two weeks isn’t usually long enough for this sort of visible change. Your stamina’s way up too. What’s your recovery routine like?”
Bharath shrugged, aiming for nonchance. “Eggs. Runs at dawn. And trying not to die during drills.” Partho pced a stethoscope against Bharath’s chest, listened intently, then checked his pulse at the wrist. “Your resting heart rate is 42 beats per minute. That’s elite marathon runner territory.” He paused, his voice lowering. “Two weeks ago it was 61.” Bharath swallowed hard. The changes weren’t just in his mind.
“I’ve always recovered quickly,” he offered weakly.
Partho reached for a blood pressure cuff. “Let’s check a few more things. Any changes in sleep patterns? Appetite? Dreams?” The st word made Bharath’s stomach clench. Dreams. The realm where Anya waited. Where we connected. Where something inexplicable was happening.
“Just the usual football dreams,” he lied. “Scoring goals. Missing goals. You know.”
He nodded, seemingly satisfied with Bharath’s answer, but he could tell Partho was cataloging everything—every measurement, every change, every response. As a medical professional, he knew something unusual was happening, even if he couldn’t expin it.
“Your blood pressure is textbook perfect. Muscle tone is exceptional.” He sat on his rolling stool, facing Bharath directly. “I’ve worked with professional athletes for fifteen years. Bodies don’t transform this quickly without...” He left the implication hanging.
“I’m not taking anything,” Bharath said quickly, understanding his unspoken concern. “I swear on my family’s name.” His expression softened. “I believe you. But something’s happening physiologically that’s ... unusual.” He clicked his pen thoughtfully. “I’d like to run some additional tests. Blood work. Maybe an ECG.”
“Is there something wrong with me?” The question came out smaller than Bharath intended.
Partho shook his head. “On the contrary. By every metric, you’re in exceptional health. But rapid changes, even positive ones, deserve monitoring.” He paused. “Any unusual sensations? Tingling? Warmth? Anything you can’t expin?”
The golden thread. The pull in his chest whenever he thought intensely about Anya. The sensation of being drawn into the dreamspace. But how could he expin any of that without sounding insane?
“Sometimes I feel ... more energetic than I should. After hard training. Like I could run another session immediately.” Partho nodded, writing something down. “Any changes in your mental state? Mood swings? Unusual focus or ck thereof?”
“I feel ... clearer,” Bharath admitted. “Like I can see the whole pitch at once. Read patterns better.”
“Interesting.” Partho set down his clipboard. “Well, whatever you’re doing, keep it up. But stay grounded. Body’s only part of the game — mind’s the engine. Keep both tuned.” He applied some cooling gel to a bruise on Bharath’s thigh that he barely noticed, then handed him a protein shake from the mini-fridge.
“Drink this. Come back Thursday for a follow-up. And Bharath—” he hesitated, choosing his words carefully, “—if you experience anything unusual, anything at all, come see me immediately. Day or night.” Bharath nodded, slipping his shirt back on. “Thanks, Partho.”
As he left the medical room, he caught his reflection in the long mirror by the door. The face looking back at him was his, but somehow ... refined. Sharper. More defined. Like an artist had gone over a sketch with a finer pencil, bringing out details that were always meant to be there.
Deep down, Bharath knew there was something else at py. Something connected to Anya, to the dreams, to the Red-Silk Goddess. And part of him wondered—if his body was changing this dramatically in just two weeks, what else was transforming? What was he becoming?
The marketing director, Tapan Ghosh, stood at Coach Biswas’s desk, gesturing animatedly, a folder of printed mockups under his arm.
“Look at him! Fresh-faced, good backstory, national-level talent. He’s media gold, sir. If we position him carefully, we’ve got ourselves a brand that can challenge even Rising Sun’s poster boys.”
Coach Biswas raised an eyebrow. “He’s just pyed one big reserves match. Let’s not carve a statue before the cement’s even set.” Ghosh chuckled. “Ei shei to kotha! That’s precisely why we need to move fast. The press is already sniffing around. If we don’t control the narrative, someone else will. And they won’t say ‘dedicated young pyer.’ They’ll say ‘privileged upstart with rich parents.’”
Biswas leaned back, skeptical. “Aar Rafael ebong bakiraa (And Rafael and the others)? You think they’ll sit quietly while you pster a new kid’s face across town?”
Ghosh nodded. “I’ve thought of that. We will roll out a campaign — ‘Legacy and Future.’ Rafael becomes the face of the club’s tradition. Bharath, the rising star. They appear together. Mentor and protégé. We shape the transition before it becomes a fight.” “That depends on Rafael agreeing to it.”
“We incentivize him. Give him creative input on a campaign — maybe even his own signature training gear. And we double down on the idea that he’s helping build the next chapter.”
Biswas grunted. “We’re not writing a novel, Ghosh. This is a football club.”
“Exactly — and in 2000, football is as much about narratives as numbers. Look at what Rising Sun is doing. Their entire youth academy unch was a media spectacle. We’re pying catch-up. Bharath is a gift. We just have to manage the pieces.”
“And the locker room?”
“Handled with care. Quiet promotions. Nothing fshy until the ga. We keep the photographers away from training. Let things build subtly.”
“And Bharath? What if this goes to his head?”
Ghosh handed over a thin mani folder. “We get ahead of that. I’ve arranged for a student psychologist — Kim, top of her css at Presidency. She observes, builds rapport. Keeps his ego in check.”
Biswas flipped through the file. “And if she fails?”
“Then we reassess. But we’re not tossing him in without a support system.”
The coach sighed. “Fine. He starts training with the seniors next week. And if he survives that, you can have your photoshoot.” Ghosh grinned. “Deal.”
Bharath stepped in, his hair still damp from his shower, hair slicked back, eyes alert but guarded. Coach Biswas sat behind his desk, the mani folder Ghosh had given him still open in front of him. Ghosh was seated on the couch, flipping through a glossy Warrior mock-up.
“Sit,” Biswas said, not looking up.
Bharath lowered himself into the chair across from him.
“You’ve got a new assignment. Warrior’s doing a brand shoot. Models. Gmour. Lights. You’re the face,” Biswas said ftly. Bharath blinked. “Wait. Warrior? The sportswear people?”
“Yes,” Ghosh chimed in with a grin. “And there’s a charity ga too. Bck tie. You’ll get the invite tomorrow.” Bharath tried to control his expression, but his mind raced. Ga. Public event. Anya. He leaned forward, suddenly breathless. “Will Anya Das be there?”
Ghosh burst into ughter. “Oh-ho! So that’s the motivation. Models, cameras, and now dream girl Anya?”
Biswas raised an eyebrow, amused. “You’ve got a better chance of running into a tiger on Park Street, but sure. Let’s say ... maybe.”
Bharath cleared his throat, cheeks reddening. “I’m just asking so I can be ... prepared.”
“Of course,” Ghosh said, still chuckling. “We’ll add ‘emotional preparedness’ to the checklist. Right next to ‘hide the erection during fittings.’”
Biswas shook his head, hiding a smirk. “Let the boy suffer in peace, Ghosh.”
Ghosh, still grinning, leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “But seriously, Bharath — this is a big deal. You’ll be representing the club in public events, ad campaigns, and possibly a media series we’re pitching for national syndication. This is about more than just football now. You’re a package — youth, talent, charm. If you’re up for it, we’ll back you. But it won’t be easy. You in?”
Bharath hesitated, overwhelmed. “That’s ... a lot. I mean, I came here to py football, not become a billboard.”
“And you will,” Biswas said, voice steady. “But football now happens in stadiums and in soundbites. You want the best contracts, you make yourself visible. Relevant. Marketable.”
Bharath sighed. “Well ... if it helps the club and gives me a chance to meet Anya ... fine.”
Biswas gnced at Ghosh and shook his head in mock defeat. “We’ll have to babysit him. Infatuated boys are walking disasters.”
“Exactly why we’re assigning you a sports psychologist,” Ghosh said, sliding a sheet from his folder. “Kim. Final year at Presidency. Trained in performance psychology. She’ll monitor your emotional well-being, help you bance training and exposure, prepare you for media pressure.”
Bharath groaned. “So now I get homework and therapy?”
“You’ll meet with her twice a week,” Ghosh continued. “She’ll be there during photoshoots, training sessions where relevant, and major public events. She won’t interfere, but she’ll report to Biswas and me.”
“This is insane,” Bharath muttered. “I’m already juggling practice, team politics, and now gmour school with supervision.”
“And you’re handling it well,” Biswas said, voice calm but steel-edged. “But let me remind you why we’re doing this.” The coach leaned forward. “You know who Krishnan Veyudham was?”
Bharath frowned. “No, sir.”
“Exactly. Ten years ago, he was the most gifted attacking midfielder I’d ever seen. Touched the ball like it was silk. Could have pyed for India and beyond. But the fame came too fast. Nightclubs. Friends who weren’t friends. Drugs. Rehab. Dead by twenty-six. Nobody remembers him now.”
The room went still.
“I was his assistant coach,” Biswas said quietly. “I promised myself I wouldn’t let that happen again.” Ghosh nodded. “This isn’t a punishment, Bharath. This is a toolkit. You learn to handle this life now — or you learn it the hard way.”
Bharath looked down, absorbing it all. Then he nodded slowly. “Alright. I’ll do it.” Biswas leaned back. “Good. Because we’re not building a brand. We’re building a footballer who can carry a brand. And Kim’s job is to make sure you don’t drop it.”
Bharath stood, posture straight. “Thank you, sir. I won’t disappoint.”
He turned to leave, then paused at the door. “Just ... if Anya really does show up at the ga, someone please warn me ahead of time. I don’t want to trip on the carpet.”
Ghosh burst into ughter again.
Biswas smirked. “If she sees you trip, and you still get her attention — then maybe you are special.”
Bharath stepped off the club bus, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and took a breath of the humid evening air. Instead of heading directly upstairs, he crossed the street to a quieter corner, and dialled home.
“Hello?” my mother’s voice was warm and immediate. “Bharath, kanna! Finally, you called. I was going to phone Biswas-ji myself!” He ughed. “Amma, please don’t call the coach. I’m alive. Just ... very busy.”
“Seri seri, you haven’t eaten properly, have you? Are you wearing enough clothes in the morning? That Calcutta chill—”
“Amma, it’s July,” Bharath groaned.
“Still! Dew in the mornings. You always used to sneeze!”
He smiled, letting her fuss. “I’m eating fine, okay? I even made pongal st week. Sort of. It was ... edible.”
“Oh Bhagavane! Pongal in Calcutta! You didn’t forget the cumin, did you?”
“I may have used garam masa by accident.”
She gasped. “Ayyo, kanna! That is a sin in a Tamil kitchen.”
He chuckled, then turned thoughtful. “Amma ... can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“What’s the story of Kamadeva? The god of love?”
She was quiet for a second. Then: “Kamadeva? Why suddenly Kamadeva?”
“Just curious. I saw a painting the other day. Got me thinking.”
“Mmm. Well ... he’s the god of desire. Wields a sugarcane bow, arrows tipped with flowers. Mango blossom, jasmine, blue lotus — symbols of sensual longing. He tried to disturb Shiva’s meditation once and was burnt to ash for it.”
“Burnt to ash?”
“Yes. But Parvati’s penance softened Shiva. Later, he restored Kamadeva — but only in spirit. Ananga, they called him after that. The bodiless one. Desire without form.”
“What does that mean?”
“That love and longing are powerful — even when invisible. Especially then.”
“And the lingam?”
She ughed gently. “Now that’s a strange question to ask your mother. But I’ll answer. The lingam isn’t just ... well, what boys snicker about. It’s cosmic. Symbol of generative power. Not just male energy — divine unity. Creation and dissolution. Shiva’s formless essence.”
“So it’s ... not dirty.”
“Of course not! Our culture never saw it that way. Only the colonisers made us ashamed of what was once sacred.” Bharath nodded slowly, then grinned. “Thanks, Amma. You should’ve been a professor.”
“No, no. I just listen to temple talks. And I still remember what my paati (grandmother) told me. Why all this sudden interest, kanna?”
“Just ... trying to understand things better.”
She paused. “You’re changing, Bharath. That’s good. Just don’t lose the boy who always asked why cows have earrings.”
He ughed. “I was five!”
“And you wouldn’t eat curd rice for two days after you thought they pierced the cows.”
They both ughed. Then she added softly, “We miss you. Even your Appa, though he’ll never say it.”
“I miss you too, Amma.”
“Wait, let me put him on. He’s pretending to read the newspaper.”
There was a shuffle, then his father’s clipped voice: “So. You finally remembered your family.”
“Appa, I’ve been training hard. Things are moving fast.”
“I heard from Biswas. He says you’ve improved. Is it true or is he being polite?”
“It’s true. I am trying very hard. I pyed in a full reserve match today. Scored. Set up two goals. They’re thinking of trying me out with the first team.”
There was a pause. Then a low grunt of satisfaction.
“Good. You’ve got three weeks, Bharath. I told you. You don’t make it to the senior team by then, you come back. I’m not funding a vacation.”
“I know, Appa. I won’t disappoint. In fact I was asked to be the face of the club for marketing.”
“And this marketing thing? You’re not going to become a model, are you? You’ll embarrass the family—”
“It’s part of the club’s campaign. I’ll be the face for Heritage City.”
“Just make sure your shirt’s not open in any ads. And smile like a gentleman. Not like you’re about to sell hair oil.”
“Appa!”
“And one more thing — you represent this family. Remember that. Confidence is good. Arrogance isn’t.”
“Understood.”
“Hmm. I’ll let that slide, since you’re working hard. Keep your priorities straight. Now I’ll put Devi on.” My sister’s voice lit up the moment she came on. “Anna! Coach told Appa about the match! Full analysis, now. Don’t you dare skip details.”
Bharath unched into a blow-by-blow recap, full of midfield rotations, off-the-ball runs, and the tactical switch in the second half.
“You pyed ugly football. Finally,” she said approvingly.
“Your advice,” he admitted.
“Of course it was my advice. You think I’ve been talking for nothing all these years? Listen — I got the match reports couriered. Plus I asked Uncle Gopi at the Madras Club — he’s got nephews in Calcutta, you know. They told him all about Rising Sun’s right fnk colpse. Over-commits every match.”
“Wait, you did what?”
“Information gathering, anna! Also, I bribed the postman to hold back a Calcutta Sports Weekly till I could read it. It had a full section on Heritage City’s st match. You’re in one of the pictures — blurry, but unmistakably awkward.” Bharath groaned. “Please don’t show Amma.”
“Already did. She said you’ve lost weight and made a pte of kesari as an offering.”
“I should’ve known.”
“By the way,” she added mischievously, “This whole ad campaign thing? Are you trying to be a hero now? You do know you’ll be expected to smile, pose, and not look like you’re about to expin the Pythagoras theorem, right?”
“It’s not like I asked to be the face of the club, Devi. They picked me.”
“That’s even worse! That means someone out there thought you were charming. Were they drunk?”
“Very funny.”
“And this ga — with models? You know, you could’ve asked me for tips. Like how not to spill chutney on yourself or trip over a dupatta.”
“I’m not that bad!”
“No? Remember the time you walked into Smita’s birthday party, tried to compliment her dress, and accidentally told her she looked like a mango leaf?”
“That was a slip!”
“She didn’t think so. And she never wore green again.”
Bharath ughed despite himself. “You’re impossible.”
“Seriously though — be smart. Say less. Smile more. Let your pying do the talking. And maybe comb your hair for once.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“And Bharath?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m proud of you. Even if you end up advertising toothpaste. Just don’t forget why you started this.”
He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Thanks, Devi. That means a lot.”
“Okay, okay. Enough sentiment. Go inside. Shower. And if you eat just bread again for dinner, I swear I’ll fly there and cook you poriyal myself.”
“I love you too.”
Bharath pushed open the apartment door, muscles aching pleasantly from the day’s exertion, to find Priya sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by papers and maps. She looked up, and for a brief moment, he caught something calcuting in her eyes before it dissolved into a casual smile.
“Well, if it isn’t the football star,” she said, gathering her papers into a neat stack. “Ki re, I was starting to think you’d moved into the locker room permanently.”
He dropped his duffel bag and colpsed onto the sofa, unable to contain his grin. “You won’t believe the day I’ve had.”
“Let me guess—tumi Olympic khelte jachho? You’ve been chosen to represent India at the Olympics?” Her voice dripped with mock seriousness.
He ughed. “Close enough. The club wants me to be the face of their new campaign with Warrior sportswear. Photo shoots, promotional events, the works.” He tried to sound casual, but excitement leaked through every word. “And there’s a ga coming up. Bck tie, celebrities, the whole circus”.
Priya raised an eyebrow. “Warrior? The brand with those ridiculous commercials where the men look like they’re having seizures while kicking balls?”
“That’s the one. And I’ll have you know those are called ‘dynamic action shots’ in the industry.”
She snorted. “Well, Mr. Dynamic Action, let’s hope they have industrial-strength deodorant on set. Ishh! After tackling your undry today, I’m genuinely concerned for the health and safety of everyone involved.”
Bharath winced. “Was it that bad?”
“Bad? Maa go! Your socks could be cssified as biological weapons. I used tongs, Bharath. Actual kitchen tongs.” She demonstrated with her hands. “Then I had to disinfect the tongs.”
He reached for a cushion and threw it at her. She dodged, ughing.
“Well, thank you for your sacrifice. I shall endeavor to be less repulsive in the future.”
“Too te. I am already traumatized!” she decred dramatically.
He hesitated, then decided to just say it. “There’s a chance Anya Das might be at the ga.”
Priya’s smile faltered slightly, but she recovered quickly. “Jaa! The mysterious goddess herself. Pnning to sweep her off her feet with your smelly charm?”
“I’m serious, Priya. This could be my chance to actually meet her”, he felt his face flush with excitement. Priya’s expression softened. “Achchha shono, Romeo, if you’re really going to attempt this, you need a strategy. Girls like Anya—they’re not impressed by stammering boys who can’t meet their eyes.”
“I can meet her eyes”, he mumbled unconvincingly.
“Sure you can.” She shifted to sit beside me on the sofa. “First rule when meeting fancy women: confidence, not arrogance. Stand straight, speak clearly, but don’t try to dominate the conversation.”
Bharath nodded, suddenly taking mental notes. “Okay. What else?”
“Listen more than you speak. Ask questions about her interests, not just about herself. And for god’s sake, don’t mention how many pictures of her you have.”
“I don’t have that many,” he lied, having collected a sizable number over the past two weeks.
She gave me a knowing look. “Third, don’t try to impress her with football stories unless she specifically asks. Nobody cares how many goals you scored in practice.”
“Speaking of which,” he said, seizing the opportunity to change topics, “I had an amazing game today. Three-one against the first team. I scored one and assisted two.”
Priya’s eyes genuinely lit up at this. She might tease, but he knew she loved football almost as much as he did. “The first team? With Rafael and Kofi?”
“The very same. I nutmegged Madhavan twice.”
She whistled, impressed despite herself. “Tell me everything. Formations? Who pyed where? What was Biswas’s strategy?”
Bharath narrowed his eyes pyfully. “Why all the detailed questions? Pnning to spy for Rising Sun?”
“Please,” she scoffed. “Rising Sun doesn’t need intelligence from a reserves pyer to beat Heritage City. They manage that quite well on their own.”
“Oh really? That’s not what happened st derby.”
“Fluke win. Your right fnk was completely exposed the entire match. Arvind just got lucky with that free kick.”
He stood up, feigning outrage. “I cannot tolerate this snder in my own home. I’m making dinner, and you get nothing unless you admit Heritage City is superior.”
“I’d rather starve,” she decred dramatically.
“Then starve you shall.” he headed toward the kitchen, knowing full well she knew he’d feed her anyway.
As he began chopping vegetables for a simple stir-fry, Priya perched on a stool at the counter, continuing their football debate. She knew her stuff—positions, tactics, pyer statistics—sometimes better than he did. Their banter flowed easily as he cooked, the apartment filling with the aroma of garlic and spices.
Over dinner, sitting cross-legged on the floor around the coffee table, the conversation shifted.
“So,” he said between bites, “what did you work on today, besides traumatizing my undry?”
Something flickered across her face—hesitation, perhaps. Then determination. She set down her fork.
“I’ve been analyzing that photograph,” she said quietly. “The one with Rekha Das.”
He nodded, immediately serious. “And?”
“I’m at a dead end. I know what I’m seeing, but I don’t know what it means. Is she deeply involved with the Syndicate? Just a casual acquaintance? I need more information before I can use this effectively.”
He considered this as he pushed rice around his pte. “What are your options?”
“Three main approaches.” She counted them off on her fingers. “Confront her directly with the photo. Leak it to the media. Or gather more intelligence first.”
“The third one seems safest,” he offered.
“Exactly what I was thinking. But I need help. I need someone who can access her world.”
He caught her meaningful look and nearly choked on his rice. “Wait, you don’t mean—”
“The ga. Anya. It’s perfect timing.”
“Priya, I can’t just—”
“You don’t have to do anything dangerous. Just observe. Talk to people. See what connections exist.”
He set his pte down, suddenly not hungry. “Using Anya to get to her mother feels ... wrong.” Priya’s eyes hardened slightly. “Don’t be naive, Bharath. The apple rarely falls far from the tree. Anya might be just as rotten as her mother.”
Something fierce and protective rose in him. “You don’t know that. You don’t know her.”
“And you do?” she challenged.
He wanted to tell her. About the dreams where Anya came to him, radiant and pure. About the spiritual connection he felt, something beyond physical attraction. About how his soul recognized hers across distances he couldn’t expin. But it sounded crazy even in his own head.
“I just ... I have a feeling about her,” he said mely.
Priya sighed. “Feelings can be deceptive. Especially when they’re coming from below the belt.”
“It’s not like that,” he insisted.
“Fine.” She raised her hands in surrender. “Just promise me you’ll be careful. Keep your eyes open. If she seems like she could be an ally, great. If not, don’t reveal anything about me or what we know.”
Bharath nodded slowly. “I can do that.”
She picked up her pte again, tension easing. “So, tell me more about this photoshoot. Will they make you oil your chest and pose dramatically with a ball?”
He groaned, grateful for the lighter turn. “God, I hope not.”
They spent the rest of the evening brainstorming schemes, mapping out possible approaches, analyzing what little they knew about the Das women and their connections. Papers spread across the floor, notes scribbled in margins, theories built and discarded.
Despite their earlier disagreement, he was struck by how seamlessly Priya and he worked together—her sharp analytical mind complimenting his intuitive thinking. By midnight, they had the outline of a pn that might just work.
As he finally headed to bed, exhausted but exhirated by the day’s events, he paused at his bedroom door.
“Priya?”
She looked up from where she was still organizing papers. “Hmm?”
“Thank you. For the advice about Anya. And for believing in me.”
She smiled, a genuine one this time. “Just don’t embarrass yourself, Silver Spoon. And remember—girls like confidence, not cologne. Less is more.”
He ughed and closed his door, falling into bed with visions of football glory and Anya’s face dancing behind his eyes.
Bharath couldn’t sleep.
The fan buzzed overhead like a tired insect. The night was heavy — full of warm air and warmer thoughts. Sweat pooled beneath his back from the humid monsoon air. His calf ached from sprints. But none of that was what kept him awake.
It was her.
Anya.
The magazine y open beside him, right where he always left it.
She stared up at him from the Warrior ad — sculpted in maroon sportswear, body mid-stretch, jaw defiant, gaze direct. Not the dream Anya draped in silk and scent, but the real-world one — the woman who had stepped out of a page and into his soul.
He ran his thumb slowly along the curve of her waist, just beneath the printed seam of her leggings. A quiet ritual. A private madness. Something he did when the silence felt too full.
He told himself it wasn’t just lust, once.
But it’d long since crossed that line.
Because it wasn’t just the ad. It was her. Her voice in his dreams. Her breath against his neck in the in-between. Her moans when he moved inside her in dreams that felt too real to forget.
She was the Red-Silk Goddess.
He knew it the moment he touched the ad that first week. Even before he saw her in the dreams, something inside him had already recognized her.
And yet—
What if Priya was right?
What if this Anya — the Anya of TV spots and glossy spreads — was something else entirely?
What if she was like her mother?
He tried to dismiss the thought. Rolled onto his side. Then back. Then punched the pillow like it owed him peace.
Because what if the woman he ached for — the one whose face he felt he knew better than his own now — turned out to be just another mask?
Worse, what if he met her and she looked right through him?
The photo shoot was only days away.
She might be there. She might not.
And if she was ... would he even tell her? Would he dare?
His hand hovered over her image again, fingertips tracing her shoulder now. As if memorizing what he’d already memorized. He could feel sleep edging in, slow and thick. Not rest — just surrender.
And then it started.
A pull — soft at first, then surer. Not from the outside. From the inside.
A ribbon of warmth tugging at his chest, coiling into his breath.
He wasn’t asleep. He wasn’t dreaming. But he was being drawn.
No chant. No prayer. No yantra. Just a thread — velvet and golden — winding around his ribs and pulling.
He blinked.
And he was there.
The dreamspace shimmered around him — silk canopies, warm wind, gold dust floating through red air like fireflies.
And she was there.
Anya
Barefoot. Bare-skinned. Blushing with heat and wonder.
When her eyes met his, her lips parted in soft astonishment.
“You came,” she whispered.
“I couldn’t asleep,” he said, voice hoarse. “I was thinking about you.”
“I couldn’t asleep either,” she breathed, stepping closer. “I was touching myself. Needing you. And suddenly ... you were here.” His heart pounded.
“You brought me.”
“No,” she said as she tilted his head down for a kiss. “We brought each other.”