Yantra Protocol
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
43: Silver Spoon’s Derby
Mythology Sex Story: 43: Silver Spoon’s Derby - Bharath moves from Chennai to Calcutta to join Heritage City - one of India’s top football clubs - with dreams of becoming a professional footballer. But after rescuing a mysterious man from a robbery, he finds himself drawn into a hidden world of vivid dreams, powerful women, and ancient forces beyond his understanding. As his journey on the pitch grows more intense, so does the pull of something deeper - a path shaped by desire, danger, and a power that is only just beginning to reveal it
Caution: This Mythology Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Consensual Mind Control Romantic BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Crime Sports Alternate History Paranormal Magic Sharing Group Sex Harem Polygamy/Polyamory Indian Male Indian Female Anal Sex Exhibitionism First Oral Sex Safe Sex Squirting Tit-Fucking Indian Erotica
September 16, 2000
Ballygunge Apartment
Bharath was halfway through his second idli when the phone rang.
He glanced at the clock. Seven forty-five. The match was in four and a quarter hours. He needed to leave for the stadium by nine thirty at the latest.
He picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Anna. Are you eating?” There was no greeting. It was pure Devi - the one with her game face on.
Bharath smiled despite himself. “Good morning to you too kutti. (small one)”
“Don’t call me that. You know I don’t like that. Answer the question. Are you eating breakfast right now?”
“Yes. Idlis.”
“How many have you had?”
“I’m on my second.”
“Eat at least four. You need protein and carbs. Do you have sambar?”
“Yes, ma’am. And chutney. And curd.”
“Good. How much water have you had since you woke up?”
Bharath glanced at the glass on the table. “Maybe two glasses?”
There was a pause. Papers rustled on her end.
“That’s insufficient. You need at least four glasses before you leave for the stadium. Hydration affects reaction time. I read it in Sports Illustrated last month. There was an entire article about the French team’s pre-match protocol for the ninety eight World Cup.”
“So if I drink more water, I’ll win the World Cup?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Anna. You’re not playing in the World Cup. You’re playing Rising Sun in front of sixty thousand people who think you’re a fraud. Now tell me, do you have a pen nearby?”
“Devi, I have Coach Biswas for tactics.”
“Coach Biswas still thinks the four four two is revolutionary. I have notebooks. Plural. And I’ve been studying Rising Sun for the past month.”
Bharath set down his fork. “You’ve been studying them?”
“Obviously. You think I’d let my brother walk into his first real derby without preparation? I’ve watched fourteen of their matches from the past two seasons. Full matches, anna, not highlights. I have detailed notes on their defensive shape, pressing triggers, set piece routines, and individual player habits.”
“Fourteen matches.”
“Fifteen if you count the Mohammedan Sporting friendly in July, but that was mostly reserves so the data quality is questionable.”
Bharath blinked. His sixteen year old sister had watched fifteen football matches. And taken notes. Even for Devi, this was obsessive.
“When did you even have time for that? Don’t you have exams?”
“I’m efficient. And Football Today magazine has been covering the Calcutta league more this season. Plus Appa’s friend Mr. Dasgupta sends us VHS tapes of the big matches. He thinks I watch them because I’m interested in culture. I don’t correct him.”
Bharath laughed. “Does Appa know you’re doing this?”
“Appa thinks I’m studying for my board exams. Which I am. But I’m also studying Rising Sun’s defensive line. Now stop wasting time and get a pen. You have ninety minutes before you need to leave.”
He reached for the notepad on the coffee table, clicked open a ballpoint. “Fine. Go.”
“Okay. First. Rising Sun’s left back. Ranjan Das. Thirty one years old. Been with them six seasons. He’s fast for his age but his positioning is terrible. Every time the ball switches from left to right, he cheats two meters inside. Every single time. I’ve tracked it across eleven matches. It’s automatic. Muscle memory.”
“So when Arvind switches play...”
“Exactly. Their right side opens up like a door. Kofi or whoever is playing right back will have space for days. And their right back, Ashok Sengupta, is even worse. He’s thirty four and his recovery pace is gone. If Rafael times his diagonal runs...”
“He’ll be just behind.”
“Correct. Now write this down. Their goalkeeper. Bikash Chatterjee. Thirty eight years old. He’s been good for them but he has two specific weaknesses. One, high balls to his right side. His positioning is late and his jump is weak. On corners, if you can get the ball there, he’s vulnerable.”
Bharath scribbled quickly. “And two?”
“Low shots across his body to the far post. He overcommits on his first movement. If you’re one on one, don’t try to go near the post. He’ll read it. Go across him. Hard and low.”
“You got all this from watching tapes?”
“I got it from watching tapes and reading three different match reports from Sports Star and Sportsweek. There was a very detailed analysis after their match against Mohun Bagan in August. The journalist, Aniruddha Banerji, he’s very thorough. He noted that Chatterjee was beaten four times last season on far post shots. Four times, anna. That’s a pattern.”
Bharath shook his head slowly, still writing. “You’re terrifying.”
“I’m helpful. Now, their midfield. They play a four one four one in possession but it’s really more of a four four one one because their attacking midfielder, Somnath Roy, sits too deep. He doesn’t trust their defensive mid, so he keeps dropping to help. That means there’s always a gap between their midfield and their striker.”
“So if we press their defensive mid high...”
“They panic. I’ve seen it three times. When they’re pressed high, they go long to their striker, but he’s isolated, so the ball just comes back. That’s when you counter. Fast. Direct. Don’t let them reset.”
Bharath kept writing, his idlis forgotten now. “How much time have you spent on this?”
“Enough. Now listen. Their set pieces. They’re predictable. On corners, they put their tallest defender, Subrata Pal, at the near post. Always. He’s six foot two. They think he’ll win the header. But if you put Rafael at the back post instead of contesting near, you’ll have space when the ball comes over.”
“Got it.”
“And their free kicks. If it’s within thirty yards, their right back Sengupta takes them. He always goes for power over placement. Always. So if you’re in the wall, don’t jump early. He’ll hit you in the chest if you do.”
Bharath laughed despite himself. “Noted.”
“Oh, and one more thing. Their captain, Dipankar Sharma. He’s their center back. He’s good but he has a temper. If you get fouled hard early, don’t react. Let it go. He’s looking for a reaction. He wants you rattled. If you stay calm, he’ll get frustrated and start pushing higher to close you down. That’s when you run in the space behind him.”
There was a pause. Bharath could hear her flipping through pages.
“Devi.”
“What?”
“Thanks. You’re a genius.”
She laughed. “I’ve always been a genius, anna. You just didn’t notice because you were busy being mediocre at everything except football.”
“Hey...”
“I’m kidding. Mostly. But seriously, you need to destroy them today. Not just win. Destroy.”
Bharath grinned. “You’re very bloodthirsty for someone who’s supposed to be studying right now.”
“Studies can wait. Derby day is sacred. Now go finish your breakfast. Drink two more glasses of water. And anna?”
“Yeah?”
“When you score, point to the sky. For me. So I’ll know.”
His throat tightened slightly. “You’ll be listening on the radio?”
“Obviously. Appa is pretending he has work but I saw him check the match time three times this morning. We’ll be listening. Amma will anyway be there at the stadium.”
“No pressure then.”
“Pressure is good. It means people care. And Anna?”
“What?”
“I love you. Even if you somehow manage to mess up my perfect tactical plan.”
He smiled. “Love you too, Devi. Thanks for this.”
“Don’t thank me. Just win. And make it four nil so I can gloat to my classmates on Monday.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“See that you do. Now go. You have an hour and forty minutes before you need to leave. Stretch. Hydrate. Visualize. And stop worrying about what people think. You’ve already beaten them once. Now go do it again when it actually counts.”
She hung up.
Bharath sat there for a moment, staring at his notebook. Three full pages of notes. Detailed, specific, annotated.
His sixteen year old sister. Who had watched fifteen matches. Who had read match reports. Who had built him a tactical manual.
He finished his idlis. Drank two more glasses of water. And smiled.
Because when he stepped onto that pitch in four hours, he wouldn’t be alone.
Devi would be listening.
And she’d know if he pointed to the sky.
Doordarshan Calcutta News Studio
The screen carried the familiar Doordarshan Calcutta ident, the same saffron and white logo that had sat unchanged since 1987 above a thin blue bar. The studio itself looked as though time had stopped sometime during Indira Gandhi’s second term. Beige walls, a single potted plastic plant in the corner that no one ever watered (or dusted), and a desk of dark laminate scarred by twenty years of newsreaders’ elbows.
Prakash Sharma occupied the centre chair donning a beige safari suit pressed to military crispness. Thick black-rimmed glasses. Hair parted with the precision of someone who still believed in Brylcreem. His face suggested he had been embalmed in 1983 and nobody had bothered to tell him the funeral was over. He regarded the camera with the emotional range of wet cement - the perfect news reader.
He cleared his throat once, the sound travelling through the studio microphones like a small landslide in a quarry.
“Good morning. This is Doordarshan Calcutta. The date is Saturday the sixteenth of September in the year two thousand. The time is eight thirty.”
He lifted the first sheet and began with a voice that would put an energetic infant to sleep instantly.
“From the National Planning Commission we have received the revised GDP growth projection for the current fiscal year. The figure now stands at five point four percent. This represents a downward revision from the earlier estimate of five point eight percent. The principal contributing factors cited in the report are the delayed onset of the monsoon across large parts of the country and a measurable contraction in manufacturing output during the second quarter. Industrialists in Mumbai and Delhi have already expressed concern over the implications for private sector investment in the coming months.”
He set the sheet aside with the care of a man handling evidence in a coroner’s court. He read two more items in the same lifeless cadence.
A brief note on pending repairs to the pedestrian walkway on Howrah Bridge, with night closures from eleven p.m. to five a.m. beginning next week. An update from the state health department reminding citizens that oral polio drops would continue to be administered at all government dispensaries on every Sunday until the end of the year.
Ten full minutes had passed. Prakash Sharma had delivered every word with the enthusiasm of a man facing death row. His hands rested flat on the desk. His breathing was audible only because the studio mics were unusually sensitive.
Then he reached for the sports sheet.
Uncharacteristically, his left hand paused. It was only for half a second, but long enough that the floor director in the gallery noticed it on the preview monitor. Sharma’s jaw tightened by the smallest measurable degree. His left eye gave one rapid twitch behind the thick lenses.
“Local sports,” he said.
The voice remained flat, yet something had shifted in the room, the way air pressure changes before a storm nobody else can yet feel.
“Perennial underdogs Heritage City Football Club will face Rising Sun Football Club this afternoon at Salt Lake Stadium. Kickoff is scheduled for twelve noon. Sixty thousand tickets have been sold. The match is a benefit fixture for the Chief Minister’s education initiatives. Proceeds from premium seating will support the newly announced Asha Sangini women’s welfare initiative, spearheaded by philanthropist Sree Hema. The initiative will focus on vocational skills training and transitional housing for women rebuilding their lives. Formal launch is expected later this month.”
He paused. Not for dramatic effect. Simply because the next sentence required him to draw a slightly deeper breath.
“The primary reason for such demand, however, is not the fundraising component. It is the match itself.”
His nostril flared once, invisibly to most viewers.
“Last month these two sides met in a closed door friendly. No spectators were admitted. No media personnel were present. Heritage City emerged victorious by a score of two goals to one. Rising Sun supporters have rightly described that result as a fluke, pointing to the complete absence of crowd pressure and external scrutiny.”
He allowed the word “fluke” to sit on the air a fraction longer than necessary. In the production gallery, the floor manager’s chai cup paused halfway to his lips. He stared at the monitor. In three years, he had never heard Sharma use the word ‘rightly’ about anything.
“Heritage City’s winning goal in that encounter came from their so-called number ten, Bharath Hema. He is better known as the son of the famous Chennai industrialist Hema Narayanan. Certain sections of the local press have taken to referring to him as the Silver Spoon. This afternoon he will appear in a full public derby for the first time against the mighty Rising Sun. Whether the implement in question bends, melts, or proves unexpectedly durable remains to be seen.”
His eyebrow lifted one millimetre. The gesture was so small it might have been a trick of the light. The producer leaned forward in his chair. This wasn’t the Sharma he knew. This Sharma had opinions.
“We now go live to our roving correspondent Rina Chatterjee at Gariahat market. Rina.”
Rina stood in the middle of the morning chaos, yellow kurta bright against the grey of the pavement. A tea stall behind her sent up plumes of wood smoke and cardamom. Men in lungis, office shirts, paint splattered overalls, and faded college T-shirts had already formed loose knots around the benches. A transistor radio tuned to another station crackled faintly in the background.
“Good morning, Sharma-da! The atmosphere here is electric even though we are still three and a half hours from kickoff.”
She turned first to a man in paint stained clothes, Heritage City maroon scarf knotted around his neck like a badge of office.
“Sir, you’ve taken the morning off work?”
The painter grinned, teeth very white against his dark skin. “Morning off, evening off, probably tomorrow off too if we win. Bharath Hema is going to destroy them. Three nil minimum. Maybe four if Rafael gets hungry. Heritage City zindabad!”
Rina smiled and moved to a woman in a red and yellow saree clutching a Rising Sun pennant who glared angrily at the painter.
“Ma’am, you’re clearly supporting the other side.”
“Three generations,” the woman said without hesitation. “My grandfather stood on the Maidan when Rising Sun beat Heritage City four-nil in nineteen fifty five. My father was there for the ninety three IFA Shield final. This Bharath boy played one friendly behind closed doors. No crowd, no noise, no real pressure. My nephew could put the ball in the net under those conditions.”
Rina laughed and approached two women in silk sarees sitting at a small chai stall, handbags resting on their laps like trophies.
“Ladies, are you coming to the stadium?”
The first woman tilted her head. “Of course. All of Calcutta’s elite will be there! And Anya Das will be in the VIP box. That girl is stunning. I want to see what she wears. One must support important causes and look presentable while doing it.”
The second woman nodded. “The photographers are already saying the VIP section will be more interesting than the match itself. I heard someone from Society Magazine will be there.”
A third interrupted rudely, “I don’t care about the match. But my husband is taking me to eat roshmalai tonight. Can you...”
Rina quickly turned to a college boy holding a cup of tea. “And you?”
He shrugged. “Honestly didi, I just want a good match. Both teams have quality. Should be entertaining regardless.”
From a wooden crate nearby an elderly man with a faded Rising Sun scarf around his neck and a transistor radio on his lap spoke without being asked.
“Fifty eight years watching these derbies. I’ve seen Heritage boys come and go. Fancy boots, fancy names. Most of them fold when sixty thousand voices start screaming fluke in their ear. If this one is real, I’ll admit it. Grudgingly.”
A toothless beggar sitting cross legged on the pavement lifted his hand. “They say he’s special. Magic feet like Pele. But I’ve heard that before. Rich boys usually fold when it gets loud.”
Rina glanced toward the camera, a smile now slightly fixed. “Back to you, Sharma-da. The city is clearly divided and the opinions are colourful.”
Prakash Sharma nodded once. His jaw, for just a moment, relaxed.
“Reasonable range of perspectives. Thank you, Rina. Clearly there are some supporters who appear to be more knowledgeable than others.”
The producer nearly fainted as he shuffled the papers back into a neat stack.
“Additional information. Among the confirmed attendees are Sree Hema herself, founder of Asha Sangini and mother of the Heritage City player in question. Also expected is Anya Das, brand ambassador for Warrior Sportswear and widely reported to be Bharath Hema’s companion. Magazine photographers have indicated that interest will be divided between the match itself and the photographic opportunities in the VIP enclosure.”
A tiny pause. Then, almost conversationally:
“Heritage City Football Club appears to have invested considerable public relations effort in promoting a player whose senior record consists of precisely one closed door appearance. The wisdom, or otherwise, of that investment should become clear by approximately one thirty this afternoon.”
He returned to absolute flatness.
“Radio commentary will be available throughout the day on DD Calcutta FM at one hundred and two point eight megahertz and on Calcutta Sports Radio at ninety four point three. There is no national television broadcast. Interest in Calcutta club football remains largely confined to West Bengal.”
He glanced at the clock.
“Weather forecast for the city. Partly cloudy. Daytime high of thirty one degrees Celsius. Humidity seventy two percent. Conditions should be suitable for an outdoor athletic event. No rain is anticipated.”
The monotone returned in full.
“The state education department has announced that secondary school leaving certificate examinations will commence on March fifteenth, two thousand and one. Registration for private candidates closes on November thirtieth. Forms are available at all district education offices during normal working hours.”
He paused.
“Next, further details on the Howrah Bridge walkway maintenance. Bulletin concludes.”
The screen faded to the DD logo. A short snatch of the national anthem played out.
Heritage City Stadium, VIP Enclosure
The VIP section looked less like a seating area and more like a fashion shoot that had collided with a society wedding. Calcutta’s elite had arrived in force, dressed in their most carefully curated casual wear. Silk sarees that cost more than a month’s salary. Imported sunglasses. Gold watches catching the late morning sun.
And the photographers were hunting.
Three magazine crews. Two newspaper photographers. One television cameraman who had apparently decided that the VIP box was more newsworthy than the pitch. They prowled the aisles with the focused intensity of tigers who had just spotted prey.
Then Sree and Anya arrived together.
The cameras pivoted as one.
Sree wore a pale green cotton saree, simple and elegant, with a small Asha Sangini pin on her blouse. Her hair was pulled back in a neat bun. No unnecessary jewelry. No performance. Just the quiet authority of someone who had nothing left to prove.
Anya looked devastating in a fitted Warrior sports jacket in deep maroon with Heritage City colors subtly woven into the collar - also sporting an Asha Sangini pin. Her hair loose over one shoulder. She looked like she had stepped out of a campaign shoot and accidentally wandered into real life.
They walked in side by side, hands linked, talking quietly and laughing at something only they could hear.
The cameras didn’t just click. They attacked.
“Mrs. Narayanan! Ms. Das! One photo please!”
“Anya, who designed the jacket?”
“Mrs. Narayanan, is this your first time watching Heritage City?”
“Are you two here together?”
Sree stopped, smiled politely, and waited for the noise to settle. Anya squeezed her hand once and stayed quiet, letting the older woman handle the chaos.
“Yes, we’re here together,” Sree said calmly. “My son plays for Heritage City. Anya is supporting him. As am I. That’s all.”
“But you’re sitting together? You seem very comfortable.”
Sree’s eyebrow lifted slightly. “Should we not be comfortable? Anya is a lovely young woman. We’re watching a football match. Is there a scandal I’m missing?”
A few of the photographers laughed nervously.
One of them, bolder than the rest, pressed on. “Mrs. Narayanan, there are rumors that Anya and your son are in a relationship. Can you confirm?”
Anya’s smile didn’t falter, but her grip on Sree’s hand tightened just slightly.
Sree tilted her head. “I can confirm that my son has excellent taste. Beyond that, you’ll have to ask him. Now if you’ll excuse us, we’d like to sit down before the match starts.”
She turned, guiding Anya gently toward their seats, leaving the photographers scrambling for one last shot.
They settled into their chairs, third row from the front, perfectly positioned to see the entire pitch. Sree adjusted her saree pallu. Anya set her small Warrior-branded bag on the seat beside her.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Sree leaned over, voice low and warm. “You handled that well.”
Anya let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I didn’t handle anything. You did.”
“You stayed calm. That’s handling it.”
“I wanted to tell them to mind their own business.”
Sree smiled. “You’ll get there. Give it another decade or two. The trick is to make them feel foolish without raising your voice.”
Anya laughed despite herself. “Is that what you just did?”
“Of course. Now they’ll spend the next hour wondering if I confirmed the relationship or deflected it. And by the time they figure it out, the match will be over and they’ll have missed the actual story.”
Anya looked at her, genuinely impressed. “You’re terrifying.”
“I’ve had practice.” Sree glanced at her, eyes softening. “How are you feeling? Nervous?”
“Terrified.”
“For Bharath or for yourself?”
“Both.” Anya twisted her hands in her lap. “What if he doesn’t play well? What if the crowd gets in his head? What if they’re right and the closed door match was just luck?”
Sree reached over and took Anya’s hand again. Not for the cameras. Just for her.
“Then he’ll learn. And he’ll come back stronger. That’s what he does.”
“But what if...”
“Anya.” Sree’s voice was gentle but firm. “You now know my son more than anyone. I’ve known him for twenty two years. He doesn’t break. He bends, yes. He doubts himself, absolutely. But he doesn’t break. And do you know why?”
Anya shook her head.
“Because when the noise gets too loud, he finds one person in the crowd and plays for them. Just one. Not sixty thousand. One.”
Anya’s throat tightened. “Who?”
“Today?” Sree smiled. “I suspect it’s you.”
Across the VIP section, a man in his early forties stood near the railing, notebook in hand, staring at the stadium with the wide-eyed confusion of someone who had just walked into the wrong universe.
Rajiv Mehta was the editor of Sports Today magazine. Delhi born. Delhi raised. Cricket man through and through.
He had flown to Calcutta this morning on assignment. The magazine’s Calcutta correspondent had insisted there was a story here. A local derby. A rising star. Society glamour. Easy feature piece.
Rajiv had agreed mostly because the alternative was covering another Ranji Trophy match in Kanpur and he’d rather eat glass.
But this. This was madness.
He stared at the sea of humanity flooding into the stadium below. Sixty thousand people. Maybe more. Packed shoulder to shoulder. Maroon and green on one side. Red and yellow on the other. Drums thundering. Flags waving. Chants echoing off the concrete like war cries.
He had covered India versus Pakistan cricket matches. He had been at Eden Gardens for the ninety six World Cup semifinal. He had seen crowds.
But this felt different. This felt feral.
A vendor three rows down was selling samosas and chai like he was working a stock exchange floor. An old man in a Rising Sun scarf was arguing with his grandson about tactics, gesturing wildly with a rolled up newspaper. Two women in expensive sarees were taking photos of each other with the pitch in the background, laughing like schoolgirls.
And outside, according to the security staff he’d spoken to on the way in, the roads were blocked for miles. Fans on foot. Fans on bicycles. Fans hanging off buses. All converging on this one stadium for this one match.
For football. In India. He still couldn’t believe it.
He turned to the photographer beside him, a local hire named Arijit who seemed utterly unbothered by the chaos.
“Is it always like this?” Rajiv asked.
Arijit grinned. “For the derby? Yes. This is normal.”
“Normal?”
“You should wait till the game begins. That’s when the real madness starts.”
Rajiv shook his head slowly. “I’ve been covering sports for fifteen years. I didn’t know football was even popular in India.”
“It’s not. In most of India.” Arijit gestured at the stadium. “But this is Calcutta. Different rules.”
Rajiv made a note in his pad. Then another. Then gave up and just watched.
Below, the Heritage City supporters’ section erupted into a synchronized chant, voices merging into one massive roar that seemed to shake the air itself.
“HER-I-TAGE! HER-I-TAGE! HER-I-TAGE!”
The Rising Sun section responded immediately, drowning them out with their own battle cry.
“RISING SUN! RISING SUN! RISING SUN!”
A flare went off somewhere in the upper stands. Red smoke drifted across the crowd like a warning signal.
Rajiv turned back to Arijit. “Are they allowed to do that?”
“Technically no. Practically yes. Security gave up trying to stop it three years ago.”
“This is insane.”
“Welcome to derby day in Calcutta.”
Near the tunnel entrance, both teams had begun to line up. Heritage City in their maroon and green. Rising Sun in their red and yellow.
Rajiv trained his binoculars on the Heritage City lineup, scanning faces until he found number ten.
Bharath Hema.
Twenty two years old. Focused expression. He was stretching his calves, rolling his shoulders, tuning out the noise around him.
Rajiv had read the file on the flight over. Son of Chennai industrialist. Played in a closed door friendly last month. Scored the winning goal. Called “Silver Spoon” by local press. He had been making waves all over India in the training games. Unproven in a real match.
And now he was about to walk into this.
Sixty thousand people. Half of them convinced he was a fraud. The other half desperately hoping he wasn’t.
Rajiv made another note.
Then he looked up at the VIP box where Sree Hema and Anya Das sat, hands still linked, talking quietly.
The mother and the girlfriend.
Both watching.
He wondered if either of them had any idea what they were about to witness.
The stadium announcer’s voice crackled over the PA system.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the pitch, Heritage City Football Club and Rising Sun Football Club!”
The roar that followed wasn’t just sound.
It was pressure.
It was history.
It was sixty thousand voices demanding something that only twenty two men on a grass pitch could provide.
Sree squeezed Anya’s hand. Anya squeezed back.
And far below, Bharath Hema stepped onto the pitch, looking up just once at the VIP section.
Finding her. Finding them. Then he turned toward the center circle.
And the war began.
Safehouse Rooftop, South Calcutta
The transistor radio sat in the center of a nest of cushions, surrounded by eight women in various states of nervous excitement.
Kim twisted the antenna one more time, trying to coax the clearest possible signal from DD Calcutta FM. Static crackled, then cleared.
“ ... just ten minutes now until kickoff. The atmosphere here at Salt Lake Stadium is absolutely electric. Sixty thousand in attendance. Both sets of supporters in full voice...”
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