3: Proof and Prophecy

28 July 2000

The map lay between them like a battlefield.

Priya leaned back against the wall, knees hugged to her chest. Her braid had frayed at the edges, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion.

She’d arrived at Bharath’s door just a few hours ago with her shocking confession—that she had initially been sent to honeytrap him—but now they had forged a different alliance based on a fragile, new-born trust.

“We’ve got nothing,” she muttered, a hint of her Bengali accent slipping through as her frustration mounted. “Jaani toh shob kichhu—we know where they operate. We know the routines. But without proof ... it’s just noise.”

Bharath stared at the network she had sketched—lines connecting strangers’ names and unseen safehouses. Just nine days ago, he wouldn’t have recognized a single name on this map. Nine days ago, he was just trying to find his way around Calcutta without getting hopelessly lost.

Then Priya, who he had thought was just a friendly market girl with Rising Sun loyalties, had appeared at his doorstep earlier that night on the run. A temptress sent to lure men to their doom. But she had backed out, and now they were after her. Somehow Bharath had become her confidant, her shelter.

“You said Rekha Das might be involved,” he murmured quietly, recalling their conversation from last night about the notorious socialite and her daughter Anya. Just hearing the name again sent a strange current through his body—a connection he couldn’t explain to Priya.

She scoffed, twisting the end of her braid in that nervous habit he had come to recognize.

“Hoyto. Maybe. But she’s not stupid. She’s been dancing with devils for years. Erom mohila—a woman like that doesn’t leave trails. And even if she did ... we couldn’t get near them.”

“So you really think she could be working with Arjun?” he pressed, remembering how Priya had described Rekha Das’s ruthless social climbing and exploitation of her daughter.

Priya nodded grimly. “Page 3 royalty like her need people like Arjun to handle the dirty work. She throws the biggest parties, knows every powerful man in Calcutta, and uses her daughter Anya as bait while keeping her own hands clean.”

Something twisted in Bharath’s gut at the mention of Anya’s name—a feeling he couldn’t explain to Priya. He had seen Anya in his dreams since before he ever laid eyes on her photograph. He felt her presence like a beautiful phantom limb. The intimacy they had shared in that other realm felt more real than anything in his waking life, yet he couldn’t bring himself to tell Priya about it.

Not yet.

Bharath nodded slowly as frustration coiled like a knot behind his ribs, tight and ready to snap. The map they had created from Priya’s inside knowledge of Arjun’s operation and what she’d overheard during her time with the Syndicate seemed comprehensive, but without solid evidence, they had nothing to threaten the Syndicate with, nothing to secure her safety.

He stood up.

“Where are you going?” Priya asked sharply.

“Food,” he said, grabbing his wallet and slipping on his sandals. Her eyes followed Bharath with that mixture of gratitude and stubborn independence he had come to recognize in the few hours since she had appeared at his door-soaking wet and desperate. “You haven’t eaten for a while. Neither have I.”

“Where will you even go?” she asked. “You’ve only been in Calcutta, what—a week?”

“Almost two,” Bharath corrected her, a hint of pride in his voice. “Since the 18th. And I’ve figured out that much at least. There’s a food stall just down the street. I pass it on my way to training.”

“It’s not safe,” she said, rising quickly, her kohl-lined eyes widening. “Ekhon raat hoeche. You shouldn’t be seen out late. They might be watching.”

He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, though his stomach knotted at the thought of the danger surrounding them.

“They don’t know where I live,” he said. “Heritage City only announced my signing last week. I’m still a nobody here. And I’m not wearing my club gear. I’ll be fifteen minutes. Lock the door behind me.”

She opened her mouth to argue again, but the rumble from her stomach betrayed her.

He gave her a look.

She sighed and nodded. “Thik achhe. But don’t be a hero.” A pause, then softer: “You’ve already done more than you should have to.”

He met her eyes. “That’s what friends are for, right?” The word felt both inadequate and presumptuous between them—they had only met a week ago when she’d approached him at the market.

“Just hungry,” he said, and slipped into the humid night.

The streets were quieter at night—calmer than the chaos of central Calcutta, but not dead. Mosquitoes danced lazily under flickering bulbs. Dogs curled by shuttered storefronts, tails twitching in sleep. This wasn’t the heart of the city. This was Salt Lake—its polished skin, hiding the nerves beneath. New money. New buildings. Old secrets.

He was still learning his way around this strange, sprawling metropolis. His agent had assured him that signing with Heritage City AC was the opportunity of a lifetime—a step up from the Chennai league where he had made his name. What the agent hadn’t mentioned was the byzantine politics, the fierce rivalry with Rising Sun FC, or the underbelly of corruption that seemed to permeate everything in Calcutta.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked, letting the humidity settle over him like a second shirt.

Priya had protested, of course. Their paths should never have crossed—him, a new footballer from Chennai with barely nine days in Calcutta; her, a young woman entrapped by the Syndicate and forced to honeytrap men. She had confessed everything just hours ago: how she had spotted Bharath as a potential target after his signing, how she followed him around to get closer to him, spy on him and eventually, feed the Syndicate details about his finances and routines. But something had changed. She couldn’t go through with it and refused her handlers. Now they were hunting her, and he had become her unexpected ally.

The plan was simple—pick up two egg rolls and some beguni (fried eggplant fritters, as the vendor had explained to him yesterday) from the corner stall down past the main road, maybe some lebu sharbat—lemon soda with a dash of salt and sugar that Priya had introduced him to. Come back. Feed her. Think.

But the city, even in its quiet, had cracks.

And cracks let things through.

The corner stall wasn’t much.

Plastic stools. One flickering bulb. Old Bengali songs crackling on a tiny radio. The sweet scent of paan mixing with the oily aroma of frying egg rolls.

But the voices he heard right next to the stall stopped him cold.

Tamil.

Rough. Slurred. And angry.

Two men crouched near a broken-down scooter—whiskey bottle between them, arguing openly.

Thugs.

Their dialect was the rough-edged slum slang of Chennai’s underbelly—cheri Tamil.

His home city.

Bharath slowed his pace down, the familiar cadences pulling him in like a magnet. After days of linguistic isolation—struggling with even basic Bengali phrases during training sessions—the sound of Tamil, even this crude dialect, felt like an unexpected gift.

The words hit him like stabs of ice.

“Pogudhu da ... three days ah naanga Bankra Road-la paiyyan maadhiri velai pannom. Babysitters aa? Intha Calcutta pasangalukku?” (Three whole days we worked like babysitters in Bankra Road. For these useless Calcutta guys?) The other one grunted, swigging deep from the bottle, the amber liquid catching the streetlight.

Bharath’s stomach twisted.

Girls.

Bankra Road.

“Afzal periya aalu nu solikuran. Ivan paathaa kodukka maari. Duddu varala, onnum varala. Ivanga madam enna da ... pazhaya cinema heroine maadhiri build-up kudukkura?” (Afzal thinks he’s a big man. But nothing’s coming. No cash, Nothing. And that madam of theirs—acting like some old film heroine?)

Bharath froze.

Heroine.

That word caught his attention.

In Chennai street Tamil, “heroine” could mean a few things—sometimes it literally meant a film actress, but in certain contexts, it referred to someone famous or influential.

Could they be talking about Rekha Das? The socialite Priya had mentioned in their conversations? Bharath’s heart raced at the possibility, no matter how far-fetched it might be. If it was Rekha, that might mean a connection to Anya—the woman who had claimed his dreams, whose face he had seen only in magazines and on the TV, yet felt drawn to in ways he couldn’t explain.

He felt a familiar stirring below his waist at the thought of Anya and quickly adjusted his posture, leaning awkwardly against the wall. The egg roll vendor gave him a knowing look and snickered, making him blush furiously. Bharath angled his body away from the counter, pretending he had a sudden interest in a poster of Bollywood stars he could barely recognize.

His mind flashed to the dream he had just last night—Anya in his arms, their bodies entwined in moonlight, her whispered promises that she belonged to him. The dream had felt so real, so visceral. She had been his in that other realm, and he hers, even though they had never met in the waking world. And now here were these thugs, casually discussing her mother’s (potentially?) criminal connections.

The first thug cursed loudly, digging into his pocket and pulled something out.

Not a weapon.

A photograph.

Faded. Crumpled. But Bharath caught a glimpse as he waved it drunkenly.

A woman. Looked like a party photo.

Maybe a hotel lobby shot. Maybe staged.

Too far to see details.

“En kitta copy irukku da,” he bragged, his bloodshot eyes gleaming with greed. “Enakku paisa kedaikaama ponaalum paravailla ... naan ithu vithuduven—apparum settle aidalam.” (I’ve got a copy, man. Even if I don’t get paid—I’ll sell this somewhere. I’ll get enough to retire.)

The second man slapped his hand down, whispering harshly now—finally worried.

The egg roll vendor shouted something at Bharath, waving two wrapped parcels. He fumbled with his wallet, pulling out rupee notes. The vendor impatiently pointed to a twenty-rupee price scrawled on a board, and Bharath handed over a fifty-rupee note. He sighed dramatically, counted out the change, and stuffed it back in his hand along with the food.

“Dhonyobad,” Bharath attempted in his terrible Bengali accent.

The vendor winced as if physically pained by his pronunciation. “Just go, football boy. You’re scaring my customers,” in Hindi. Bharath blinked in surprise. “You know I play football?”

“Everyone knows. You kick ball for Heritage.” He made a disgusted face and spat to the side. “Rising Sun better”.

Great. Even the street food vendors were football fanatics in this city.

Priya sat cross-legged on the floor, still poring over their sketch-map, a half-empty cup of sweet milky cha beside her. The scent of cardamom hung in the air from the tea she insisted on brewing the Bengali way—boiled with ginger, not steeped. When she saw Bharath, relief washed over her face before she quickly masked it with her usual composure.

“Baba re, you were gone for so long—” There was a tremor in her voice she couldn’t quite hide.

And then he told her.

Every word.

Every slurred complaint.

Every dangerous brag.

The photograph.

The reference to an “old film heroine.”

And the unmissable location—Bankra Road.

Priya’s face shifted from worry to cold, calculating focus.

“So it’s true,” she whispered, her fingers gripping the edge of the sketch-map. “Everything I told you about Rekha Das last night—it’s actually happening. She really could be connected to the Syndicate”.

Priya took a bite of her egg roll, then suddenly grimaced. “Ish! Too much chili!”

“Really?” Bharath was already halfway through his. “Seems mild to me.”

She looked at him incredulously. “You and your Chennai stomach. This would burn through normal people.” “Are you calling me abnormal?” he grinned.

“I’m calling you a fire-breathing dragon,” she retorted, but reached for the water bottle with a small smile. Bharath felt good to see her momentarily distracted from their troubles. But the lightness didn’t last long. Her eyes sharpened again.

“The one with the photograph...” she said slowly, “Describe him again.” Bharath closed his eyes and recalled the details.

“Older. Maybe late 30s. Scar above his left eyebrow. Short. Wiry. Wears that cheap leather jacket—even in this heat.” She nodded.

“That’s Mani.”

“You know him?” Bharath asked, recalling how she had explained the syndicate’s hierarchy to him last night—the handlers, the fixers, the muscle who kept girls like her in line.

She let out a dry chuckle, running her thumb across the silver bangles that always adorned her left wrist—a gift from her mother, she’d once told him.

“Ami chini oder moto lok. I know the type. Small-time thug. Not trusted with real jobs. Used for holding, waiting, threatening wives of targets. But loud. Desperate. Always feels like he’s being cheated.”

“We can’t risk you going near them,” Bharath said finally, surprising himself with the protective edge in his voice. She nodded. Quiet. Too quiet.

“They’ll recognize me. Mani especially.” Her fingers twisted anxiously in her lap. “You’ve already risked enough helping me hide.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about, Priya.” Bharath sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. “You’re the one who taught me the importance of this story. We’re in this together now.”

A ghost of a smile crossed her face. “Tumi bhalo manush. You are a good man. Maybe too good for this mess I’ve brought to your door.”

“Not that good,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “I still haven’t figured out the washing machine in this apartment. All my training gear is turning gray.”

She looked at him oddly, then suddenly burst into laughter. “You’re supposed to separate whites and colors!” “They’re all the same in the dark when I throw them in,” he shrugged. “Besides, at home my mother always—” he stopped, embarrassed.

“Your mother always did your laundry,” she finished, still chuckling. “Typical man.”

“Hey, I can cook!”

“Eggs. You can cook eggs.”

“And make excellent tea,” Bharath insisted.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Priya’s voice cut through the silence. Low. Certain. “Aamra aatke nei.” Her eyes glinted in the dim light. “Not stuck. We just need to stop thinking like good people.”

Bharath raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?” His limited experience in Calcutta hadn’t prepared him for whatever she was considering. Less than 24 hours ago, she was a terrified woman at his door confessing she had been trapped into working for the Syndicate, honey trapping men and helping blackmail them. Now she was plotting revenge with a confidence that was both impressive and unsettling.

“It means we need to be creative,” she said, pushing herself up from the floor.

“Mani and his type?” Priya said, her voice sharper now, warming to the idea. She twisted a strand of hair that had escaped her braid, her mind clearly racing. “They love two things more than money.”

Bharath waited, watching as she began to pace. The confidence in her movements reminded him that despite her youth, she had navigated a dangerous world for long. Last night she had told him how the Syndicate had recruited her—pretty, poor, invisible—to target wealthy men. She knew these people in ways he never could.

“Booze. And bragging.” She ticked them off on her fingers.

“So we could...” he started, trying to follow her logic.

“Let’s consider all our options,” she said, her tone cooled to calculation, switching to a more analytical tone. “One: we could simply buy the photo from Mani—offer him more money than he’d get elsewhere. But that’s risky. He might just take our money and tell the Syndicate anyway.”

Bharath nodded slowly. “Two: we could report this to the police?”

She shot him a look that made him feel incredibly naive. “You’ve been in Calcutta how long? Ten days? Half the department is in the Syndicate’s pocket. The other half wouldn’t touch a case involving Rekha Das or the Syndicate with a ten-foot pole.”

“Right,” he said, feeling foolish. “Not that then. I’m starting to think the only honest people in this city are the ones who admit they’re criminals.”

Priya snorted. “That’s ... unfortunately accurate.”

“Three,” she continued, “we could set a trap for Mani. Get him talking to someone who seems interested in buying the photo.”

“That would be me, I’m guessing?” he asked.

“No, too risky. You’re new to Calcutta, but you’re not unknown. Heritage City plastered your signing photos across half the sports pages last week.”

Bharath couldn’t help feeling a flicker of pride at that, despite their dire situation.

“Four,” she mused, “we could break into wherever he’s staying and steal it.”

“You know where he lives?”

She shook her head. “And Bankra Road has too many eyes. That’s out.”

“Five,” he offered, trying to be helpful, “what about blackmail? If he’s doing something illegal—”

“He’s a thug. Everything he does is illegal. But blackmail just makes things personal.” She stopped pacing suddenly. “Six ... what if we just...”

A slow smile spread across her face.

Bharath tapped his fingers against the edge of the table. “Okay, walk me through this again—clean. Simple.”

Priya nodded, already folding the scrap of paper she’d written earlier. “Step one: you talk to Kunal.”

“Kunal? Why him?”

“He knows Hari kaka,” she said, slipping the paper into an envelope. “And Hari kaka runs the stall where Mani and his type drink. I used to wait there for ... jobs. Hari helped me once. If he gets this message, he’ll help again.”

“So Kunal gives him the note?”

“Exactly. Quietly. No questions asked. The note asks Hari to get Mani drunk on Friday night and plant one idea in his head—that someone’s been going around claiming to have dirt on Rekha Das.”

Bharath raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

“That’s enough,” she said. “Men like Mani live to prove they’re bigger than they are. The moment he hears someone else might have his photo, he’ll whip it out and brag that he’s the only one holding gold.”

He exhaled slowly, already visualizing it. “Alright. Let’s say that works. Then what?”

“Then you hire Madan,” she said, sliding a second note across the table. “Your club photographer. You tell him you want some candid shots of ‘real Calcutta’ for your family back home. Tell him your cousin’s obsessed with Bengali street culture—whatever works.”

“And we shoot near the stall?”

“Exactly,” she nodded. “Hari kaka will seat Mani where Madan has a clean line of sight. If Mani pulls out the photo, Madan gets the shot.”

“No stealing. No confrontation.”

“No suspicions,” she added. “Madan doesn’t need to know what he’s photographing. He just needs to keep clicking.” Bharath frowned. “But if Mani doesn’t pull it out—”

“Then we try again,” she said simply. “But he will. Hari knows how to provoke him. And if we get the shot, we’ll have proof without Mani even knowing it.”

He leaned back, nodding slowly. “Smart. Clean.”

She grinned. “That’s why we’re doing it Friday night. Drunk men are always the loudest.”

As she explained her plan further, Bharath’s mind drifted again to Anya—to her face, her lips, the way she’d moved against him in his dreams. A powerful wave of arousal hit him so suddenly that he had to grab a cushion from the couch and place it awkwardly on his lap.

Priya stopped mid-sentence, her eyes widening slightly as she realized what was happening.

“I, uh...” he stuttered, mortified.

To his surprise, she burst out laughing. “Oh my God, you’re like a teenager!”

“I’m sorry,” Bharath said, face burning. “I was just thinking about ... strategy.”

“Strategy. Right.” She was still giggling. “Must be quite a complex ... position you’re considering.”

“Can we please change the subject?” Bharath begged, unable to look her in the eye.

She composed herself, though her eyes still danced with amusement. “Of course. Let’s talk about your ... smaller problems.”

Bharath glared at her, but eventually couldn’t help smiling. The absurdity of the situation—plotting against gangsters while battling inconvenient arousal—was too ridiculous not to laugh at.

Bharath stared at the crude plan sketched out in front of them.

Was it risky? Absolutely.

Was it brilliant? Maybe.

But it felt right.

Smart. Fast. Street-level.

Exactly the kind of solution the Syndicate’s slick operators would never expect.

“You know, it’s ironic. You being a Rising Sun fan and me playing for Heritage City.” He had noticed the red and gold keychain she always carried—Rising Sun’s colors.

She smiled wryly. “Football rivalries seem small compared to what we’re dealing with now.” Then her expression turned contemplative.

“You’ve changed since I first met you at the market. There’s something different about you ... something beyond football.” He thought of Anya, of the dreams that had been growing increasingly vivid since his arrival in Calcutta, but kept silent. He shifted uncomfortably, acutely aware of the pillow still on his lap.

“And I can guess what—or who—might be causing some of these changes,” Priya added with a knowing smirk. “I could say the same about you,” he replied, desperate to change the subject. “The girl who helped me pick fruit wasn’t exactly revealing her true self either.” There was no accusation in his voice—just acknowledgment of how complex their situation had become.

“Fair point,” she conceded. “Though in my defense, I wasn’t actually planning to go through with it from the beginning. You were terrible at being a mark.”

“Terrible how?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“Well, for starters, most men would have invited me up to their apartment that first day. You just thanked me for helping with the shopping.”

He felt his face flush. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Don’t be,” she said seriously. “It’s why we’re both still alive.”

And just like that—they weren’t prey anymore.

They were hunting.

“Tomorrow night,” she whispered, more to herself than to Bharath. “Friday night. We’re going to turn this around.”

The night was heavy over the city. The kind of humid weight that settled into your bones. Even the buzzing of distant auto-rickshaws and the occasional bark of stray dogs seemed softer, drowned under the low hum of the fan in Bharath’s apartment and the distant temple bells signaling the midnight aarti.

Priya had fallen asleep curled into the edge of the couch, tension still written into every line of her elegant frame despite the exhaustion. Her bangle-adorned arm dangled off the edge, silver glinting in the dim light. The faint scent of lavender oil from her hair mingled with the lingering aroma of their dinner.

Bharath carefully draped a light cotton blanket over her. In sleep, the young woman who had approached him so naturally in the market, who had spent time with him under false pretenses, and who had finally broken down at his door just hours ago confessing everything, looked vulnerable.

It was strange how quickly they had formed this bond—the football player from Chennai who barely spoke a word of Bengali and the girl who’d been trapped in the Syndicate’s web of honey traps and blackmail. She deserved the rest. They both did.

But Bharath’s mind wouldn’t quiet.

Not after what they had uncovered tonight. Not after what they had planned. Not after what they had dared to dream. The thought of what lay ahead, what danger still circled her, pulled at him like an itch beneath his skin. At first, when she had first appeared at his door earlier, wild-eyed and desperate, he had offered shelter out of simple decency. Now he found himself willing to risk everything to protect her—not out of romance, but something deeper. Something like family. The fierce, protective instinct he had always felt for his sister back in Chennai.

But more than that ... there was another pull. One that thrummed low in his body ever since that night in the yantra. The dream. The yantra. And Anya Das—a woman he had never met in the flesh but whose body and soul he had known intimately in their shared dreamscape.

The vision they had shared just last night had been the most vivid yet— bodies joining in moonlight, promises whispered against heated skin. She had claimed him spiritually and emotionally in a way he couldn’t explain.

She would be waiting for him.

Bharath didn’t even remember closing his eyes.

The first thing Bharath felt as he stepped into the dream was a subtle shift in the air—a breathlessness, as though the world itself held its breath. No jolt, no pull—just a gradual sinking into something deeper, vaster.

He was no longer in his apartment. There was nothing familiar to touch or hold, yet he felt more present than ever. Beneath his bare feet stretched an immense expanse of ancient stone, warm and gently contoured, as if shaped by centuries of sacred ritual. The ground hummed with quiet resonance. It felt alive, as though it recognized him.

Intricate geometric patterns flowed across the surface—triangles, spirals, lotus petals—etched in motion, shifting like sentient thought. Not decoration, but language. Not static, but breathing.

There were no walls. No sky. Just a boundless, shimmering mandala that spiraled infinitely in all directions. A living yantra—sacred geometry unfurling around him, glowing faintly in hues of green, silver, and red. It pulsed not with light, but intent. The air was thick with power—not overwhelming, but so dense it clung to his skin, teasing understanding just beyond reach. He took a step. The stone welcomed it. Symbols rearranged underfoot, their edges softening, reshaping to his presence.

He knelt, reaching toward a glowing petal. His hand hovered, then touched it—not quite contact, but enough. It hummed under his fingers, a silent acknowledgment.

Startled, he drew back. The glow flared, then softened again, as if it were breathing with him.

It felt familiar—eerily so. Not from memory, but from something older. A knowing buried deep within his bones. These symbols weren’t just ancient; they were eternal, waiting for him to remember.

Near the center of the yantra, one petal pulsed brighter than the rest—a deep red, edged in gold, radiant like fire. It tugged at him, each step toward it heavier, the air denser with unseen force. But just as he reached out, it shimmered and slipped from reach, teasing, sentient.

And then ... stillness.

He froze.

The air changed again.

He was not alone.

No figures appeared, but presence crackled in the air. Like a storm building behind the silence. Something watched him. Not with eyes, but with awareness. The yantra had noticed.

The patterns began to shift again—more organic now. The lotus petals contracted and stretched as if breathing. The triangles folded inward like muscle memory returning.

And then he felt it.

The goddesses.

Not seen—but felt. A heat, a pulse, a divine pull at the edge of perception.

They were close. Watching. Waiting.

Their energy coiled around him, not demanding, not violent—but vast. Like being seen by the sky.

He didn’t understand. Couldn’t. There were no answers here, only sensation—mystery thick as mist.

The petals brightened, glowing with ethereal light.

He stood still, heart pounding, breath slow.

And then came the surge.

A presence swept through him—impossible, holy, electrifying. The goddesses’ energy flooded his body, not with chaos, but with cosmic precision. Each vibration carried purpose.

He gasped as it moved through him—not pain, not pleasure, but a totality.

They weren’t visions.

They were real.

And they were here.

And then Bharath saw them.

Lingams. Rising like sacred stones from the earth itself. Obsidian slick, each wrapped in its own shrouded space within the yantra. Silent. Waiting.

He circled slowly, his breath catching.

Not all were clear.

Some shimmered like distant stars. Others seemed incomplete, veiled from his gaze as if still forming—or still waiting to be claimed.

But three...

Three shone.

The first burned brightest.

Red and gold silk lay curled at its base, catching an unseen wind, whispering of a presence he knew as surely as his own breath. Anya.

The yantra folded around him and a vision opened—not a dream, but a window. A glimpse.

Anya curled alone beneath fine sheets in her room. Fragile and fierce. Soft brown skin touched by moonlight. Eyes haunted by memories older than her years.

But Anya’s eyes remained closed—her heart somewhere distant. Somewhere with him?