1: 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 omniscient 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 fifteen-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 (the current era)” 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.