11: Hiding in Plain Sight

The apartment Rekha provided had become more than a temporary refuge. Tucked away beneath the leafy shade of old jamun and neem trees, the quiet Ballygunge residence felt like it had exhaled with them — offering not just shelter, but peace. A place where they could finally just be.

Bharath stirred awake first.

Anya was still wrapped around him, the sheet tangled at their hips, her breath slow against his collarbone. Her leg was slung over his thigh. Her arms clung to his shoulders. And he was still inside her.

They had fallen asleep like that — connected, cradled, claimed.

He didn’t move at first.

He just lay there, heart swelling, watching the morning sun spill across her back. Her hair was a halo of black silk across the pillow. Her face glowed — softened by sleep, made holy by what they’d shared.

His eyes stung from how much he loved her.

Slowly, with care, he slid free of her, earning a sleepy murmur and the softest sigh. She didn’t stir much — just shifted, curling tighter into the space he’d left behind. Still holding on.

Bharath brushed his fingers along her spine once. Then pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

“I’ll make it up to you every day,” he whispered. “You’ll never feel alone again.”

He padded quietly into the bathroom, showered quickly, and toweled off while the city stirred outside. Then he moved into the kitchen, hair damp, heart full.

The cupboards were mostly empty — a start-of-life kind of sparse. But he made do.

He found bread, milk, and dry fruits in a tin tucked behind a jar of salt. The gas burner hissed to life. He toasted the bread till golden, and then simmered the milk gently, stirring in a bit of sugar, crushed the almonds, cashews, and candied raisins, coaxing them into a rich, sweet paste and spread it over the toast.

He then cut the toast into the shape of a heart and framed it on top with some leftover raisins. He repeated this with a few more toast pieces - a few cut into heart shapes for Anya and a few normal pieces for Priya.

Not perfect. But sincere. He hoped that Anya would like it.

He brewed chai with fresh ginger and extra cardamom, filling two steel tumblers. The aroma filled the quiet home like a benediction.

Then he searched for paper. A napkin wouldn’t do. He tore a clean page from an unused diary and wrote two notes with his neatest hand, the kind he used when filling out club forms or writing to Amma.

The first was left beside Priya’s tumbler and toast:

“To my akka — may your ears forgive the moaning, and your sleep be dreamless and deep. — B”

And the second, more carefully placed, sat beside Anya’s breakfast tray on their nightstand:

My Anya.{br}

I thought I was a man before.
But you made me something else.
Something softer. Something stronger. Yours.

I have no words worthy of your body.
Of what you gave me.
Of what we became.

But I promise you this:
I will never let the world make you feel less than worshipped.
Not while I breathe. Not while I bleed.
You will never hunger for love again.

Every morning, every fight, every breath I get —
I’ll spend it proving I’m worthy of being inside your heart...
like you let me inside your body.

Come find me after practice.

Your husband-in-spirit,

Now and forever yours. B

Before leaving, he crept back into the bedroom.

She was still there, sprawled out on the bed, looking like a resplendent apsara, one shoulder bare, mouth slightly open. Peaceful. Stunning. Undone in the most perfect way.

He leaned in and kissed her forehead.

Then her lips — slow, deliberate, a quiet sealing of last night’s vow.

“I’ll miss you today, Mrs. Bharath,” he whispered. “Try not to set the city on fire without me.”

She stirred slightly, eyelids fluttering but never quite opening, and a soft smile lifted her lips — the kind that said she already knew he had kissed her. That she’d carry it in her sleep.

Bharath stepped away reluctantly, grabbing his duffel. As he shut the door behind him, the apartment felt different.

It felt like the beginning of a life.

The soft morning light filtered through the curtains of Kim’s hostel room. Her desk was a mess of open notebooks, photocopied case studies, and loose-leaf sketches of dream symbols, chakra maps, and tantric diagrams.

Her body was changing. Every morning, she woke up drenched in sweat, her panties soaked, fingers curled between her thighs. Her skin glowed with subtle radiance. Her posture had straightened. Her glasses? No longer needed. Her breasts no longer sagged - which was incredible given their size. Neither did her back or any other part of her body hurt anymore.

And she knew why.

The dreams. The touch. The connection.

It wasn’t just physical — it was spiritual. Erotic. Evolutionary.

And it scared the scientist in her.

She had thrown herself into research to stay afloat — poring over tantric texts, ancient Indian rites, the Kamasutra not as a manual but a philosophy. Energy transference. Kundalini awakening. Prana flow. Shared consciousness. Her notebooks were chaotic symphonies of Sanskrit terms, Yogasutras, and Western psychosexual theory.

She told herself she was mapping a phenomenon. That it had to follow rules. That if she could define it, she could control it.

But the dreams weren’t metaphors anymore.

They were memories. Ritual. Evolution.

But last night they forgot her. Both after the gala and in the dreamworld. She was distraught. However, that did not prevent her from reliving past dreams.

She remembered the way Bharath had pinned her wrists gently, then kissed his way down her throat — slow, reverent, each press of his lips like a whispered offering. A breathless mantra. A blessing in motion.

Anya had teased her thighs apart, laughter still on her lips before her tongue silenced Kim with pleasure. They didn’t just take her — they aligned her. Like they were tuning an instrument back to its true resonance.

When she came — Bharath deep inside her, Anya’s hand locked in hers — the dream itself had pulsed with light. Like the world around them had orgasmed too.

After, Kim had reached for Anya and kissed her softly. With thanks. With surrender.

And Bharath, exhausted and shining, had gathered them both in his arms. He pressed his face between Kim’s breasts, breath hot against her skin, clinging to her like she was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Even Anya had paused, watching them. Her gaze dipped to the swell of Kim’s chest — not bitter, but wanting. Her fingers brushed the curve where Bharath lay. She leaned in and kissed Kim again, deeper this time.

Then she whispered, fierce and soft:

“You’re ours now, Professor.”

Kim had wanted to cry. Not from sadness. From being chosen. From being held by two souls who had seen her — entirely — and pulled her closer instead of turning away. Then why did they forget her last night?

She woke up from her visions aching. Her thighs were trembling. Her panties were soaked. Her lips were still tingling.

And the worst part?

She missed them.

Not just the sex — the gravity. The way they made her feel real. Like she didn’t have to measure desire or track intimacy like data points on a spreadsheet.

For the first time in her life, she wasn’t studying connection. She was inside it.

And it terrified her more than anything.

She opened her notebook.

Interview Bharath again. Ask about body heat, heart rate changes. Sleep cycles. Ask Anya about dreams. Or energy. Or if she ever feels drawn. Find tantric scholars. Sanskrit College? Kalighat priests? Track physiological shifts. Libido. Strength. Focus.

Shared orgasm resonance phenomenon.

She stared at that last line.

Then underlined it.

Twice.

Anya padded into the kitchen barefoot, wearing nothing but Bharath’s oversized shirt — the one that still smelled faintly of him. Her skin tingled where his lips had lingered hours ago — her collarbone, her breasts, the tender underswell of her thighs.
She’d woken to warmth between her legs, the sheets damp with dried passion, her body aching in the most beautiful way.
The echo of his whisper still hummed in her ear:

“I’ll miss you today, Mrs. Bharath. Try not to set the city on fire without me.”

She chuckled, cheeks blooming pink, and stretched like a cat — luxuriant and slow, every muscle humming with contentment.
She hadn’t felt this alive in years. No — ever.
Not like this.
Not with anyone.

Then she saw it. The tray.

The steel tumbler of chai still warm, the smell of cardamom and ginger curling through the air like memory. A plate of toast — but not just toast. Toasted bread brushed with milk, crushed nuts, and raisins shaped into a perfect little heart.

Her breath caught.

And then — the note.

She blinked. Once. Twice. Her hand flew to her mouth as her fingers trembled, brushing the top of the paper like it might vanish if she touched it too hard.

“My Anya...”

The tears came before she could stop them.

Not the gentle kind.

But the kind that came from someplace buried — some pocket of her soul that had always feared she was too much, or not enough, or just not.

This wasn’t flirtation. This wasn’t possession. This was love. Unfiltered. Unflinching. He had already called her his wife. And somehow, that simple word cracked something wide open inside her.

She sank onto the bed, clutched the toast in both hands, and pressed her forehead to the tray, letting the tears fall freely. It was all too much. Too perfect. The man she’d only ever dreamed of being worthy of had made her breakfast. Had called her his own.

She was still wiping her cheeks when a yawn echoed down the hall.

“Ugh ... I swear, if I hear one more bed creak tonight, I’m going to sedate myself.”

Priya entered the kitchen, hair a mess, dragging her blanket like a defeated warrior.

She paused mid-step.

Anya walked out slowly, still holding the tray, eyes red, cheeks glowing, lips parted in the ghost of a smile.

Priya blinked.

“ ... Wait. Was last night—?”

Anya nodded, eyes watering again.

Priya’s breath caught.
“ ... Your first time?”

Anya nodded again. Her throat worked around a sob she barely held in. “It wasn’t just sex.”

She sat the tray down gently and turned to face Priya fully. “It was like ... the universe folded around us. Like he didn’t just touch me. He... found me. Every piece.”

Her voice wavered, eyes shining like glass. “He held me like I was made of stars.” Her fingers brushed her lips as she whispered, “And this morning ... this tray. This note.”

She handed the paper to Priya with shaking fingers.

Priya took it silently, read it once ... then again. Her expression didn’t change at first. Just a stillness that crept across her face, like something fragile was slowly uncoiling inside her.

She looked up.

And then — all at once — her face crumpled.

“I...” Her voice cracked. She covered her mouth and turned away briefly. “I didn’t know it could be like this.”

Anya stepped forward instantly, heart in her throat.

Anya blinked. “Priya—?”

But Priya didn’t answer. Not right away.

Her breath hitched once. Then again. Her eyes dropped to the heart-shaped toast in Anya’s hands — a small thing, silly even, and yet it had undone her.

“I didn’t know it could be like this,” Priya whispered.

Her voice wasn’t bitter. It was broken.

Anya moved closer. “Like what?”

Priya laughed — a hollow, stunned sound that barely escaped her lips. “Like ... it didn’t have to hurt. That it could be this emotinal. This kind. This real.”

She blinked rapidly, but the tears came anyway — slow, stunned, unprepared. She shook her head, eyes glistening.

“I thought sex was survival. Trade. Control. I thought ... when a man holds you, it’s always with conditions. Always with hunger. But this—” she gestured toward the tray, Anya’s bare feet on the cold tile, the soft folds of Bharath’s shirt against her thighs — “this looks like safety.”

Anya’s own eyes filled again.

Priya’s voice cracked. “Do you know how many girls I’ve watched fall asleep after being used? How many times have I stared at a man’s back walking away while I stitched someone else’s pain into silence?”

She looked at Anya then — really looked. “And here you are. Glowing. Whole. Not taken but chosen.”

Anya set the tray down. Took Priya’s hands.

“You’re allowed to want this,” she said, gently. “You deserve this too.”

Priya tried to nod. But instead, she folded forward into Anya’s arms, sobbing like a girl who had never known a soft place to fall.

Anya didn’t let go. She simply held her — quiet, steady, protective — until the tremors in Priya’s breath started to slow. The silence between them shifted, no longer casual, no longer teasing. It was thick with something unsaid.

Priya stepped back, wiping at her face with the back of her wrist, but Anya didn’t move far. She watched her friend with a gaze that had seen too much and still chose softness.

“Come,” Anya said gently, guiding her to sit. “Whatever it is ... I’m here.”

Priya sat slowly, eyes unfocused, like she was still deciding whether to speak.

Then she looked up — not with anger, but something more fragile. Raw pain.

“I was working in Burrabazaar. Junior accountant at this wholesaler when I was seventeen. Small office, dusty files, long hours. I thought it was just a dead-end job. I was grateful for it. Honest work, right?”

Anya stilled.

“One night I stayed back late. The ledger was missing an entry, so I went down to the basement to find the original invoices.”

She closed her eyes.

“There were crates. Big ones. Marked as textile shipments. But I saw something in a crate move. They ... whimpered.”

Anya’s hand flew to her mouth.

“There were girls inside. Teenagers. Some barely thirteen. Taped, bound. Breathing like cornered animals. I ran upstairs. Told my manager everything. He smiled and told me that I was mistaken and that I was working too hard and imagining things. Said he’d ‘handle it.’”

A pause.

“Next night, two men grabbed me at my apartment. Covered my face. By the time I came to, I was in some building with blacked-out windows and no clocks. They called it a ‘training unit.’”

Priya looked away, jaw clenched.

“I was educated. Had poise. Not a screamer. They told me I’d be useful. That I’d be treated differently from the others. That I’d ‘live well.’ They trained me to seduce. Taught me how to dress, smile, and talk. They taught me how to pleasure a man. They called it grooming. I called it hell.”

Anya reached out, but Priya held up her hand.

“One night, they left me alone with a younger guard. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen. Nervous. New. I pretended to flirt. Got close. And then ... I stabbed him with a nail file I’d hidden on myself.”

A beat.

“I ran barefoot through a filthy alley and passed out behind a fish market.”

Anya’s eyes welled with tears.

“I went to the police. They didn’t believe me. One constable asked if I was high. Another asked if I was trying to smear someone rich. I knew I couldn’t go home. So I disappeared.”

Her voice cracked.

“I tried everything. Selling fake jewellery. Pickpocketing. Finally I ended up as an assistant for a sketchy casting agency which I later found out belonged to the Syndicate. I landed back in their web - all on my own and then they pulled me back in again when they recognized who I was. Their asset, their product.”

She laughed bitterly.

“This time, they gave me assignments. Honey trapping businessmen, rich men, poor and broken naive men. I was good at it - but I lost a bit of my soul every time I trapped a man. The worst was when I trapped a poor naive man. I couldn’ take it anymore. But they threatened me every time I tried to back out. Told me I would vanish if I spoke.”

Anya wrapped her arms around her.

“I didn’t cry then,” Priya whispered into her shoulder. “Not even when they made me sleep with a man twice my age who laughed at how ‘smart’ I sounded while undressing. But I’m crying now ... because you—”

Her voice broke.

“You got something I thought wasn’t real. Someone who made you feel whole. Who made you breakfast. Who called you his wife.”

Anya clung tighter. “You deserve it too. We’ll make sure of it.”

Priya wept into her friend’s neck. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was the quiet, devastating release of a girl who had survived for far too long without ever being held.

Anya pulled back finally, cupped her face.

“You’re not just my friend, Priya. You’re my sister. And I swear on every goddess I’ve ever prayed to — we will burn that Syndicate to ash.”

Priya sniffled, gave a wobbly smile. “Together?”

“Together.”

And for the first time since that basement, Priya believed it.

The apartment was still soaked in quiet sunlight when Anya returned to the kitchen after tidying up her room. She caught the scent of Bharath’s cologne lingering in the air — warm, musky, grounding — and allowed herself a small smile. The morning had been tender and chaotic. Priya’s tears. Bharath’s surprise breakfast. The quiet, stolen kiss that had felt like a vow. And now, the home felt different. Calmer. Rooted.

Priya was at the dining table with a notepad and a steaming mug of lemon tea, brow furrowed, scribbling bullet points like she was planning a war — which, in many ways, she was.

“Still cataloguing suspects from last night?” Anya asked, slipping into the chair beside her.

Priya gave a noncommittal hum. “Trying to remember every face that lingered too long near the girls. One tall guy with a scar above his left brow. Eastern European accent. Another with a limp and a walking stick — but only used it when he noticed people watching. Definitely posing.”

Anya whistled. “You’ve got a photographic memory.”

“I believe it’s called eidetic memory. I had to,” Priya muttered. “No gadgets allowed on the inside.”

There was a pause, long and companionable. The kind that only came after vulnerability.

“Are you really okay?” Anya asked gently, reaching for her hand.

Priya hesitated — then squeezed back.

“I’m not used to soft mornings,” she said, voice low. “You and Bharath ... you don’t realise how rare that is. He made you breakfast shaped like a bloody heart.”

Anya’s cheeks turned pink. “He called me Mrs. Bharath when he thought I was asleep.”

Priya smiled — real, wide, soft.

“I’m glad it was you,” she said after a beat. “For him. I couldn’t have survived another story like mine.”

Anya blinked fast. “You’re my sister now. Devi adopted you the other day, remember?”

Priya laughed, wiping a quick tear. “That girl. She’s gonna rule a city one day.”

“Only if Bharath doesn’t do it first,” Anya smirked.

They leaned closer over the table.

“Okay,” Priya said, shifting to business mode. “Until we get the film developed, let’s prep. I marked out six high-value suspects I noticed last night. Two I think are minor recruiters. One might be ex-security. The others ... I’ll need your help identifying them.”

Anya nodded. “Descriptions?”

Priya rattled off details like a detective — jawline angles, cologne hints, peculiar gestures.

Anya leaned back thoughtfully. “I think I recognise a few of them from Rekha’s old guest lists. However, I need to see the photos before I can name anyone with confidence. We might be able to run down names if we cross-reference with photos.”

“We also need to start preparing how we’ll leak it.”

“I’ve got Rekha’s media contacts,” Anya said, then paused. “But I don’t want to use them until we have no other option. I want to play her without her knowing she’s been played.”

Priya grinned. “So ... you?”

“Exactly.”

The sun blazed overhead as Bharath arrived early at the club training ground, on foot from the nearest tram stop, his steps light despite the scorching August heat.

There was something different today.

His body hummed — from something deeper. A radiant tension in his limbs. His vision seemed sharper. His steps surer. Every tendon in his legs felt coiled, tuned to spring.

Coach Biswas was already on the pitch, arms folded, eyes hawk-like. The whistle blew the moment Bharath crossed the white line.

“Warm-up laps, Hema. Two extra rounds for your little fashion week.”

“Yes, sir,” Bharath replied. Instead of groaning, he took off like a bullet, his muscles singing with unusual lightness. The world blurred slightly around the edges, but his focus cut through it.

Practice was brutal. Tackling drills. Sprints. Passing sequences. Sharpened elbows, clipped insults — a gauntlet designed to break the proud. But Bharath flowed through it.

His passes had bite. His touch was velvet. His reflexes — uncanny.

He intercepted a midfield switch from the far wing before it reached its target, stunning the winger and drawing a whistle from a coach. “Good read, Silver Spoon!”

He collected a loose ball under pressure from two defenders, backheeled it to an overlapping Kofi in stride, and faded into the channel unnoticed. “Silver Spoon, are you psychic now?” joked one of the assistants.

He split the defense on a counterattack with a diagonal long-ball so precise, it kissed the grass once before curling into the striker’s path.

“Look at this guy!” someone on the bench muttered. “Didn’t even look up!”

By the time water break came, his jersey clung to him like a second skin. He was panting, but smiling — not from fatigue, but exhilaration.

Rafael passed him a towel.

“You don’t only play flash,” he said. “You make us look good.”

He clapped Bharath’s shoulder. “You dropped deep to receive under pressure, then one-touch passed it straight into Kofi’s run. You made him look like Zidane.”

Bharath chuckled, wiping sweat from his brow. “Just playing my role.”

“And that backheel through-ball?” Rafael said, grinning. “Caught three defenders off guard. You didn’t even look.”

“I saw their shadows,” Bharath said, half-serious, half-joking.

Rafael shook his head in wonder. “You’ve got eyes in your damn forehead, kid. Just ... keep doing that. We’ll win games.”

Bharath grinned, chest swelling. “Team sport, bhai.”

Coach Biswas’s voice cut across the field. “Rafael, Bharath — sit with me. Strategy board.”

They walked over. Bharath’s heart pounded — not from exhaustion, but from something else. Anticipation.

Biswas outlined a mock match scenario against Rising City, chalk squeaking across the tactical board.

He asked questions. Bharath answered with clarity.

“What’s the weak link in this line?”

“The right fullback — too slow to recover if the winger cuts inside.”

“And if we’re down one man?”

“Shift the pivot deeper. Let the CAM fall back. Cut supply to their 10.”

The coach just nodded.

As practice wound down, Bharath texted Devi on a whim.

Bharath: Got grilled today. Felt like I held my own. Tell Appa I’m bench for the Rising City friendly.

Devi: Proud of you, anna. I’ll tell him. I’ll scream it through the house if I have to.

Bharath: Wish you could be here.

Devi: Soon. Tell your girl she’s stuck with the second-most dramatic person in the family now.

He laughed, pocketed his phone, and slung his kit bag over his shoulder. Even the ache in his thighs felt like triumph.

Something had shifted. Not just physically — but spiritually.

He was stronger. Sharper. Connected.

And he couldn’t wait to go home.

While Bharath tore up the pitch, Anya and Priya finally sat down with their chai and the tray of sweets, still hollowed out by the weight of the morning’s revelations.

They hadn’t spoken much after the tears. Just sat close, leaning shoulder to shoulder on the balcony floor, letting the silence stitch what had been torn open.

But now, with the late morning sun glinting through the neem trees and traffic humming in the distance, the fire began to return.

“I guess we should work,” Priya murmured, half-smiling as she took another sip. “Channel all this rage into something productive.”

Anya gave a snort. “Productive rage is our love language.”

They sat cross-legged, a notepad between them.

“We need to plan this properly,” Priya said. “Balance your shoots, Rekha’s events, and my surveillance. So nothing — and no one — slips past.”

Anya nodded. “Rekha’s events are Syndicate magnets. Anyone who matters in that world shows up. And if I’m there anyway...”

“I can float as your assistant,” Priya said. “Camera around my neck. No one will question me.”

“We’ll have to start mapping people soon — faces, names, locations. Especially once the gala photos come back.”

They began recalling the night, slowly at first, then with sharper detail. Priya described the crowd from memory — a bald man in a navy sherwani who seemed to have a new girl hanging on his arm every hour; a politician who couldn’t keep his hands to himself; an older businessman with restless eyes and a permanent smirk.

Anya filled in what she could — names whispered at tables, scandalous rumors, who was seated where.

“We need to cross-reference event lists,” she said. “Draw up a network of who’s connected to whom.”

“We also need to start preparing how we’ll leak it,” Priya said, tapping the notepad. “Names, faces, behaviors. If we push the right dominoes—”

“They fall,” Anya finished, then leaned back, tapping her nails against the table.

“Rekha’s already sniffing around,” she said after a beat. “She’s hinting at a post-match editorial if Bharath plays well tomorrow. ‘National pride meets golden couple’ — her words, not mine.”

She flipped open her planner. “I’ve got her media contacts, but I’m keeping them as a last resort. I want to beat her at her own game — and I want her smiling the whole time, not knowing she’s already lost.”

Priya raised an eyebrow. “Is she going to drape him in a flag and set him on fire for the camera?”

“Wouldn’t put it past her,” Anya said, dry as dust. Priya smirked imagining how Bharath would feel about that.

They both fell silent for a moment, the weight of what they were attempting pressing in again — rebellion dressed in lipstick, espionage wrapped in silk.

Then Priya exhaled slowly, her gaze flicking toward the balcony where the wind stirred the neem leaves.

“It’s always the families that complicate the board,” Priya murmured, eyes narrowing slightly. “They’re the pieces we don’t control — the ones who don’t know they’re part of the game.”

“And Kim?” she asked, voice quieter now. More careful. “How does she fit into all this?”

Anya looked down into her empty teacup. “She’s ... different,” she said finally. “I see fear in her. The same fear I used to carry. She’s holding herself back, but she wants to step forward.”

Priya leaned back. “But is it fair? We don’t know her world. Her family. Her culture. She could lose everything for choosing this.”

“I won’t push her,” Anya said softly. “But I won’t lie to her either. She deserves to be seen. If she chooses us, it’ll be with full knowledge.”

“And Celina?”

Anya’s expression darkened. “Still too raw. Still thinking performance equals power. She needs to fall apart before she can be rebuilt. Right now, she reminds me of my mother. Using her looks and charm to conquer and subdue.”

The tea had cooled, and their resolve had returned.

Anya reached for a newspaper on the table and flipped through the pages. “We should keep track of who’s saying what publicly too,” she said absently, then gave a theatrical groan. “Some poor sod had to cover that yoga brand’s sunrise session. Called it ‘Calcutta’s Awakening Spirit.’”

Priya smirked. “Sounds like something you drink, not report.”

Her eyes skimmed the article out of habit, catching the byline at the end. Satyabrata Roy. The truth seeking king.

The name felt oddly heavy — not familiar, just ... weighty.

“Choking on his own boredom, clearly,” she muttered, placing it down. She didn’t know why, but something about it tugged at the back of her mind like a cough before a storm.

Later that day at Bharath’s apartment, Anya burst into laughter the moment she stepped into his bedroom.

“Seriously?” she said, holding up a dog-eared magazine from the nightstand. “This is the Warrior ad with me in it! Look at the crease — he’s traced the thighline so much it’s practically a dotted line.”