6: Waking Dreams and First Meetings

1 August 2000

Bharath woke up with a ridiculous smile plastered across his face. Not the smug, just-scored-a-goal kind of smile, but the lazy, sun-warmed, post-orgasmic grin of a man who had been spiritually, emotionally, and thoroughly physically wrecked by a woman he hadn’t technically met yet.

Anya.

The memory of her voice, her touch, her everything — it lingered on his skin like a fine dew. The dream had never felt more real, and he had never felt more alive.

And starving.

The kind of hunger that demanded hot filter coffee and ghee-soaked pongal with crispy vadas. But he was in Calcutta, not Chennai, and he doubted the local corner shop stocked anything remotely close to his mother’s cooking.

So he improvised.

While the kettle hissed and the pan sizzled, he danced barefoot in his cramped kitchen to some absurd jingle playing from a neighbor’s TV. He was pretty sure it was meant to advertise innerwear, but it had a beat, and that’s all he needed.

A few minutes later, he did the best he could manage on the ingredients he had: warm toast slathered in Amul butter, sweetened lemon chai in place of coffee, and scrambled egg bhurji with a pinch of garam masala that would have made Devi call him a culinary traitor.

He set the tray down on the dining table, careful to arrange everything just the way Priya liked it — diagonally stacked toast, eggs on the side, and two extra sachets of sugar for her tea. Then, of course, the note: “Dear Resident Super-Spy, Your breakfast has not been bugged. Unless you count the chilies, in which case: surprise surveillance. Yours in scrambled service, — Silver Spoon.”

He left it next to her spoon, chuckling to himself. He didn’t know when exactly Priya had become such a fixture in his life, but her presence was like that one defender on the team who always had your back — firm, annoying, necessary.

Even if she did constantly tease him about his Anya obsession. Which — speaking of — was suddenly a far more complicated situation than even he realized.

Priya stumbled out of her room in one of her pajamas, bleary-eyed and barefoot, her hair tied in a messy knot that somehow made her look more intimidating than polished ever could.

She squinted at the table, then at the tray, then at the note.

“What in god’s name is ‘surprise surveillance’?” She rubbed sleep from her eyes.

“Good morning to you too,” Bharath said, hiding his grin behind the rim of his tea.

She read the note aloud in a deadpan tone, raising an eyebrow. “Yours in scrambled service ... really? This is what you do instead of practice? And here I thought Heritage City had a chance with you in their squad.”

He shrugged. “Some men chase dreams. I chase eggs.”

She dropped into the chair and took a bite. A pause. Then a very deliberate second bite.

“Okay,” she said through a mouthful of toast. “This doesn’t make up for your laundry stench yesterday, but it’s a solid start.”

He held up his hands. “A man’s laundry is sacred.”

“Your socks could be weaponized.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes — the kind of comfortable, heavy quiet that had developed between them in the strange intimacy of shared danger.

The fan hummed above them. The tea between them steamed faintly. Priya tore a piece of toast, layered it with a spoon of eggs, and chewed slowly. She didn’t have to ask how he’d slept. He didn’t have to ask what she was thinking.

They both knew where the conversation was headed.

Anya.

Priya wiped her fingers, pushed her plate away slightly, and leaned back. “We need to talk about her. Seriously this time.” Bharath didn’t look up. He stared into his tea like it might offer him a different future. “I know.”

“She might be innocent,” Priya said, her voice careful. “Or she might just be good at playing the part. Either way, she’s Rekha Das’s daughter. That makes her dangerous.”

He looked up at her slowly. His voice was quiet. “She’s not like her mother.”

“You want her not to be like her mother.”

The correction stung more than he expected.

Priya sighed, rubbing her brow. “Bharath ... I get it. I do. She’s stunning. Enigmatic. Looks like she walked out of a dream—”

He flinched.

“Wait,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You’ve never met her, right?”

“Not ... in person,” he said, eyes falling again.

There was a beat of silence. Then Priya leaned forward, lowering her voice. “You’ve been dreaming about her?”

He didn’t answer.

“You have,” she said, sitting back again, exhaling. “God, that explains so much. You’re obsessed. You’re trying so hard to pretend you’re just worried about her safety, but—”

“It’s not just attraction,” Bharath said, his tone sharper now. “It’s not lust - at least not just lust.” Priya tilted her head. “Then what is it?”

He didn’t have an answer she would believe. Not yet. Not until she was ready.

“She’s not like her mother,” he repeated instead.

Priya studied him for a long moment, her tone softening. “Okay. Let’s say you’re right. Let’s say she’s innocent. But Bharath ... if she is, then she’s walking around with a target on her back the size of Salt Lake Stadium. And if she’s not—”

“Then we deal with it,” he said, cutting in. “But not yet. Not without knowing the truth.” Priya nodded slowly. “Fair.”

There was a pause. She reached for her tumbler and sipped the cooling tea. “If she’s in the dark, we break it to her gently.”

“And if she’s not?” he asked.

She met his gaze, unwavering. “Then we break her.”

The words sat between them like a blade.

“Only if she chooses the wrong side,” she added, quieter this time.

He looked away, jaw tight. “I don’t want to imagine that.”

“You might have to.”

She wasn’t being cruel. She was being realistic. That was the difference between her and him. She had lived in the underbelly of this war. He’d only just stepped into the shadows.

Bharath ran a hand through his hair. “This wasn’t supposed to be my fight.”

“It is now.”

A small smile touched her lips. “And you’ve got a hell of a wildcard.”

“I know.”

Priya stood up, stretched, then gathered their plates. “I’m heading out for the second recon run. We’ll know soon if Rekha’s people are connected to Bankra or not. Until then...”

She paused in the kitchen doorway, plate in hand.

“Whatever this is with Anya? Whether it’s real or fantasy — you need to figure it out, Bharath. Soon.”

He didn’t reply.

Tea half-finished. Words still unspoken. Dreams still unraveling under his skin like silk threads burning in slow fire.

Priya adjusted the dupatta across her face, slipping on the oversized sunglasses that made her look like an off-duty Bollywood extra rather than a woman on a covert mission. She checked the alley. Empty. The only sounds were the clang of utensils from the tea stall nearby and the groaning of an ancient delivery rickshaw trundling past.

She made her way casually to the broken pipe at the edge of the crumbling wall and knelt as if adjusting her sandal. Her fingers found the tucked roll of foil almost immediately.

Her pulse quickened.

Inside the foil: a scrap of cheap notepad paper, stained with grease but scrawled in familiar, hurried script.

“Big party. Fancy one. At the Grand Imperial Hotel. Five days from today. Girls being picked up after lunch. Only the best-looking. Clean them up, dress them up, smile on cue. Big names. Political. Film maybe. Be safe didi”

Priya folded the note tightly and slipped it into the lining of her cloth bag. She didn’t let herself think. Not yet. Not until she was away.

She gave a quick, whispered prayer and made her way back toward the bus stop, head down, heart racing. Her next stop: home— And that word caught her off guard.

Home.

Not a brothel. Not a safe house. Not some dirty guest room where she’d had to pull a mattress over a broken lock. But Bharath’s apartment.

A space where she could breathe. Where she could eat without being watched. Sleep without flinching. Plot without fear. She paused under a rusting billboard, eyes suddenly stinging.

She depended on him. On his goodness. His kindness. His absolute refusal to treat her like a broken thing. And she wasn’t used to that.

Not from men. Not from anyone. Not even from herself. She wiped her face, angry at the emotion.

But it stayed with her — quiet, powerful.

He was becoming something more than just her rescuer.

Maybe even her home.

She straightened her shoulders. “Get home. Plan. Strike.”

And she did.

The sun hadn’t climbed high enough to bake the turf yet, but the humidity was already settling over the practice ground like a damp towel. Bharath’s jersey clung to him by the third drill, the fabric darkening with sweat patterns that spread like ink on blotting paper.

Assistant Coach Amit had a whistle around his neck and a permanent look of disappointment—which, Bharath was slowly learning, meant he actually approved of your work. A former midfielder for the national team whose career had been cut short by a knee injury, Amit carried the intensity of a man who still had unfinished business with the sport.

“Midfield distribution today!” he barked, his voice carrying across the field. “Let’s see if the Silver Spoon can find a pass under pressure!”

Some of the older players sniggered, but it didn’t sting anymore. The nickname had stopped being a slur and started becoming something else. Familiar. Almost affectionate. Like how his father would call him a “bookworm” when he was younger—criticism wrapped in reluctant pride.

They split into two squads. The morning mist still clung to the grass in patches, making the ball skip and slide unpredictably. He was dropped into a high-intensity passing drill, with two defenders pressuring and three attackers trying to break out. The training bibs were damp from previous use, the smell of accumulated sweat and determination woven into the fabric.

Bharath didn’t try to dazzle. No fancy stepovers, no audacious backheels, none of the flashy moves that looked good on highlight reels but lost possession nine times out of ten. Instead, he played the kind of football that made others better—intelligent, selfless, precise.

When Santosh misread a ball and drifted wide, leaving a dangerous gap in the formation, he shifted his angle and covered the defender’s mistake without a word or accusatory glance. He fed a quick no-look through pass to another winger who slotted it cleanly past the keeper.

“Yes!” shouted Ravi, the winger, but he noticed Amit’s eyes weren’t on the goal—they were on Bharath, on the adjustment he had made to compensate for Santosh’s error.

Coach Amit grunted. From him, that was like a standing ovation.

Next play, Vikram—a newly minted defender from the first team brought in to challenge the reserves—launched a threatening long ball toward the reserve box. Bharath read its trajectory early, anticipating rather than reacting, and intercepted it with his chest. He felt Vikram’s presence immediately, his breath on Bharath’s neck as he pressed close, trying to use his superior size to bully Bharath off the ball.

Instead of panicking, Bharath lowered his center of gravity, using his body as a shield. He maintained possession, dribbling back toward center, pivoting and turning until he spotted an attacker making a diagonal run that pulled the defense out of shape. He weighted the pass perfectly, giving him the cleanest assist of the morning.

“Better!” Amit called. His eyebrows rose half a centimeter. Which meant very impressed.

The training intensified as the sun climbed higher. Nearby, Rafael and Kofi were working with the attacking players, their professional experience evident in their efficient movements. Rafael caught Bharath’s eye at one point and gave a subtle nod—acknowledgment from a veteran that didn’t go unnoticed by the others.

After an hour of continuous rotation, sweat running down his back in streams, muscles burning, lungs working like bellows, Amit clapped once. “Alright. Full-field scrimmage. First team defense versus reserve midfield.”

Bharath was in.

They put him in the central pivot—the position with the most responsibility, the connector between defense and attack. The trust implicit in that assignment wasn’t lost on him.

For the next twenty minutes, he ran with purpose and intelligence. He covered gaps when fullbacks pushed forward, played decoy when needed, controlled tempo, turned when the defense pressed too hard, sprayed long balls with just enough curve to turn defenders the wrong way.

Bharath heard Amit murmuring to Biswas who had come to observe: “Watch his scanning—head on a swivel, always aware.” Biswas nodded thoughtfully, making notes on his clipboard.

When Madhavan, the first team’s defensive midfielder, tried to close Bharath down, he invited the pressure before releasing the ball with a first-time flick that split two defenders. Moments later, when the attack broke down, Bharath was already tracking back, anticipating the counter and intercepting a pass before it could threaten their goal.

“That’s what I want!” Amit pointed at me. “See how he balances? Attack, defend, attack, defend. No pauses. No spectating.”

By the end of the scrimmage, Bharath’s lungs were burning, legs shaking with exertion. But he’d proven something—not with flash or individual brilliance, but with consistency, decision-making, and tactical intelligence.

The first-team captain, Arvind, jogged over, his experienced frame still relatively fresh compared to Bharath’s exhausted state. He offered his hand, and Bharath shook it, trying not to show how much it meant to receive his acknowledgment.

“You from Chennai, right?” he asked, swiping sweat from his brow.

“Yeah.”

“You play like someone who watches too much Italian football. I mean that in a good way.” He smiled, revealing the gap between his front teeth that had become something of a trademark in his newspaper photos. “Positioning over athleticism. Brain over flash.”

Then he turned to Coach Amit. “He’s ready. Get him a bib with our colors next session.”

Amit didn’t say anything. Just smiled. And that? That felt better than a goal to Bharath.

As the team walked toward the showers, Santosh bumped his shoulder—a gesture of camaraderie that would have been unthinkable a week ago.

“So the Silver Spoon has some steel in him after all,” he said, respect evident in his tone. Bharath smiled, too tired for clever comebacks. “Just playing my part.”

“Keep it up and you’ll be playing Arvind’s part soon enough,” he replied, nodding toward the first-team midfielder who was deep in conversation with the coach, both occasionally glancing their way.

In the locker room, Bharath noticed something had changed. The reserves who had viewed him with suspicion were now making space for him on the bench, offering water, including him in their conversations about weekend plans and the latest Premier League transfers. He wasn’t quite “one of them” yet, but the invisible barrier was crumbling.

As Bharath showered, letting the cool water sluice away the morning’s exertion, he thought about what he had said about being a tourist in someone else’s pain. Maybe that’s what he’d been in football too—a tourist in someone else’s struggle, a privileged player who’d never had to fight for respect.

But that was changing. Today he hadn’t just played—he’d served. He elevated others. He had subordinated his ego to the team’s needs.

And strangely, in making himself less visible, he had become more seen.

Rafael approached as Bharath was dressing, his Portuguese-accented English still careful and deliberate. “Good work today campeão.” No “Silver Spoon” from him. “You remind me of a young player I knew in São Paulo. Not the most physical, not the fastest, but...” he tapped his temple, “ ... always three steps ahead in here.”

Bharath nodded, unable to hide his pleasure at the comparison. “Thanks.”

“Just remember,” he added, lowering his voice, “the higher you climb, the more they expect. And the harder they push you down if you slip.” His eyes held Bharath’s for a moment longer than comfortable. “Be ready for that.”

As Bharath left the training ground, his phone vibrating with messages from his family asking about yesterday’s match, he felt a quiet certainty settling in his bones. This wasn’t just about making the first team anymore. It wasn’t even about impressing Anya at some gala.

This was about becoming someone worthy of the opportunities he’d been given. Someone who understood that talent was just the starting point, not the destination.

Coach Biswas caught Bharath at the exit. “Tomorrow. Nine AM. My office.” He offered no explanation, just a brief nod before walking away.

He stood there for a moment, wondering what tomorrow might bring, unaware that in less than a week, his understanding of destiny, desire, and determination would be challenged in ways he couldn’t possibly imagine.

The door shut softly behind her as she reentered the apartment. Familiar scent. Familiar stillness.

She locked it quickly, checked the windows, then dropped the cloth bag onto the floor and collapsed at the dining table.

She exhaled slowly. “Okay. We’ve got a gala.”

A fresh page. A sharpened pencil. A mind full of questions.

She began drawing a rough sketch of possible layouts, based not on blueprints, but on instinct, gossip, and a quick browse at the local bookstore. Then she paused.

Who was she kidding? There’d be no map of a gala venue. She needed to go on-site.

Priya sauntered through the marbled lobby of the five-star hotel like she owned half of Park Street. She liked to think she looked like that actress in Dil Se—a glamorous woman in sunglasses and a red chiffon saree who floated across the room. Priya had recreated the look with a modern twist: tailored red trousers, silk blouse, a fake Burberry scarf, oversized sunglasses, and a velvet clutch she borrowed (stole) from one of the girls back in Bankra Road.

The heels? Four inches. Just enough pain to make her feel powerful.

She strutted in with the kind of swish that said, yes darling, I am here to judge you.

She caught her reflection in the mirrored elevator panel and nearly choked on a laugh.

“Priya Biswas,” she whispered to herself. “Fashion terrorist turned undercover diva.”

Today, she was not Priya. She was “Ms. Meher Chaudhary, Event Coordinator, Entertainment Solutions India.” A woman with opinions, cash, and an imaginary Rolodex of angry society aunties.

She approached the concierge desk with purpose. “I’m scouting venues for a major Indo-French cultural fundraiser. Paris meets Old Delhi. Fashion. Music. Diplomats. Ambassadors. Tapas. Everything. I need access to your banquet layout sheets, the master event routing folder, and a viewing of all emergency exits. Also, where’s your spa? I have a headache from dealing with decorators.”

Within five minutes, she had three junior staffers running about, a clipboard in one hand, and complimentary cucumber water in the other.

“Ma’am, this is our main ballroom—”

“Oh darling, it’s lovely.” She tapped her clipboard impatiently. “But where do your servers hide when they cry? I need a proper hideaway for our makeup artist. Preferably next to an AC duct and an espresso machine.”

The poor man blinked, scribbled a note, and scurried off.

Meanwhile, Priya flipped open her velvet clutch and pulled out a tiny notebook disguised as a compact.

Plan Update: Main ballroom: chandeliers, cameras, four exits. Staff entrance behind kitchen. Service corridor along east wing ideal for retreat. Emergency exits clearly marked—east exit rarely used. Potential hiding spot: linen closet marked B3.

She even managed to take a quick detour to the kitchen, commenting on how “pesto is passé” and requesting the sous chef explain their vegan amuse-bouche philosophy.

A waiter passed by with a tray of fancy hors d’oeuvres and offered her one. She blinked at him, flipped her hair, and arched one perfectly shaped eyebrow.

“Do I look like someone who eats carbohydrates before 5 p.m.?”

He backed away with the haunted look of a man who’d dealt with one too many rich aunties at kitty parties.

Priya bit back a grin.

It wasn’t just infiltration anymore.

It was theater.

And she was loving every second.

Priya sank into the cane-backed chair with all the elegance of a bored heiress who’d spent the morning micromanaging incompetent men. Her gold sunglasses perched theatrically atop her head, one manicured hand flicking through the sheaf of printed documents they’d prepared for “Ms. Chaudhary from Bombay.”

Floor plans. Banquet service timelines. Event security rotations. Even a list of “preferred media outlets” the hotel had worked with — all handed over by the hotel staff like she was scouting the property for a hush-hush Indo-European fashion gala involving royals, brand ambassadors, and “maybe Hrithik Roshan or that new boy John Abraham, we haven’t finalized yet.”

She smirked.

“Next time, I’m bringing a business card,” she muttered, sipping her iced tea. She made a show of crossing her legs — that made the waitstaff nervous.

Across the veranda, two junior managers whispered furiously. She caught a few phrases drift across the tiled courtyard.

“Verve magazine ... that Dubai stylist who works with Shobhaa De...”

She tapped her pen against her chin thoughtfully.

“Let them wonder,” she whispered under her breath.

An eager waiter arrived with a complimentary cheese platter, stammering something about “madam’s distinguished palate.” She accepted it with a dainty nod and continued flipping pages as if planning diplomatic seating arrangements for visiting foreign dignitaries.

In reality?

She was counting the number of discreet exits, measuring step distances between the staff corridor and the service elevator, and identifying the likely VIP holding area based on electrical layouts.

This wasn’t just intel. This was stage design for infiltration.

By the time she finished her iced tea, Priya had mapped the gala from six different angles — including how she might get past security if disguised as press, event assistant, or hell, even as an ayah walking a spoilt dog down the carpet.

She tucked everything into a fake crocodile portfolio and stood.

The assistant banquet manager nearly collided into a server trying to offer her a tasting menu for the (fictitious) pre-gala brunch.

“Oh no, darling,” she said with a dismissive wave. “We’ll need that menu certified by the French consulate first. You understand.”

He didn’t. He just nodded furiously not wanting to seem ignorant in front of this force of nature.

She swanned out with the grace of a woman who’d just signed a deal to redecorate Versailles.

But as soon as she hit the sunlit pavement outside the Grand Imperial’s main entrance?

She burst out laughing, heels clicking down the steps.

“My God, Priya,” she whispered to herself, breathless with relief, “you’re going to get arrested for impersonating a rich person.”

As she descended the grand stone steps of the hotel, her fake designer heels clicking with just enough arrogance to make the valets stand straighter, Priya couldn’t stop grinning.

She glanced at her reflection in a glossy black car window — crimson lips, oversized sunglasses, silk scarf draped just-so over one shoulder — and tilted her head with mock curiosity.

“I wonder what Bharath would say if he saw me like this,” she mused aloud. “Probably faint into his Pongal.”

The thought made her giggle. Not the girlish kind. The low, dangerous giggle of someone who was going to cause chaos just because she could.

“Oh I’m definitely wearing this home,” she whispered to herself, adjusting her pallu. “Silver Spoon won’t know what hit him.”

She strutted down the pavement, her walk somewhere between Miss India finalist and undercover Bond girl. The dossier clutched to her side didn’t just contain floor plans and camera angles. It held leverage. Purpose.

But her favorite part? It was knowing she would walk through the apartment door, sweep past Bharath with a toss of her fake gold earrings, and say in her poshest voice:

“Darling, be a sweetheart and fetch me something bubbly, will you?”

She could already see his expression — the confusion, the scandalized twitch of his eyebrow, the inevitable sarcastic comeback.

And she couldn’t wait.

Kim sat cross-legged on her narrow bed, old ceiling fan whining overhead, the landline receiver cradled between her shoulder and ear. Her notebook, already half-filled with tightly written notes in neat columns, lay open in her lap.

“Yes, Papa. No, it’s not a job,” she said, keeping her voice measured. “It’s a research assistantship. I’ll be embedded with the club’s reserve squad to shadow one player as a case study.”

“Kya matlab embedded? What do you mean, embedded?” her father grumbled over the line, clearly displeased. “You’re not going into war, Kimmy.”

“You haven’t seen a locker room then,” she replied, but the joke fell flat.

Her mother’s voice floated in from the background. “We just don’t understand why you had to go all the way to Calcutta. Couldn’t you have stayed in Chandigarh? Or even Delhi?”

Kim closed her eyes briefly. She’d had this conversation more times than she could count.

“Ma. I needed to come here. Because mental health in sport is still considered a joke in most places. Here, I get to work with a real professional club—Heritage City. One of the big two.”

“I’m sure it’s not even safe for girls there,” her grandmother piped up in the background, probably from the divan where she kept her stash of dry fruits and unsolicited advice.

Kim smiled despite herself. “Tell Nani I wear full-sleeved kurtis, dupattas, and carry pepper spray. She trained me well.”

Her father’s voice returned, gentler now. “We just worry. You were always the quiet one. Not like your brother, running off to Canada. Or your cousin sister Sweety, dancing around like Madhuri in college fest.”

“I’m quiet,” Kim said, tracing the edge of her notebook, “but I’m not fragile.”

There was a beat of silence. Then her father sighed. “Your dadaji (grandfather - father’s father) would’ve been proud. You have his stubbornness.”

Kim’s throat tightened. “Thanks, Papa.”

She adjusted her dupatta, then paused at the mirror again. For just a second, she let her gaze drop — to the gentle curve of her hips beneath the oversized kurti, to the outline of her full breasts under layers of cotton.

There were days — late at night, when her hostel roommates were asleep, and she lay awake with research papers half-read beside her — that her body would remind her it existed. That she wasn’t just a mind, or a résumé, or a checklist of goals.

She knew what arousal was. She knew how it coiled low in her belly sometimes, unprovoked, vivid. She’d even explored it in quiet, controlled ways — a hand under the covers, a hushed gasp into her pillow. But she’d never let it interfere with her life. Never pursued it beyond the realm of fantasy.

Her sexuality, like her ambition, was managed. Compartmentalized. Contained.

For now.

She didn’t think of herself as frigid — just focused. Men had never sparked anything in her before, not beyond a detached curiosity.

And maybe that was fine.

After all, she hadn’t come to Calcutta to fall in love or lose herself in hormones.

She came to build something.

She reached for her glasses again, forcing her curls back into that matronly bun. A soft curl escaped at her temple, but she let it stay.

“Focus,” she whispered to her reflection.

But deep in her gut, a strange anticipation stirred.

As they exchanged goodbyes and she set the receiver down, her reflection in the cupboard mirror caught her eye.

The girl staring back was not the one she felt inside.

She looked plain. Purposefully so.

Oversized cotton kurti, loose and shapeless. Her bangs, naturally voluminous and lush, were twisted into a utilitarian bun. She wore thick, unfashionable glasses—an old prescription she never updated. No kajal. No gloss. No reason to be noticed.

She did it all deliberately.

Because attention, especially male attention, made things complicated. It drew glances, then questions, then assumptions. And the last thing she needed while building her reputation in a male-dominated environment was distraction.

Her entire life, people had praised her for being “low-maintenance,” “the sensible one,” “the one who didn’t need to chase boys.” But it wasn’t about that. She liked being invisible.

Invisibility was safe.

But beneath that safety, tucked away like a secret file she only pulled out at night, lived the real Kim.