2: Whispers and Webs

19 July 2000

On his way back to the apartment, Bharath stopped at a small market to pick up some essentials. As he was selecting fruit, he noticed a girl around his age watching him with open curiosity.

“You’re new here,” she said in Bengali when he caught her eye.

“Sorry, I don’t speak Bengali yet,” he replied in Hindi.

She switched effortlessly. “I said you’re new. I know everyone in this market.”

“I just moved here yesterday. I’m staying in the apartments near the stadium.”

“Ah, a footballer!” Her eyes lit up. “For Rising Sun?”

“Heritage City.”

She made a face of exaggerated disgust, then laughed. “My father would disown me if I spoke to a Heritage City player, but I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Despite himself, Bharath smiled. After the coldness of his reception at the club, her friendly banter was refreshing. “I’m Bharath,” he said, offering his hand.

“Priya,” she replied, shaking it firmly. “Welcome to Calcutta, Bharath. You look like you could use a friend.”

There was something so direct and unaffected about her that Bharath found himself nodding. “I really could.”

“Good! Then let me help you shop. You’re buying all the wrong things.” She took the basket from his hands and began replacing his selections with different items, explaining the differences in Bengali produce compared to South Indian varieties.

As they moved through the market, Priya seemed to know everyone. She introduced Bharath to the various vendors, translating their Bengali greetings and helping negotiate fair prices.

“How do you know so much about football?” he asked as they walked back toward his apartment.

“In Calcutta, football isn’t a sport—it’s a religion,” she replied with a grin. “I was born into an Rising Sun family, so I bleed red and gold. But I’ll make an exception and wish you luck. Just not against my team.”

When they reached his building, Bharath found himself reluctant to end the conversation. “Would you like to come up for tea? I mean—” he added hastily, seeing her raised eyebrow, “just as friends. You’re the first person who has genuinely been nice to me since I arrived.”

Priya considered for a moment, then shook her head. “Not today. But I’m at the market most mornings. Maybe I can help you learn some Bengali? You’ll need it if you want to understand what the fans are chanting.”

“I’d like that.”

As he watched her walk away, Bharath felt a small sense of accomplishment. His first day in Calcutta had been a disaster, but his second was looking up. He had healed inexplicably, survived training, and made a potential friend.

20 July 2000

The next morning dawned with a lingering humidity that clung to the skin. Bharath was back at the club’s practice ground, where Coach Biswas paced like a general preparing for war.

“Just passing and positioning today, Hema,” he barked. “Nothing fancy.”

The other reserves barely looked at Bharath. He could feel their eyes flicker over the taped ankle, the rumors. Sunil’s smirk was ever-present.

Kunal gestured to a cone setup. “Let’s see what your Chennai magic looks like without crutches.” Bharath moved through the drills with surprising ease. Short, crisp passes. Quick pivots. Weight distribution perfect. The injury had vanished like a forgotten curse. With each completed sequence, he felt his confidence bloom.

“You see that?” Kunal said to Biswas after he curled a looping diagonal ball straight to the winger’s foot. “Kid’s got a third eye.”

Biswas just grunted. “He’s still not ready. Let him train at night if he wants to prove it.”

Bharath caught that. Train at night? Was that his version of a challenge?

That night, under flickering halogen lights and the blanket of a sleeping city, Bharath returned to the pitch. The groundskeeper—an elderly man named Gopal—was unlocking the gates.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” he said, voice like gravel and wind. “The Chennai lad. Just like Rahim back in ‘82. He trained at night too, when politics kept him on the bench.”

He handed Bharath the keys to the storage shed. “I didn’t see anything, okay?”

Bharath trained till his shirt clung to his back, his breath ragged, but his heart alive. No spotlight. No ego. Just the thud of the ball against the boot and grass.

One night, he noticed someone watching from the shadows—Assistant Coach Amit. He didn’t say a word, just turned and left. But after that, the drills got harder. More tactical. The kind only a coach would assign without saying it aloud.

22 July 2000

The halogen lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows across the empty pitch. At this hour, the stadium felt like a secret world—one that belonged only to Bharath, the night, and the old groundskeeper who watched from the sidelines with knowing eyes. Gopal leaned against the goalpost, his wiry frame silhouetted against the dim glow. He chewed lazily on a betel leaf, the scent of spice and tobacco cutting through the damp night air.

“You move like Rahim,” he said suddenly, his voice rough as gravel.

Bharath stopped mid-drill, the ball rolling to a stop at his feet. “Rahim? You mentioned him the other day. Who is he?”

“Syed Rahim. Played here in ‘82. Best damn midfielder this city ever saw.” Gopal spat red into the grass. “Trained just like you—alone, at night, when no one was watching.”

Bharath wiped sweat from his brow. “What happened to him?”

Gopal’s eyes darkened. “Politics and intrigue. Always politics and intrigue in Calcutta football.” He pushed off the post and shuffled closer. “Rahim fell for the wrong girl. Daughter of a Rising Sun director. They made sure his career ended before it truly began.”

A chill ran down Bharath’s spine despite the humidity. “That’s why you’re helping me? Because I remind you of him?” The old man chuckled. “Na ladke. I’m helping you because you’re the first player in years who cares more about the game than his own ego.” He tossed Bharath a fresh ball. “Now show me that Chennai magic again.”

He worked through the drills—quick feet, sharp turns, weighted passes to imaginary teammates. The ball was an extension of him tonight, responding to every thought before he had fully formed it.

Halfway through a dribbling sequence, Bharath felt eyes on him. Not Gopal’s.

Coach Biswas stood in the shadows near the tunnel, arms crossed. He didn’t speak, didn’t move. Just watched.

Bharath pretended not to notice and kept working. When he glanced back minutes later, he was gone—but a folded piece of paper lay where he’d stood.

Gopal whistled low. “Well, well. You’ve got someone’s attention.”

He picked up the note. In precise handwriting, it read: “4-3-3 transition drill. Focus on weak foot distribution. Left channel needs work.”

No signature. No explanation.

Gopal smirked. “Guess you’re not as invisible as you thought, midnight footballer.”

25 July 2000

A few days later, as Bharath was leaving the training ground, he saw a familiar figure standing just outside the fence. Priya again. Her hair was down this time, brushing her shoulders. She looked different—almost out of place.

“You spying for the enemy today?” Bharath called.

She smirked. “Rising Sun. Please! They can destroy Heritage City without my help. Besides, if I was a real spy, you wouldn’t see me. How was practice, Heritage boy?”

“Less brutal than yesterday. You didn’t come all this way just for that, did you?”

She shrugged. “Had errands. Also wanted to see if you’re any good. You might surprise me.”

They walked toward the market together, and she pointed out landmarks along the way. Bharath repeated basic Bengali phrases after her. It felt ... good. Natural.

“You’re good company,” she said as they crossed into the street. “Most players I’ve met are all ego.”

“Give me a week,” Bharath joked.

But she didn’t laugh. Her smile faded as her eyes flicked to the other side of the street. Bharath followed her gaze—just a group of men near a tea stall.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just remembered I promised to help my father.” She turned quickly. Too quickly.

Before Bharath could ask more, she was gone, slipping through the crowd like she belonged to it. He stood for a few seconds, unsettled.

26 July 2000

The next day, another training session survived. As Bharath exited the complex, he spotted her again—Priya, leaning casually against a railing like she’d been waiting.

“You’re making this a habit,” he said.

“I’m invested now. If you become a star, I’ll be able to say I knew you back when you were just a confused Tamil boy picking the wrong bananas.”

Bharath laughed and fell into step beside her. Told her about the assistant coach nodding at one of his drills, and that the head coach had finally asked him to report for first-team practice.

“That’s amazing,” she said. “Even if I have to keep pretending not to care.”

As they passed the market again, she tensed. Her eyes darted—not wildly, but precisely, scanning the faces like she was expecting someone.

“Priya?”

“It’s nothing,” she said, the words too fast. “I’ve got to help with stock deliveries.”

Before Bharath could press her, Gopal - the groundskeeper appeared with his jangling keys.

“Ah, the midnight footballer,” he said in Hindi. “Pitch 3 is available at night if you want it. Not the big stadium, but good turf.”

Bharath blinked. “You’re serious?”

“Ten PM. Service entrance. Lights low. Be gone before the security rounds.”

Bharath nodded. “Thank you.”

Gopal nodded at Priya too before shuffling away.

“You’re full of surprises,” she said.

“You’d be surprised how much time I’ve spent training alone.”

She looked at Bharath for a long moment. “Want company? I could help with Bengali while you run drills.”

“You’d do that? Even for a Heritage boy?”

She smiled. This one real, without tension. “Consider it cultural outreach. Besides, I’m curious about these secret training sessions.”

That night, they met behind the stadium, and Gopal unlocked the gate like a conspirator. Priya wore track pants and a hoodie. Casual. Comfortable. Like she’d done this before.

The lights were dim. The air carried a hint of monsoon damp.

“Aami football kheli,” she said, pacing beside Bharath as he dribbled. “I play football.”

“Aami football kheli,” Bharath repeated.

“Not bad. Try: Aami Heritage City er jonno kheli.”

“I play for Heritage City.”

They kept going. She corrected his pronunciation. He ran sprints, practiced traps, and took low shots at empty cones. She sat cross-legged, calling out grammar in between laughs.

During a break, he sat beside her. “My dad wanted me to be a businessman like him. I wanted to be a midfielder. We fought about it a lot.”

“He wants you to succeed.”

“Yeah—but his way.”

She nodded. “My father’s like that too. Always telling me what to do, who to avoid...”

Bharath studied her. “Is that what happened the other day? He told you to stay away from?”

Her face froze for half a second. Then she busied herself retying her laces. “Something like that.”

Bharath didn’t push. But he noticed—she hadn’t mentioned her father running a market stall this time. A small thing. But he caught it.

Gopal reappeared with a flashlight beam cutting through the dark.

“Time’s up, young ones. Security’s on his round.”

They packed up. As they walked toward the split in their paths, Bharath stopped.

“Priya—whatever’s making you nervous, you can tell me. When you’re ready.”

She paused under the streetlight. For a moment, he thought she would.

“Maybe someday, midnight footballer,” she said softly. Then she disappeared into the night.

Something about her was a puzzle, and Bharath couldn’t shake the feeling that the market girl with the easy banter and Rising Sun loyalties was hiding more than she let on.

But for now, he had a friend in Calcutta. And a secret training ground.

That was enough—for tonight.

Before Bharath packed up that night, while he stretched on the pitch, Gopal shuffled over. “Watch your back, lad. Some folks don’t like fresh faces getting too close to the locals. They use girls like nets ... and then tighten the noose.”

27 July 2000

The knocking came again—three frantic, sharp raps. Then a pause. Then four more. Faster. Desperate. Bharath blinked, heart thrumming. No one should’ve been at his door this late. He peeled himself off the couch, ankle still sore from training earlier that evening. The Warrior ad magazine with Anya’s face lay forgotten on the floor.

Another knock. Louder this time.

Bharath moved to the door. Through the fisheye, he saw her.

Priya!

Soaked in sweat and rain. Hair clinging to her face. Eyes wide with panic. She looked like she’d run through hell. Bharath threw the door open. “Priya—?”

Before he could finish, she pushed past him, dragging in a wet bag, chest heaving, bare feet slapping against the tile as she hastily discarded her chappals. She stumbled into the living room and slumped against the wall.

He shut the door and locked it.

“Priya, what the hell is going on?”

She turned to me, breath shallow, trembling. “I don’t want to go through with it. I bailed on the job, and now they’re after me.”

“What job?” Bharath demanded. “Who?”

She looked up at me, soaked, shivering, and broken. “The people I used to work for. The ones who send girls like me after guys like you.”

Silence.

She clenched her jaw. “I was supposed to get close to you. Make you trust me. Feed them details. What you earn. Who you talk to. Where you live. When you’re alone.”

Bharath’s blood ran cold. “So you were spying on me?”

“I was,” she said quickly.

“But I couldn’t do it. I swear. I couldn’t go through with it. I had a change of heart. You aren’t like the others. I have been meaning to get out for a while now. You were my tipping point. I want out and you were my catalyst. So - I packed my bags and ran. I don’t have anywhere to go. You were the only person I could think of. So here I am”

Bharath folded his arms. “Tell me everything. Who are they?”

She hesitated. Then, slowly, she sank onto the floor. Her voice, when it came, was low but clear.

“They call themselves the Syndicate. It is a web of crooks, con men, politicians, bureaucrats, cops, a few Page 3 connections, and a few high-society fixers. They use girls like me—pretty, poor, invisible—to lure in men. Not to rob them directly—no. It’s cleaner than that.”

Bharath didn’t interrupt.

“We hook you emotionally. Build a bond. Then nudge you into bad decisions. ‘Investments.’ Secrets. Pillow talk. It all gets recorded. Sometimes the man’s bank accounts get drained. Sometimes he ends up in a scandal. Sometimes...” She swallowed. “Sometimes they never recover.”

She met his eyes. “I did it. Many times. The men were usually naive or older or divorced and bitter. I didn’t feel anything for them. I played my part and walked away. Easy.”

“But me,” Bharath said, voice tight.

“You weren’t like them. You didn’t flirt. You didn’t leer. You didn’t think you automatically owned my body because you are rich. You didn’t chase. You just existed ... like you didn’t care whether I came or went. It made me curious. Then it made me jealous.” She exhaled. “And then I got stupid and admired you. I didn’t want to ruin you”

Bharath’s throat went dry.

“I tried pulling back. Tried to convince myself that you weren’t a good mark. Move on to someone else. But at some point I realized I did not want to do this anymore. I could not live this kind of life anymore. But they won’t let me go so easily. I can’t just turn in my papers and walk away. I escaped once. But they pulled me back in. Tonight, I had to report on my latest mark. They would have known it was you if I had reported it. Even if I didn’t want to continue they would have assigned you to someone else. You are young and new to town. I found out more about you. You are rich and alone in town. I just had to run.”

A beat passed.

“And now,” she said quietly, “if they find me, they’ll make me disappear.”

Bharath sat on the edge of the coffee table, watching her, processing everything that she said. “How do I know this isn’t still part of the con?”

She didn’t argue. She just reached into her hastily stuffed bag and pulled out something from the side pocket-a tiny plastic device. She placed it on the table beside me.

A recorder.

“I was supposed to plant that in your apartment. Tonight. They would have wanted me to bug your apartment once I confirmed that you were my mark”

She didn’t cry. Didn’t even blink. Just sat there, waiting for judgment.

“I didn’t do it,” she added. “And I came here instead. Because I didn’t know where else to go. Because I was scared. “I didn’t want to disappear ... not like this. Not as someone who used you.”

Bharath let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“You can sleep here tonight,” he said. “And tomorrow, we figure out how to get you out of this. But I’m not just helping you because I feel bad. I need the truth. All of it. From now on.”

She nodded, silent but resolute.

She emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, her wet hair falling in soft waves. Bharath handed her an old t-shirt and a pair of shorts. They hung loosely on her svelte frame.

“Thanks,” she said. Her voice had steadied. “I haven’t felt clean in days.”

She walked slowly toward the couch, wrapped herself in the blanket he laid out.

“You’re still here,” she murmured.

“Where else would I be?”, he replied. “It’s my apartment”.

She curled up under the blanket. There was a long silence. Then she smirked. “So ... Warrior magazine, huh?”

Bharath sighed. “I’m doing you a favor and you’re still going to tease me?”

“Hey, a girl’s got to reclaim some dignity,” she said, eyes sparkling faintly. “But I know why she’s on your mind.”

She shifted, propping herself on her elbow. “You know, Anya Das isn’t just a pretty face either. People say her mother’s trying to get her married off to someone powerful. Big industrialist, maybe a minister’s son. Apparently, Rekha’s been burning bridges in Page 3 circles for years trying to find the right buyer—sorry, suitor—for her daughter.”

Bharath’s gut twisted. “You’re serious?”

“She’s famous for smiling at the camera and cutting throats behind the scenes,” Priya said. “But Anya ... from what little I know, she’s not like that. Word is, she’s trying to break out. But with a mother like that?” She shook her head. “The whole city watches her like she’s already sold.”

Bharath said nothing. Just stared at the ceiling, thinking about the dreams. The connection. Priya’s voice softened. “I know I’ve messed up. But I’ll prove I mean it when I say I’m done with them.”

She turned over. “Goodnight, Bharath.”

“ ... Goodnight, Priya.”

But sleep didn’t come easy. Not with all that he had just heard. And not with Anya’s eyes still following him from the page on the floor.

After Priya fell asleep on the couch, Bharath stayed up, pacing quietly.

His eyes drifted to the open Warrior magazine on the floor, Anya’s photo still catching the light. She looked regal. Untouchable.

But something in her eyes—like she was screaming under glass—made his heart twist.

He picked it up, thumb tracing her face.

“Where are you tonight, Anya? You belong here with me.”

He lay down on the mattress and shut his eyes, the scent of rain and fear still clinging to the air.

The white Mercedes purred to a stop beneath the chandelier-lit portico of the Calcutta Racquet Club. Its marble steps glowed under the soft yellow haze of vintage street lamps. Anya exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of diamonds at her throat—an heirloom choker too tight, hiding bruises from last night’s “posture correction.”

“Smile, beti,” Rekha purred, her voice warm and toxic, like gin laced with menthol. “The Sports Minister’s secretary has a nephew at Femina. You want that feature, don’t you?” Her scarlet-tipped nails pinched Anya’s bare shoulder just enough to mark.

Anya stepped out, the borrowed emerald lehenga glittering under flashbulbs like a promise she had no intention of keeping.

“Anya! Over here!” “One with your lovely mother!” “Rekha madam, looking beautiful tonight! Pose please!”

Rekha yanked her into a syrupy side-hug, whispering through a smile honed by decades of Page 3 diplomacy. “Stand straight. That shipping heir is watching.”

Inside, the ballroom glowed with opulence. Gleaming floors, marigold garlands, and the low hum of live sitar music masked the stink of power and desperation. Men in silk bandhgalas and women in clingy sequins orbited one another like perfume-slicked planets.

Anya swirled a tepid Limca in her glass, eyes scanning for exits. Her goal: remain untouched, unclaimed, unseen—at least by the men her mother wanted her to charm.

“Anya, darling!” A paunchy industrialist with dyed hair and an accent picked up in Heathrow leaned in. “You’re a vision tonight. Like Madhubala dipped in diamonds.”

She smiled sweetly. “And you look like Elvis ... after the third heart attack.”

His grin faltered. “Feisty!”

“Indigestion, mostly,” she replied, floating away toward the buffet.

At the bar, a politician’s son blocked her path, grinning. “You know, if I had a rupee for every time someone called you India’s next sweetheart...”

“You could almost afford my attention,” she quipped, patting him on his cheek. “Try again after a few more times.”