Arrival in Calcutta

*18 July 2000*

The oppressive Calcutta heat hit Bharath like a wall as he stepped out of the Dum Dum International Airport. At twenty-two, he should have been accustomed to heat, having grown up in Chennai, but this was different--thick with humidity that immediately plastered his designer shirt to his back. He tugged at the collar, already regretting his decision to dress formally for his arrival.

"Bharath Hema?" A man in a crisp Heritage City Football Club jersey approached, clipboard in hand. "I'm Rajiv, team coordinator. Welcome to Calcutta.", in Hindi.

"Thank you," Bharath replied in Hindi, extending his hand. "It's an honor to be here."

Rajiv's handshake was perfunctory, his eyes already scanning for the next task on his mental checklist.

"Your luggage has been collected? Good. The car is waiting."

As they navigated through the crowded terminal, Bharath caught snippets of Bengali conversations--a language he'd need to learn quickly if he hoped to integrate fully into his new environment. His thoughts drifted to the journey that had brought him here: the youth tournaments where scouts had first noticed him, the grainy videos he had persistently sent to clubs across India, the three-day trial that had finally convinced Heritage City's management to take a chance on the technically gifted midfielder from Chennai.

The club car was modest but comfortable-the ubiquitous Ambassador. As they pulled away from the airport, Bharath watched the city unfold through the window--a chaotic tapestry of colonial architecture, modern developments, and sprawling neighborhoods that seemed to pulse with an energy entirely their own.

"First time in Calcutta?" Rajiv asked, his attention divided between his phone and the road ahead.

"Yes. I've played against Rising Sun once in a youth tournament, but that was in Bangalore."

Rajiv's eyebrows rose slightly at the mention of Heritage City's bitter rivals. "Best not to mention that match when you meet the rest of the team," he advised with a thin smile. "The Derby is... everything here."

Bharath nodded, filing away the information. He knew about the historic rivalry intellectually, but clearly had much to learn about its emotional significance to his new club.

"The management has arranged an apartment for you," Rajiv continued. "Nothing fancy, but close to the training ground. Most of the younger players live in the same area. Still - given your father's stature, management has upgraded your accommodations"

"Oh no! I didn't ask for any special privileges!," Bharath protested as Rajiv shrugged and returned his attention to his phone.

His family's substantial wealth had afforded him certain comforts in Chennai, but he'd insisted on making this move independently, accepting only the standard accommodations and salary the club offered other young players. He was dismayed to hear that his father had imposed these conditions without his knowledge. This was not going to look good to the others in his team.

Bharath sulked in the backseat as the car navigated through increasingly congested streets, honking a path through swarms of scooters, the yellow taxicabs, auto-rickshaws, and pedestrians who seemed to regard traffic lanes as mere suggestions. Eventually, they turned into a neighborhood that Rajiv identified as Salt Lake, slowing before a modest apartment building with peeling paint but well-kept grounds.

"Home sweet home," Rajiv announced, pulling up to the curb.

"Fourth floor, apartment 303. Your keys." He handed over a ring with three keys. "Training starts tomorrow morning, 8 AM sharp. The club shuttle picks up outside at 7:30. The best part about this apartment - the privacy. You're pretty lucky you know."

Before Bharath could ask any of the dozen questions that came to mind, Rajiv had helped unload his luggage and was already sliding back into the driver's seat.

"Coach Biswas doesn't tolerate lateness from anyone, especially new signings," he called through the window as he pulled away. "Welcome to Heritage City!"

Standing alone on the sidewalk with his three suitcases, Bharath felt the first twinge of uncertainty about his decision. The bustling, unfamiliar city suddenly seemed overwhelming in its indifference to his arrival. Pushing aside the doubt, he squared his shoulders and began the task of hauling his luggage up three flights of stairs in the building's elevator-free construction.

By the time he reached apartment 303, sweat had soaked through his shirt completely. He groaned as he saw the sweat stains on his armpits. So much for making good impressions with his designer shirt. He must remind his mother that he would have been better off wearing his comfortable T-shirt. But no! She insisted that he wear this designer shirt to impress.

The door unlocked with a reluctant groan, revealing a space that was basic but clean--a small living area with a decent sofa, a kitchenette with essential appliances, a bedroom just large enough for a double bed, and a bathroom with fixtures that had seen better decades. If this was the "upgraded" accommodations, Bharath was secretly glad that his father had insisted that management upgrade his lodgings. Not that he would ever admit that to him.

--

After a quick shower, he unpacked the essentials and decided to explore his new neighborhood. The streets near his apartment were alive with early evening activity--vendors selling street food from carts, children playing impromptu cricket matches in any available space, residents returning from work or heading out for the evening.

Bharath found a small restaurant with plastic chairs and a hand-painted sign in Bengali and English advertising "Famous Bengali Thali." The owner, a middle-aged man with a magnificent mustache, beamed when he entered.

"New face in neighborhood!" he declared. "You are coming from?"

"Chennai," Bharath replied. "I just arrived today."

"Ah, South Indian boy! Student? Many South Indians come for IIM."

"No, footballer. I've signed with Heritage City."

The transformation in the owner's demeanor was immediate and dramatic. He slapped his hands together in delight and shouted something in Bengali to the kitchen. Within moments, Bharath found himself seated at the best table, a glass of fresh lime soda placed before him without being ordered.

"Heritage City is pride of Bengal!" the owner proclaimed. "More than 100 years of glory! You play what position?" "Central midfielder."

"Good, good! We need strong midfield this season." The owner leaned in conspiratorially. "Rising Sun has bought expensive Nigerian striker. Very dangerous. But Heritage City spirit will prevail, yes?"

Bharath smiled, warmed by the unexpected welcome. "I hope to contribute to that spirit."

"First meal in Calcutta is on house for new Heritage City player," the owner insisted, waving away Bharath's protests. "You must try fish curry--Bengali specialty!"

"Sorry - but I am a vegetarian. I eat eggs though", Bharath said sheepishly.

"Oho na! Vegetarian! How can you play football without eating fish?!", groaned the owner. "Ok ok... you must eat a lot of Dal then!

Come here daily - I will make sure you get all the protein you need! No Roshagullas or Mishti Doi though!"

The owner yelled at his waiter to remove all the sweets from Bharath's thali - not that he minded given that he didn't like sweets much - and made sure he had lots of Dal.

The meal was delicious and abundant, the owner refusing to let his plate remain empty for even a moment. By the time Bharath finally escaped, having signed three autographs for the owner's children and promised to bring the whole team after their first victory, he felt a small but significant connection to this new city.

--

Back in his apartment, he called his family as promised.

"Ennada? How was the flight? Is the apartment acceptable? Have you met the coach yet?" His father's questions came in rapid succession, barely allowing time for answers.

"Everything's fine, Appa," Bharath assured him. "The apartment is comfortable. I'll meet the coaching staff tomorrow. Why did you ask them to upgrade me though? I didn't want special treatment!"

"Nonsense! Have you seen the barracks they house their junior players in? Despite your protests you will be singing a different tune if I had not intervened. By the way, I've spoken with Mr. Dasgupta in the management," his father continued. "He assures me they have big plans for you. But don't let that make you complacent. First impressions--"

"--are lasting impressions," Bharath finished, having heard the maxim countless times. "I know, Appa. I'll make you proud."

After reassuring his mother that yes, he had enough clothes, and no, he wasn't already homesick, he finally got to speak with his sister, Devi.

"Anna, I watched videos of Heritage City's last five matches," the sixteen-year-old announced without preamble. "Their midfield spacing is all wrong in transition phases. You'll need to adjust your positioning to compensate for the right back's tendency to push too high."

Bharath laughed. "Most sisters would ask if I've seen any famous landmarks yet."

"Boring! I need to know if you're prepared for the tactical challenges," Devi replied with the seriousness that made her football analyses both amusing and remarkably insightful. "I've created a diagram of their formation weaknesses. I'll email it tonight."

"I don't think they have an ethernet jack here in the apartment. I will have to go to an Internet Center to check it out. Anyways, what would I do without you, football genius?"

"Probably get substituted at halftime," she retorted affectionately. "Call tomorrow after training. I want full details on Coach Biswas's tactical approach."

After ending the call, Bharath realized that he still had the rest of the evening to kill. Although he had spent the afternoon arranging his meager possessions, the walls still felt alien, the space unwelcoming. Tomorrow would mark his first official training session with Heritage City FC, and despite his confidence in his abilities, anxiety gnawed at his stomach.

"Some fresh air might help," he muttered as he locked the door behind him.

--

Calcutta sprawled around him like a living entity--chaotic, vibrant, and utterly unlike the ordered affluence of his family home in Chennai. The narrow lanes twisted and turned without logic, storefronts spilling light and sound onto the street. Vendors called out in Bengali, a language that slipped past his comprehension like water through fingers.

Bharath wandered farther than intended, following the scent of street food and the sound of passionate debate from roadside tea stalls. Men gestured wildly, discussing football with the fervor of religious devotees. He caught mentions of Heritage City and felt a flutter of pride, knowing tomorrow he would don those sacred green and maroon colors.

The lanes grew narrower, the crowds thinner. The realization that he had ventured into unfamiliar territory came suddenly when the main road disappeared behind him. Electric lights gave way to scattered lamps, casting long shadows across crumbling walls decorated with faded political slogans and advertisements.

"Damn it," Bharath whispered, turning to retrace his steps. That's when he heard it--the unmistakable sound of struggle from a shadowy alley.

Three young men surrounded an elderly figure dressed in simple white cotton. The old man stood with remarkable stillness despite the threatening postures around him. One of the assailants held a small cloth bag, presumably taken from the elder.

"My medicines," the old man said in accented Hindi, his voice steady but resigned. "Please return them."

The tallest aggressor responded with a harsh laugh, shoving the old man against the wall.

Without conscious thought, Bharath found himself moving forward. "Hey!" he called out in Hindi, his voice carrying the authority that came naturally to him. "Three against one old man? Is that how you prove yourselves in Calcutta?"

The trio turned, sizing him up. Bharath knew what they saw--a well-built young man, over 6 feet tall, with the physical confidence of an athlete. He straightened to his full height, leveraging every bit of his privileged upbringing to project an aura of untouchable assurance.

"This isn't your business, chikne (pretty boy)" the tall one said in broken Hindi. "Go away."

Bharath stepped closer, heart pounding but face impassive. "I'm Bharath Hema. I play for Heritage City now." He had yet to kick a ball for the club, but the name carried weight. "Would your friends be impressed to know you're harassing elders while wearing that?"

Bharath pointed to the green and maroon scarf tucked into one man's pocket--team colors that transformed his bluff into a direct challenge.

A tense moment passed before the tall one spat on the ground and tossed the cloth bag at the old man's feet. "Keep your trash, old fool.

The three retreated, disappearing into the maze of alleys with final glares that promised future reckonings. Bharath released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Are you alright, sir?" he asked, bending to retrieve the fallen bag.

The elderly man studied him with eyes that seemed to penetrate beyond flesh. Despite his worn clothes and thin frame, he radiated a peculiar dignity that commanded respect.

"You have courage, young one. Coming to a stranger's aid in a city not your own. Especially in Kalyug" His Hindi carried the melodic cadence of some unrecognizable dialect, but was surprisingly clear.

"Anyone would have done the same," Bharath replied, though he suspected that wasn't true.

The old man smiled, deeply wrinkled skin crinkling around piercing dark eyes. "No. In today's Kalyug, most would not." He accepted the bag with gnarled hands. "I am Guruji. These are sacred herbs for my practices."

"I'm Bharath. I just arrived from Chennai to play football." He glanced around, suddenly aware of how lost he truly was. "Actually, I'm not sure how to get back to my apartment near Salt Lake."

Guruji nodded. "The city tests newcomers. But you have passed a different test tonight." He reached into his bag, extracting a small pouch of what looked like dried leaves and flowers. "For your kindness, I wish to offer a blessing."

Before Bharath could politely decline, the old yogi had reached up--surprisingly tall when fully straightened--and pressed his palm against his forehead. The touch sent an unexpected warmth cascading through Bharath's body, like hot honey flowing through his veins. For a moment, the alley seemed to pulse with golden light, though later he would attribute this to a trick of the fading evening sun.

Guruji began to chant in Sanskrit, his voice taking on a resonance that seemed impossible from such a frail frame.

Though Bharath didn't understand the words, something ancient and powerful stirred in response. It was similar to the rituals his mother and father assiduously performed every morning before any work began.

The sensation intensified, centering in his lower abdomen before spreading outward to his limbs, a pleasant tingling that left him slightly dizzy.

"What was that?" Bharath asked when the chanting ceased, the warmth slowly fading but leaving a lingering awareness in his body.

The yogi smiled enigmatically. The yogi's gaze became distant, as though seeing beyond the present moment. "I have awakened what lies dormant in all men, but manifests in few. The seed of the ancient power of Kamadeva."

His voice dropped to a whisper. "This gift grows stronger as the circle widens. Many hearts beating as one, many souls entwined with yours. However, just having the blessing means nothing. Only if you are deserving, will it grow and capture the hearts."

He pressed the small pouch of herbs into Bharath's palm. "Keep this near while you sleep today. Dreams will come. You will not understand them yet. The hearts will decide whether you are worthy. However, I saw in you something that says you are worthy. Let us see if you live up to the signs."

Bharath accepted the pouch more out of politeness than understanding. "I'm not sure what you mean. What circle? What power? What hearts?"

The yogi merely smiled. "The path reveals itself to the traveler, not to the one who merely asks for directions." He gestured vaguely down the alley. "Three lefts, then a right at the temple with a blue door. You will see the main road."

As Bharath turned to leave, the yogi called after him. "The flower does not bloom alone, young one. It requires many elements--sun, water, earth, air--just as your gift requires others to reach its fullest expression. Remember this when she comes. And the next. And the next."

With that cryptic statement, the yogi bowed slightly and walked away, his gait surprisingly spry for his apparent age. Bharath stood bewildered, the herbal pouch warm in his hand, emitting a scent both earthy and sweet.

"Right," he muttered to himself, pocketing the strange gift. "Three lefts and a right."

Following the directions, Bharath indeed found himself back on a main thoroughfare, city lights illuminating his path home. By the time he reached his apartment, the encounter had already begun to feel dreamlike, overshadowed by thoughts of tomorrow's first training session.

He placed the pouch on the nightstand without much thought, his mind turning to football strategies and the challenges ahead. After setting the alarm to ensure that he woke up nice and early to perform his morning exercises, Bharath drifted to sleep. The herbs from Gurujis pouch smelled lovely in the room as the herbs released their subtle aroma into the air.

That night, sleep didn't come gently--it took him.

--

Bharath was pulled under like a tide swallowing the shore, sinking into a dream more vivid than waking life. The boundary between reality and vision dissolved, leaving him weightless, suspended in a realm where time coiled like a serpent around its own tail.

He stood at the center of a vast yantra (instrument or machine in Sanskrit), a living mandala inscribed into sacred earth, glowing with ancient energy. The ground beneath him was not stone, not sand, but something between--warm, breathing, alive. Intricate patterns of lotus petals, serpents, and interwoven triangles spiraled outward beneath his bare feet, each line pulsing with golden-red light, alive with breath and heat. The air smelled of crushed sandalwood and monsoon rain (like the herbs the Guruji had given him earlier), thick with the promise of storms.

In the center, rising from a coiled bed of energy, was a great lingam stone, obsidian and slick with dew. Coiling around its base was a silver yoni, the union of forces humming with power. The sight sent a shiver through Bharath--not fear, but recognition, as if some long-buried part of his soul remembered this place.

The air vibrated like the space before a monsoon, charged with something primal.

Then, the lingam multiplied--once, thrice, then elevenfold--until dozens of stones stood in a vast circle, each occupying a sacred position on the yantra. Each pulsed with possibility, waiting.

And then... they began to appear.

She came wrapped in red so deep it bled.

Silk whispered secrets against her thighs as she moved, the fabric clinging to petite curves poets would call alankara - ornamentation made flesh. Her almond eyes held Bharath's with a recognition that ached like a name half-remembered from a past life. "I have judged you and I find you worthy," she breathed, her bangles singing like temple bells behind palace walls. "You have known me before. Not in this age, perhaps. But you will know me again when the silk splits for your gaze alone, when others see only the drape of fabric while you trace the tremble beneath."

Her fingers painted heat upon the stone.

"Seek me where gold changes hands beneath false smiles," she murmured against his pulse. "Where a woman's grip leaves bruises as she barters my worth. You - only you will ask what verses I whisper when the lamps gutter low."

Then she was smoke, leaving only the phantom weight of unwanted stones at his throat.

Before Bharath could process the goddess that had appeared in front of him, another goddess emerged from curling incense, brown curls damp with sanctified waters.

No rich silks adorned her - only the simple cotton of a scholar's devotion, clinging transparent where anointing oils had soaked through, barely hiding her spectacular figure. Her dimples appeared before her smile, as if joy could not be contained.

"They will send me to measure your soul," she said, her palm flowering light against the stone. "I will chart your breaths in sleep, the way your flesh knits whole beneath my fingers. When the numbers sing your heresies, I will burn the scrolls rather than betray their song."

Her hands, smooth with the lotions of ritual purity, cradled Bharath's face.

"My blood will call it madness," she whispered. "You will taste it on my tongue and name it truth."

For a heartbeat, Bharath saw her - forehead pressed to cold floors as stern voices rained like blows, her fingers tracing his name in spilled ash. Then only her warmth remained, lingering like the fading scent of jasmine on a summer night.

The air trembled as the next goddess took form--elegance, yet sculpted like a whispered devotion, her body a prayer pressed into flesh. Moonlight wrapped her in reverence, catching on silver silk that clung to the full swell of her breasts, the impossible grace of her waist, the lush, aching geometry of hips made to unmake resolve.

Her eyes--storm cloud grey and merciless--gleamed with truths too sharp to speak aloud. Strands of onyx hair slipped from their pearl-caged knot, skimming the strength in her neck where rudraksha beads lay like relics forgotten in shadow.

When her fingers--henna-stained and trembling--brushed the stone, the air tightened, humming not with challenge, but anticipation. A string drawn back, aching for release.

"I'll wound you first," she said, lips shaped like secrets, voice softer now, as if the sharpness was already slipping. "When you stand near her--that blushing shakti in her sacrificial red--I'll bury every polished cruelty I learned in mirrored halls, in jeweled courtyards where women wear poison behind their smiles."

Behind her, the shadows flinched. She didn't.

But she swayed. Just barely. As though some invisible thread had tugged her forward.

Her gaze met Bharath's--and something in it shattered.

Stillness. Then one step. Another. Close enough for the scent of spice and storm-washed skin to consume him. Her hands hovered near his chest, uncertain now, no longer blades but birds unsure of their landing.

"You won't even speak," she breathed, more to herself than to him. And then, almost like confession, "Why does that make it worse?" She kissed him.

Slow at first, as if fearing the ruin of it. But then--it bloomed. Fierce and trembling, her lips parting not in arrogance but in surrender. Her proud spine curved with a whimper she could no longer silence, and her body and lips--so careful, so composed--pressed into his as if defiance had melted straight from her bones.

When she broke away, her lower lip shone. Her breath came too fast.

"This--" she touched her mouth with shaking fingers, storm-grey eyes wide with disbelief, "changes nothing."

But the retreat was clumsy. The flush on her throat betrayed her. And her fingers kept returning, again and again, to the place where he'd touched her.

As if afraid the warmth might fade.

The stones had spoken. The fire was kindled.

Now - they would burn.

---

*19 July 2000*

Bharath gasped awake, his body arching off the bed as if pulled by invisible strings. The sheets were soaked through--not just with sweat, but with something thicker, muskier, the scent of crushed flowers and sex clinging to his skin. His heart hammered against his ribs like a temple drum in frenzy.

He groaned, pressing the heels of his palms against his closed eyes, as if he could push the visions deeper into his skull. The scent of jasmine and sacred oil still haunted the air.

The dream.

The dream.

Fragments flashed behind his eyelids--silken skin, whispered promises, the taste of sacred and sinful mingling on his tongue. He had never remembered his dreams before.

Not truly.

They slipped away like smoke through fingers, leaving only vague unease or fleeting warmth. But this...

This was branded into him.

He could still feel them--the press of full lips against his, the drag of nails down his chest, the sinful roll of hips against his own. The details were already sharpening in his mind, not fading like dreams ought to. The curve of a waist beneath his palms. The sound of a gasp against his ear. The way his name had been moaned like a prayer.

Bharath shuddered, his cock twitching at the phantom sensations he had never felt before.

He dragged a hand down his face, breath ragged. Every nerve still hummed with the aftershocks of pleasure, his body taut with need. The thin fabric of his sleep clothes did nothing to hide the evidence of his arousal, the aching length of him straining against the damp material.

A laugh bubbled up--half-disbelief, half-wonder.

What was this? Some divine joke? A glimpse of something beyond mortal understanding?

Or just the best damn dream he'd ever had in his life?

He knew one thing for certain: he would never forget it.

Bharath turned to look at the pouch the Guru had given him yesterday. The herbs! Did they make him delirious? Did he get drugged somehow? He got up and fingered the pouch on his nightstand. The pouch was empty! All that remained was warm ash.

This wasn't just a dream.

It was a promise.

And if those women were real--if they were truly coming--he wasn't sure he'd survive it.

--

The club shuttle was actually a weathered minibus with the Heritage City crest painted on its side. When Bharath emerged from his building at 7:10, he saw several other young players in their jerseys already waiting at a spot further along the street. They were engaged in casual conversation that stopped abruptly as he approached.

"Good morning," he offered with a smile, setting his training bag down. "I'm Bharath Hema, just signed from Chennai."

The tallest of the group, a lanky defender he would later learn was named Pritam, looked him up and down with unconcealed derision. "The midfielder with the fancy skills videos? Heard about you. Apparently you are so good that you are not even worthy of staying with the rest of us. Heard that you've been given the fancy quarters for yourself!"

"Nothing fancy about hard work," Bharath replied, maintaining his smile despite feeling a sinking feeling in his stomach trying to ignore the fact that he had been given preferential treatment.

"We'll see about that," another player muttered just loudly enough to be heard.

The minibus arrived before the awkward moment could extend further. The journey to the training ground passed in silence, with Bharath gazing out the window while covertly observing his new teammates. Their closed body language and occasional whispered comments made it clear he was the subject of discussion--and not particularly favorable discussion at that.

As the minibus passengers disembarked, the players quickly disembarked and disappeared into the stadium before he could blink. Bharath found himself alone again, uncertain where to go.

The mid-morning sun beat down mercilessly as he stepped off the bus at the stadium. He wiped sweat from his brow and gazed up at the colossal structure. He'd seen photographs, of course, but nothing prepared him for the sheer scale of one of India's largest football arenas. With a capacity of 35,000 screaming fans, it dwarfed the modest grounds he'd played on in Chennai.

This is where legends are made, he thought, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag on his shoulder.

Behind him, the bus pulled away with a diesel growl, leaving him alone on the pavement. Swarms of people moved past--vendors setting up stalls, staff in Heritage City colors hustling through side entrances, and a few early fans lingering near the gates hoping to glimpse their heroes during training.

None of them gave him a second glance. He was just another young man with a sports bag in a city obsessed with football. But if things went according to plan, that anonymity wouldn't last long.

Taking a deep breath of the humid Calcutta air, thick with spices, exhaust fumes, and the unmistakable electricity of a football-mad metropolis, Bharath started walking toward the players' entrance.

"You're the new boy, aren't you?" A security guard eyed him suspiciously. "Tamil, right?"

"Yes, sir," he replied in careful Hindi. "Bharath Hema. I'm supposed to report to Coach Biswas today."

The guard examined the ID card he produced, compared it to a clipboard, then nodded grudgingly. "First time in Calcutta?"

"Yes, sir."

The guard's expression softened slightly. "Welcome to the real home of Indian football. Better not keep the coach waiting."

Bharath thanked him and followed the indicated pathway, moving through a long tunnel that gradually opened into the most pristine football pitch he'd ever seen in India. Two dozen men in green and maroon training kits were already running drills, their shouts echoing off empty stands.

A tall, stern-looking man with silver temples broke away from the group and approached. "You must be Hema," he said without preamble. "I'm Coach Biswas."

"Yes, sir. Thank you for the opportunity--"

"Save it," Biswas cut him off with a wave. "Your father's connections got you here. What you do with that opportunity is your business. Training started ten minutes ago."

The coach turned and walked away, leaving Bharath standing awkwardly at the edge of the pitch. For a moment, he considered calling out that he didn't know where to go when he disembarked, that the Chennai club had forwarded all his statistics, that his father had nothing to do with his signing--but the words died in his throat.

An assistant pointed him toward the changing rooms. "Hurry up," the man said with a sympathetic smile. "First impressions, you know?"

The changing room was nearly empty, with just one player retying his boots in the corner.

"You're Hema, right?" the player asked without looking up. "The Tamil boy everyone's talking about." Bharath set his bag down. "Bharath, yes. What are they saying?"

The player--Pranab, according to the name on his locker--finished with his laces and finally looked up. "That your daddy bought you a contract. That you've never had to fight for anything in your life." He stood, trying to tower over Bharath despite his superior height. "That you've got fancy technique but no heart."

Bharath felt heat rising in his face. "I earned my place here."

Pranab shrugged. "We'll see, Silver Spoon." He brushed past Bharath, deliberately knocking their shoulders together. "Better hurry. Coach hates prima donnas more than he hates latecomers."

Alone in the locker room, Bharath changed quickly, his hands trembling slightly with a mixture of anger and anxiety. His new training kit, freshly emblazoned with the iconic green and maroon of Heritage City Athletic Club, felt heavier than it should.

Focus on why you're here, he told himself as he laced up his boots. Prove it on the pitch.

"Hema! I'm Amit, assistant coach," he said, extending a hand. "Come with me. Coach Biswas wants a quick word before you join training."

Amit led him through the main building to a modest office where the coach sat reviewing footage on a laptop. He looked up as they entered, his expression revealing nothing.

"So this is our new signing," Coach Biswas said, standing to reveal a tall frame that still carried the authority of a former player. "Bharath Hema. The boy wonder from Chennai."

"It's an honor to meet you, sir," Bharath said, offering his hand glad to have a chance to make up for the late arrival. Biswas shook it firmly, his dark eyes scrutinizing him with uncomfortable intensity. "Your trial showed potential, but trials are not matches. And training sessions are not trials. Understanding the difference is the first lesson for any player at this club."

"Yes, sir."

"Heritage City is not just a football club," Biswas continued, gesturing to a wall covered with historic team photos. "It is an institution. The oldest club in Asia. The first Indian team to defeat a British side during colonial rule. When you wear our colors, you carry that legacy."

Bharath nodded, recognizing the importance of acknowledging the club's history. "I understand the responsibility, sir."

"Do you?" Biswas's tone suggested doubt. "Your technical ability is evident in your trial videos. But football is played with the heart as much as the feet. Especially at this club."

Before Bharath could respond, Biswas returned to his seat. "Amit will show you to the changing room. Now, you train with the reserve team. Prove yourself there first."

It was a dismissal, albeit a polite one. As Amit led him out, Bharath felt a mixture of disappointment and determination. He hadn't expected to walk straight into the first team, but he'd hoped for at least a chance to train with them.

"Don't take it personally," Amit said as they walked toward the changing rooms.

"Biswas starts everyone with the reserves, even established signings. He believes in earning your place."

"I understand," Bharath replied, though privately he wondered if his background made the path steeper for him than others.

The reserve team changing room was already busy with players preparing for training. Conversations once again faltered as he entered, resuming in muted tones as Amit directed him to an empty locker.

"Training kit is in there," Amit explained. "We'll get your personalized gear sorted by the end of the week. Session starts in fifteen minutes on Pitch 3."

Left alone among his new reserve teammates, Bharath focused on changing into the training kit, trying to project confidence despite the palpable skepticism surrounding him. He caught fragments of whispered Bengali, recognizing enough to understand that his signing had been a topic of debate within the squad.

"Silver Spoon," he heard distinctly, followed by laughter that required no translation.

Bharath had expected some resistance--he was an outsider from a wealthy family entering a club with deep working-class roots. But the intensity of the initial rejection surprised him. In Chennai, his talent had eventually overcome similar prejudices. He would simply have to prove himself all over again.

Pitch 3 turned out to be the farthest from the main building, clearly designated for the reserves and youth teams. As the players gathered for the start of training, Bharath noticed the quality of the surface--perfectly adequate, but not maintained to the same standard as the pitches where the first team would train.

The reserve team coach, a former Heritage City defender named Kunal, began the session with a series of dynamic stretches. Bharath focused on executing each movement precisely, aware of the evaluative glances being cast his way.

--

The initial passing drills highlighted both his technical strength and immediate challenge. His touch was immaculate, passing crisp and accurate. But his teammates seemed reluctant to pass to him, and when they did, the balls often came at awkward heights or with unnecessary pace--small acts of sabotage designed to make him look awkward.

Bharath adapted quickly, adjusting his body position to handle the difficult passes, refusing to show frustration. When Coach Kunal organized a small-side training game, however, the isolation became more pronounced. Teammates ignored his runs, overlooked him when he was in space, and occasionally delivered unnecessarily physical challenges when he did receive the ball.

During one such challenge, a powerfully built defender named Sunil came in with a late tackle that caught his ankle rather than the ball. The pain was immediate and intense, causing him to crumple to the ground.

"Welcome to Bengal football," Sunil muttered as he jogged away, not even feigning an apology.

Coach Kunal blew his whistle sharply. "Sunil! That's enough. This is training, not the Derby."

Bharath gingerly tested his ankle as the team physio hurried over. The joint was already swelling a little, pain shooting up his leg when he tried to put weight on it. However, he could put some weight on his foot.

"Looks like you've twisted your ankle," the physio muttered after a brief examination. "Luckily it doesn't look too serious. You'll need to ice it immediately and rest for at least three days."

"I can continue," Bharath insisted, unwilling to appear weak on his first day.

The physio shook his head. "Not advisable. Further stress could extend the recovery time significantly."

Reluctantly, Bharath allowed himself to be helped to the sideline. As he watched the remainder of the session from a bench, ice pack strapped to his ankle, he couldn't help but notice the barely concealed satisfaction on some of his teammates' faces.

Assistant Coach Amit appeared beside him, having apparently observed the incident from the adjacent pitch. "How bad is it?" "The physio says three days minimum," frustration evident in Bharath's voice.

Amit nodded, watching the training game continue without comment for several moments. Finally, he said, "It's not personal, you know. Not really."

"Feels pretty personal from where I'm sitting."

"It's about what you represent to them," Amit explained. "Your father is a successful businessman. You attended elite schools. You have options beyond football. For most of them, this game is their only path out of difficult circumstances." "I've worked just as hard for this opportunity," Bharath protested.

"Perhaps. But they perceive your journey as easier." Amit shrugged. "Fair or not, that's the reality you face. They're testing you--not just your skill, but your commitment, your resilience."

"By injuring me before I can even show what I can do?"

Amit's expression hardened slightly. "If you're looking for fairness in football, you've chosen the wrong profession. Prove yourself through your response to this challenge, not by complaining about it."

The assistant coach walked away, leaving Bharath to reflect on the conversation. The throbbing in his ankle seemed to intensify with his growing determination. This wasn't the first obstacle he'd faced in his young career, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Somehow, he would find a way to overcome both the injury and the prejudice.

After the session ended, the team physio helped him to the medical room for a more thorough examination. The diagnosis remained the same: a twisted ankle and not the dreaded ligament tear that would require a few days of rest, ice, compression, and elevation.

"Follow the RICE protocol strictly," the physio instructed, wrapping an elastic bandage around the swollen joint. "Especially the rest component. No weight-bearing activity for at least 48 hours."

With a pair of crutches and a bag of ice packs, Bharath made his way back to the changing room, which was now mostly empty. As he struggled to change out of his training kit one-handed while balancing on one good leg, he heard a derisive chuckle from behind him. "First day not going as planned, Silver Spoon?" It was Sunil, the defender responsible for the tackle.

Bharath turned, meeting the larger player's gaze directly. "Everyone has setbacks. It's how you respond that matters."

"Pretty words from a pretty boy," Sunil sneered. "Wonder how many setbacks it will take before you run back to daddy's company in Chennai."

"I guess we'll find out," Bharath replied evenly, refusing to be provoked. "Because I'm not going anywhere."

Something in his tone must have conveyed his determination, because Sunil's expression flickered briefly before hardening again. "We'll see about that," he muttered before shouldering past Bharath roughly enough to make him stumble on his crutches.

--

The journey back to his apartment was a logistical challenge involving a rickshaw, crutches, and three flights of stairs that seemed to have multiplied since morning. By the time Bharath collapsed onto his sofa, his ankle was throbbing despite the compression bandage, and his spirits had reached their lowest point since arriving in Calcutta.

Although he wished his father had not "upgraded" his living quarters (which surely increased the resentment against him), he privately thanked him for the apartment as it was private, away from the judgmental eyes of his new teammates. The medic had given him some anti-inflammatory pills, but they barely took the edge off.

Looking around the sparse room, the full weight of his situation hit him. Here he was, hundreds of miles from home, in a city where he knew no one, surrounded by teammates who had decided to hate him before even meeting him, and now injured on day one. The familiar chime of his phone offered a momentary distraction. Devi's name flashed on the screen.

"Anna!" Her voice, so full of excitement, was like a burst of sunshine. "How was your first day? Did you score five goals? Did they make you captain already?"

Despite everything, Bharath found himself smiling. "Not quite, Devi."

"Tell me everything," she demanded. Devi was already football-obsessed, analyzing matches with an insight that would have surprised even professional commentators.

Bharath hesitated, then gave her the unvarnished truth. He knew she'd see through any attempt to sugarcoat it.

"Oh," she said when he finished. "That's... not good."

"No kidding."

"The tackle was deliberate?"

"Completely. He wasn't even trying for the ball."

There was a thoughtful pause on the line. "They're threatened by you."

Bharath snorted. "They don't need to be. I'm on crutches."

"No, listen," Devi insisted with the confidence of someone twice her age. "I've been reading about Heritage City. Their midfield has been struggling all season. Their pass completion rate is one of the lowest in the league. Then they sign you--with the highest accuracy stats in Tamil Nadu. Of course they're scared."

"I don't think fear is what I saw in their eyes, Devi."

"Fear wears many masks, especially male fear," she said, quoting one of their mother's favorite sayings. "What you need to do is--"

"Hold on," Bharath interrupted, "are you seriously giving me football advice right now?"

"Someone has to," she replied without missing a beat. "Your problem is you're trying to show off your technical skills, but that's actually making things worse. Not to mention you are from a rich family who has been given a fancy apartment. They already know you're good with the ball--that's why they hate you. You need to show them you can do the ugly work too. Play ugly football"

"Ugly football?"

"Defensive tracking. Pressing. 50-50 challenges. Show them you're not afraid to get your pretty kit dirty."

Bharath couldn't help but laugh. "When did my little sister become a tactical genius?"

"I've always been a genius. You were just too busy with your step-overs to notice."

Her tone softened. "How bad is the ankle, really?"

"Luckily, not too bad. Doc says it is just a twisted ankle. I should recover in a couple of days but at least a few days before I can play again."

"Then use the time. Study how they play. Learn their patterns. When you get back, you'll know exactly how to fit in."

After promising to call again soon, Bharath ended the call feeling marginally better. His sister had a knack for cutting through problems to their essence. The isolation and hostility still stung, but at least he had a path forward.

--

Hoping to shake off the lingering melancholy of a bad day--Bharath opened his last suitcase. Books spilled out like old companions, their spines worn, pages scented with comfort. He chose one at random, some well-thumbed pulp to anchor him to the present, and dropped onto the sofa. The TV hummed into life with a lazy flick of the remote, landing on MTV India. He let the swirl of music and color drift through the room as background noise, more ghost than distraction.

Time passed in soft, forgettable chunks. Bharath turned pages. Music videos blurred. Then a song began--one he recognized, one his sister used to hum while brushing her hair, her voice trailing off like forgotten dreams. He almost changed the channel. And then--she appeared.

The screen bloomed red.

A woman walked through smoke and spotlight, wrapped in silk the color of old blood. It clung to her body like memory, flowing over petite curves shaped like temple carvings brought to life. Her almond eyes locked onto the camera with a familiarity that punched the breath from his lungs.

Her.

Her.

From the dream.

The same face. The same impossible beauty, as if someone had reached into his mind and pulled her into the waking world. Her bangles sang with each movement--faint, yes, but enough to stir the memory of a voice whispering "You have known me before." Bharath sat frozen, book slipping from his hand. The silk shimmered with every step she took. Her gaze, though distant on the screen, seemed to pierce through the glass and into him, carrying that same unbearable ache of recognition.

When the video ended, Bharath found himself staring at the empty screen, heart still pounding. The air felt heavier. As if she'd passed through it.

Bharath needed to breathe. To ground himself. So he tore open the welcome kit left on the desk that he had ignore till now--a packet of papers and pleasantries from the club, a map of the surrounding area, and a glossy sports magazine that smelled faintly of ink and plastic.

Flipping through it without focus, he nearly missed her again.

She stared out from a full-page ad, draped not in silk this time but athletic wear--still fierce, still unforgettable. Her name, printed in clean white serif at the bottom corner, made his throat tighten.

Anya Das

Face of a rising sportswear brand, part of a new campaign for the growing football market in India.

But none of that mattered. Because it was her. The same passion in her gaze. The same curve to her lips, not quite a smile. And in her eyes--not seduction, not marketing gloss, but the challenge of a woman who remembered a story he had yet to understand.

Bharath ran a finger along the edge of the page.

Not a dream, then. Or maybe not only a dream.

He propped the magazine open on his bedside table, her image facing him as the night closed in. A talisman, perhaps. A promise. A warning.

"Seek me where gold changes hands beneath false smiles..."

--

Bharath didn't sleep easily that night. But he didn't close the magazine either.

And when the wind stirred the curtains near dawn, he swore he heard bangles.

After a dinner of delivery food eaten straight from the container, Bharath took another pain pill and carefully stretched out on the bed. His ankle throbbed painfully, a constant reminder of his disastrous first day.

One bad day doesn't define a career, he reminded himself. Tomorrow would be better.

With Anya Das's enigmatic gaze the last thing he saw before closing his eyes, Bharath drifted into an exhausted sleep.

The dream began like memory disguised in light.

Bharath stood alone at center pitch in the Heritage City Stadium. But it wasn't a real stadium--it was vast and dreamlike, suspended beneath a sky of swirling gold and maroon. The crowd around him chanted his name--not in a roar, but in a melodic hum, like a thousand tongues reciting a sacred hymn. The grass beneath his feet shimmered with light, each blade alive.

He moved with the ball at his feet--faster, smoother than ever before. Defenders dissolved into dust. The net beckoned him like a lover's arms. But his eyes were not on the goal.

They were on her.

Anya

She stood high above the field, in a throne-like balcony draped in red velvet and moonlight. Her sari was sheer, the color of crushed pomegranates, hugging her curves like desire made fabric. Her black hair cascaded in waves, her almond eyes locked on him--not with admiration, but with possession. As if she already knew every secret inside him. As if she had always known.

Bharath kicked the ball. The net rippled. The crowd exploded--but it all went silent.

She raised a hand. Beckoned.

The world shifted.

Now they were in a hotel suite suspended above a twilight city. Persian rugs soaked up the lamplight. Walls whispered indecipherable secrets. Rain tapped against the tall windows like a rhythmic invocation.

And she was there.

Barefoot. Glowing. Her sari loosened, clinging to her like mist on morning skin. She moved with the ease of someone born in dreams, hips swaying, eyes smoldering. The air between them pulsed with sandalwood, jasmine, and something rawer--unfiltered need. "I've been waiting," she said, her voice low, musical, and thick with promise. "You don't remember me yet... but your body does." She reached out and her fingers brushed his chest. His breath caught. It wasn't just arousal--it was recognition. Like something sacred stirred awake inside him.

Bharath cupped her waist. The silk of her sari whispered against his palms. She pressed into him, their mouths finding each other with slow-burning hunger. Her kiss was molten. Devouring. Her hands explored his back, his shoulders, his chest--as if memorizing him again. He lifted her in his arms, carried her to the bed as red petals fell like rain from the ceiling. The sheets were crimson, cool beneath her skin. He knelt between her legs, eyes tracing every inch of her body as he undressed her with worshipful patience. She was flawless--soft, strong, trembling. Her pert breasts rose and fell with anticipation, her thighs parted for him like petals unfolding at dawn.

Bharath kissed her collarbone. Her stomach. Her hips. His tongue found the space just above her pelvis and she moaned--a sound that vibrated through his bones.

"Bharath..." she whispered.

His name on her lips unlocked something inside him.

He entered her with one slow, reverent thrust. She arched into him, gasping, and they began to move together--not frantically, but in a deep, undulating rhythm. Like tides pulled by ancient moons. Her nails scratched his back. His teeth found her shoulder. Her legs wrapped around his hips, drawing him deeper, as if her body wanted to devour him whole.

Bharath kissed her everywhere. He wanted to taste her breath, her sweat, the heat between her thighs. And she gave--freely, wildly, like a storm breaking over a dry land. Every movement from her was sacred. Every moan, a chant. Every climax, a prayer answered. As their bodies moved faster, the energy around them changed.

A glow burst from their skin--gold and violet light, coiling like serpents through the air. Their hearts beat in unison. The room trembled with power. Something inside Bharath cracked open.

And when they came together--her body shaking, his cry muffled against her neck--the light exploded outward, wrapping them in warmth and peace.

Bharath floated. Weightless.

He felt no pain. No soreness. Only bliss. His body tingled as if every nerve had been reborn. She looked up at him with eyes shining like stars, and for one long, impossible moment, he felt complete.

Bharath whispered something into her ear. Something he didn't remember when he awoke.

But the feeling remained.

--

Anya Das slept beneath crisp white sheets in her suite at The Oberoi. The soft hum of the AC was the only sound, but within her, something had already begun to stir. The exhaustion of the previous day's modeling shoot still clung to her limbs, but even that weight began to lift, gently, like silk unraveling.

Then the dream took her.

It began in silence--a moonlit corridor carved in white marble, where the walls glimmered with ancient script and the scent of jasmine and camphor perfumed the air. She was barefoot, her body clothed in a sheer red sari that clung to her curves like liquid flame, the fabric shifting with her every breath. The air was warm, expectant. Charged.

She turned, sensing him.

Bharath.

She didn't know his name, not in the waking world--not yet. But in the dream, his name pulsed through her like a mantra, like a secret her body had always known. He stood at the end of the corridor, shirtless, bronzed skin glowing under the golden lamps, his chest broad, his waist lean, his eyes dark with intensity. There was reverence in the way he looked at her, and hunger, too--a kind of sacred hunger that sent a thrill spiraling through her spine.

She stepped toward him, the sound of her anklets chiming like temple bells. He met her halfway, lifting a hand to her cheek. His touch was reverent, warm, steady. Her breath hitched.

"I've waited for you," she said, though she didn't know why. The words came from someplace deeper than her mind.

His lips brushed her forehead first--a blessing, a promise. Then he kissed her temple, her cheek, and finally, her mouth.

When their lips met, it was unlike anything she had ever imagined. His mouth moved against hers with aching patience, tasting, teasing, coaxing out sighs that melted into the night. His hands framed her waist, pulling her against him, and she gasped at the contact--his hardness pressing against her softness, the heat between them igniting.

The corridor around them shifted, becoming something else entirely.

A sacred chamber now. Soft rugs beneath their feet, lanterns swinging from high domed ceilings, casting shadows that danced like flame spirits. The air grew thick with incense and desire.

He laid her down on a bed of rose petals and silk, his fingers peeling the sari from her body with the slow devotion of someone unwrapping a relic. Her skin burned where his eyes lingered. No man had ever looked at her this way--as though each curve of her body was sacred, worthy of worship.

"You are a goddess," he whispered. "You will know loneliness no more. We belong together. For eternity."

His mouth followed the path of his gaze. He kissed her collarbone, her breasts, her belly. He whispered her name like a chant, like it anchored him. And every place he touched awakened a new ache inside her--something ancient, something wild. Her thighs parted of their own accord, welcoming him, calling him deeper.

He took his time.

Their bodies moved together in slow waves--an ebb and flow of breath and skin and wet heat. His hands gripped her hips with reverence, his lips murmured against her neck, and when he entered her, she cried out--not just from pleasure, but from recognition.

It felt as though she had known him for lifetimes. As though they had done this a thousand times before, in temples lost to history, beneath moons that had long since fallen.

Each stroke unraveled her. Each kiss rebuilt her.

She clung to him, nails raking down his back, legs tightening around his waist.

His name--though she didn't know how she knew it--slipped from her lips in gasps: Bharath... Bharath... Her climax hit like a wave crashing through centuries, rolling through her body in spirals of heat and light and breathless joy.

But it didn't stop there.

A golden glow erupted from where their bodies joined. Not light, not fire--something else. Energy. Sacred. Alive. It wrapped around them, lifted them, suspended them in the space between worlds. She felt weightless and full at once, her heart cracking open as something divine poured into her.

And then--silence. A single moment of stillness.

--

*20 July 2000*

Anya woke with a sharp inhale, the kind that chased away dreams and pulled the real world into focus. Her first thought was of him. The man with the dusky skin and reverent hands. She didn't know his name. Didn't even know if he existed.

She opened her eyes and found herself staring at the ceiling of her hotel suite. Her breath came in sharp gasps. Her sheets were damp. Her thighs slick. Her nipples pebbled from the cool air, her skin tingling as if touched by phantom hands. She lay there for a long moment, stunned, her body flushed with pleasure and something more--something luminous and inexplicable.

A single word left her lips like a question and a confession.

"Who...?"

Her fingers curled over her breast, where her heart still raced. Never in her life--not even in her own imagination--had a man touched her like that. Not with such tenderness. Not with such heat. Not with such... knowing.

She sat up slowly, swinging her legs off the bed, trying to gather herself. She didn't feel drained like she normally did after a dream like this. She felt reborn. As if something dormant had been unlocked inside her.

She wrapped a robe around her body and padded to the window, watching the first light of dawn touch the city.

Somewhere out there was a man she didn't know--had never met--and yet her body remembered him like a lover. Her soul ached for him like a missing piece.

She pressed her forehead to the cool glass, whispering the name she didn't know she knew.

"Bharath..."

But she ached for him like a song she couldn't forget.

The previous day had drained her. The shoot had dragged on for fourteen hours--multiple costume changes, endless lighting adjustments, photographers snapping until she could no longer smile with her eyes.

And yet now, she felt... perfect. Not just rested, but rejuvenated. Her skin glowed, her body felt limber, and her mind--usually foggy in the mornings--was crystal clear.

She sat up, brushing her hair from her face, her heart still beating a little too fast.

That dream. It wasn't like the others. It had been mutual. Real. Raw.

She could still taste his skin on her tongue. Still feel his arms around her, protective and hungry. Still feel the way his mouth had moved over her collarbone like she was sacred.

Anya wrapped the sheet tighter around her and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

"Where did you come from?" she whispered, almost annoyed at how real the dream had been.

And yet--beneath the arousal and confusion--there was something tender curling in her chest. A longing not just for the pleasure they'd shared, but the peace. In his arms, she'd felt wanted in a way she never had--not by agents, not by photographers, not by her own mother.

"He saw me. Not just my face. Not just my body. Me."

She padded barefoot to the mirror and looked at herself. For once, she didn't critique the way her eyes sat or how her cheekbones caught the light. She only saw a girl who had been held, if only in a dream, with reverence.

--

The light slanted gently through the curtains, golden and soft as Bharath blinked awake, his skin still humming from the dream. He could almost still feel her breath on his neck, the brush of her fingertips down his spine, the way her thighs had gripped him like devotion made flesh.

Bharath smiled as he stretched expansively. The sheets were tangled, his body slick with sweat and... satisfaction. But more than anything, he felt light. Not the giddy, temporary kind, but something deeper--an ease that he didn't even know was possible. He stood, heading instinctively to the small bathroom to brush his teeth and splash water on his face.

Only when he bent forward did he remember--his ankle. He twisted it yesterday during practice. But now...

Bharath stared down, flexing his foot, rolling it slowly. Nothing. No pain. No stiffness. No bruise. Like it had never happened.

He laughed softly, almost nervously, and rubbed the back of his neck.

Maybe he had exaggerated the injury. Maybe it wasn't as bad as he thought.

Or maybe...

The memory of her hips, her lips, her voice--like a mantra whispered in the dark--rose unbidden. And that strange glow that had wrapped around them.

He shook his head, walking to the window. The city buzzed far below, uncaring. Yet something in him had shifted. The dream hadn't just stirred his body.

It had healed something in his soul.

Bharath sat on the shuttle in dreamland ignoring the looks he got from his teammates seeing him walking without his crutches. He stared at nothing in particular as the bus trundled to the stadium for practice.

Something inside of him stirred again as he recalled her face again. Not lust--though that still simmered--but yearning. A sense that she wasn't just someone from a dream.

She was out there.

Somewhere.

And he'd know her when he saw her again.

He didn't know how.

But when he did--he'd never let go.

The team medic stared at him in disbelief. "This isn't possible," he said after examining the ankle from every angle. "I've been treating football injuries for twenty years. Sprains like yours don't disappear overnight."

"Maybe you misdiagnosed it?" Bharath suggested, offering the explanation he least believed himself.

The medic shook his head slowly. "I didn't. You had a twisted ankle for sure. There should be some swelling and restricted movement for at least a couple of days." He pressed around the joint again. "Did you do something? Some traditional Tamil medicine your family knows?"

"Just ice and the pills you gave me," Bharath lied.

Bharath could hardly tell the man about his dream.

After several more minutes of poking and prodding, the medic reluctantly cleared him for light training. "I've never seen anything like this," he admitted. "But I can't find anything wrong with your ankle now. Just take it easy today and come back if you feel even a twinge of pain."

Bharath promised he would, then headed to the changing room, his mind still whirling with the implications. Was it a one-time miracle? Was there a connection between the dream and the healing? If so, what did that mean?

The changing room fell silent when he entered.

"What are you doing here, Silver Spoon?" Pranab asked. "Shouldn't you be in the treatment room crying about your ankle?" "It's better," he replied simply. "Doc cleared me for training."

The disbelief on his teammates' faces was almost comical. Sunil, who had delivered the malicious tackle, looked particularly perturbed.

"Bullshit," he said. "You could barely stand yesterday."

Bharath shrugged and began changing into his training kit. "Guess I'm a fast healer."

Coach Biswas was no less skeptical than the medic or the team. "Hema, if you aggravate that injury because you're too proud to rest properly, you'll be on the next train back to Chennai," he warned.

"I understand, sir. But the medic cleared me. I feel fine."

Biswas studied Bharath for a long moment, then nodded curtly. "Light training only. No contact drills. At the first sign of trouble, you're done. Clear?"

"Yes, sir."

As Bharath joined the team's warm-up jog, he could feel their eyes on him, suspicious and assessing. Someone--probably Sunil--deliberately stepped on his supposedly injured ankle as they rounded a corner. Bharath didn't react, even though the cleat left a scrape on his skin. When they broke into groups for technical drills, he found himself isolated again. No one wanted to partner with the new boy who had somehow recovered from an injury that should have sidelined him for a week.

The reserve coach, Kunal, finally took pity on Bharath and joined his station. "Don't mind them," the man said quietly as they worked through a passing sequence. "They're just superstitious. In their minds, either you were faking the injury, which makes you weak, or you've got some magic healing power, which makes you weird."

"No winning, then," Bharath observed wryly.

"Not today, no." Kunal smiled slightly. "But trust me, if you score a winner in the derby, they'll decide your 'magic' is exactly what the team needs."

The remainder of training passed without incident. True to his word, Kunal kept Bharath out of all contact drills and the final scrimmage, instead having him work on conditioning with the fitness coach.

By the time everyone hit the showers, Bharath was exhausted but oddly satisfied. His ankle hadn't bothered him at all, even after hours of running and ball work. Whatever had happened overnight, the healing appeared to be genuine and complete.

As he was leaving the complex, Biswas called Bharath aside.

"How's the ankle really, Hema?"

"Honestly, sir, it feels completely normal. I can't explain it."

The coach's weathered face showed no emotion. "Some players recover quickly. But listen carefully--I don't care who your father is or what strings he pulled to get you here. In my team, you earn your place."

"My father had nothing to do with my signing," Bharath said, unable to keep the edge from his voice.

"So you say. Prove it on the pitch." Biswas turned to go, then added, "Tomorrow you'll train with the reserves again. Show me something there, and maybe--maybe--you'll get your chance with the first team."

Bharath watched the coach walk away, frustration and determination warring inside him. The reserves again! It wasn't what he had come to Calcutta for, but it was a start. At least he appeared to have caught the coach's attention now instead of just being dismissed as a rich nobody in football.

--

The flat was quiet when Bharath returned, the last ribbons of orange light brushing across the walls. A tired silence hung in the air, the kind that settled into the bones after a long, restless day.

He dropped his gym bag near the doorway and moved toward his desk, where the magazine lay waiting--creased and folded from the many times he had already thumbed through it. He pulled it toward him, sat down heavily, and let his fingers trace her name.

Anya Das.

She stared out from the glossy page with those same storm-dark eyes. Not a smile, but a challenge on her lips. A curve of the brow that made you feel like she'd already seen through your best-kept secrets.

Bharath leaned back in the chair and exhaled slowly looking forward to recounting his dream with her picture at hand.

Before he could pursue that line of thought any further, Bharath's phone rang. It was his father.

"Bharath," his familiar authoritative voice came through the speaker, sharp and unyielding. "I expected to hear from you yesterday."

"Sorry, Appa. It was a long day."

"How was training? Did you speak with Coach Biswas about your position?"

Bharath hesitated. His father, a successful businessman who had never quite understood his passion for football, was always more interested in the results than the process.

"It was... challenging," he said carefully. "I'm training with the reserves tomorrow."

There was a long pause on the other end. "The reserves? I thought we were clear that this move was contingent on first-team football."

The "we" grated on Bharath's nerves. "It's standard procedure Appa. New signings have to prove themselves."

"I should call Biswas. Your record in Chennai clearly demonstrates--"

"No!" Bharath interrupted, biting back his frustration. He softened his tone. "Please, don't call anyone. I need to earn my place on my own. The team already thinks I'm only here because of family connections."

"And what's wrong with using connections? That's how the world works, son."

"Not in football. Not real football," Bharath exhaled, trying to keep his voice steady. "Please, just give me time. I'll make the first team on merit."

There was a heavy sigh on the other end. "One month. If you're not in the first team by then, we'll reconsider this Calcutta experiment."

Bharath closed his eyes for a moment after the call ended. A familiar weight settled on his shoulders. His father never understood that his interventions, however well-meaning, only made everything harder.

The magazine caught Bharath's eye again--Anya Das's confident gaze, a stark contrast to his slumped posture. What would someone like her think of his situation? Would she understand the need to prove himself on his own terms?

In the photograph, her eyes seemed to lock onto his, challenging him. There was something about her that told him she had fought her own battles, faced skepticism, and overcome it.

He did not need his father's help, he thought with a sudden surge of resolve. He didn't need the team's approval. He just needed to play his game.

Whatever happened to Bharath's ankle--whether it was a dream, a miracle, or some strange ability--he took it as a sign. This is where he was meant to be, and nothing was going to stop him from proving it.

The dream hadn't returned that night as he had hoped it might. Expected it, even. Sleep had come eventually, but it was just that--sleep. Restful. Empty.

And yet the memory of her lingered.

The way she moved. The warmth of her skin under his hands. The way her breath had hitched when he whispered her name. It was so vivid, he found himself clenching the sheets again when he woke, half-convinced he would find her body tangled beside his. But there had only been silence.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose and whispered to no one, "It felt like more than a dream."

That was the part he couldn't explain. He wasn't some lovestruck idiot. He didn't do destiny. But ever since that night, it was as if his body had been rewired. Like he had stepped through something--some veil--and come out altered. The dream had touched him deeper than Bharath wanted to admit. He still felt her lips on his. Her thighs around his waist. Her heartbeat against his chest like a drum calling him home.

Somewhere in this city, she was real.

Bharath didn't know how he knew that. He just did.

And somehow, he knew their paths would cross again.

He just had to be ready when they did.

--

The photoshoot had dragged into the evening, but Anya barely remembered the poses she'd held or the direction the photographer had barked. It had all blurred beneath a slow, insistent thrum pulsing just under her skin.

By the time she returned to the suite, she felt like she was moving through fog.

She peeled off her makeup in the mirror, watching a different version of herself emerge. Less perfect. More real. Her eyes lingered on their own reflection.

What are you looking for?

She pulled on a silk robe and moved to the bed, curling up beneath the cool sheets, even though the night was warm. Her body was sore in the best way, like after dancing too long. But she hadn't done either.

Not while awake, anyway.

Last night... he had touched her in places she hadn't known could ache. He had made her moan words she didn't understand. He had looked at her not like a trophy--but like a riddle he was willing to spend lifetimes solving.

And then he was gone.

No dream tonight. No temple of silk. No glowing skin or sacred fire. Just the hollow echo of memory against her skin.

She reached out to the empty side of the bed and shut her eyes.

"I miss him," she whispered.

The words scared her.

She did nott know him. But her body did. Her soul did. That man--whoever he was--had walked into her subconscious like he belonged there, and now she couldn't shake the sensation that she was waiting for him to do it again. This time with the lights on.

She slid a hand beneath the sheets, down her thighs, not for pleasure but to feel something. Her fingers trembled when she touched herself--not out of lust, but mourning.

Her body was still tender from the dream, still remembering where he'd touched, how he'd held her, how he'd seen her.

No man had ever made her feel like that. And none ever would, unless it was him again.

She turned on her side, pulled the covers tight.

She had seen his face, felt his breath, whispered his name like prayer--Bharath. Like the name of a half-remembered god.

Still, she believed.

He was real. Somewhere in this crazy world.

And when she found him... or when he found her... she would know.

They both would.