Arrival In Calcutta

*18 July 2000*

The oppressive Calcutta heat hit Bharath like a wall as he stepped out of the Dum Dum International Airport. At twenty-two, he should have been accustomed to heat, having grown up in Chennai, but this was different--thick with humidity that immediately plastered his designer shirt to his back. He tugged at the collar, already regretting his decision to dress formally for his arrival.

"Bharath Hema?" A man in a crisp Heritage City Football Club jersey approached, clipboard in hand. "I'm Rajiv, team coordinator. Welcome to Calcutta.", in Hindi.

"Thank you," Bharath replied in Hindi, extending his hand. "It's an honor to be here."

Rajiv's handshake was perfunctory, his eyes already scanning for the next task on his mental checklist.

"Your luggage has been collected? Good. The car is waiting."

As they navigated through the crowded terminal, Bharath caught snippets of Bengali conversations--a language he'd need to learn quickly if he hoped to integrate fully into his new environment. His thoughts drifted to the journey that had brought him here: the youth tournaments where scouts had first noticed him, the grainy videos he had persistently sent to clubs across India, the three-day trial that had finally convinced Heritage City's management to take a chance on the technically gifted midfielder from Chennai.

The club car was modest but comfortable-the ubiquitous Ambassador. As they pulled away from the airport, Bharath watched the city unfold through the window--a chaotic tapestry of colonial architecture, modern developments, and sprawling neighborhoods that seemed to pulse with an energy entirely their own.

"First time in Calcutta?" Rajiv asked, his attention divided between his phone and the road ahead.

"Yes. I've played against Rising Sun once in a youth tournament, but that was in Bangalore."

Rajiv's eyebrows rose slightly at the mention of Heritage City's bitter rivals. "Best not to mention that match when you meet the rest of the team," he advised with a thin smile. "The Derby is... everything here."

Bharath nodded, filing away the information. He knew about the historic rivalry intellectually, but clearly had much to learn about its emotional significance to his new club.

"The management has arranged an apartment for you," Rajiv continued. "Nothing fancy, but close to the training ground. Most of the younger players live in the same area. Still - given your father's stature, management has upgraded your accommodations"

"Oh no! I didn't ask for any special privileges!," Bharath protested as Rajiv shrugged and returned his attention to his phone.

His family's substantial wealth had afforded him certain comforts in Chennai, but he'd insisted on making this move independently, accepting only the standard accommodations and salary the club offered other young players. He was dismayed to hear that his father had imposed these conditions without his knowledge. This was not going to look good to the others in his team.

Bharath sulked in the backseat as the car navigated through increasingly congested streets, honking a path through swarms of scooters, the yellow taxicabs, auto-rickshaws, and pedestrians who seemed to regard traffic lanes as mere suggestions. Eventually, they turned into a neighborhood that Rajiv identified as Salt Lake, slowing before a modest apartment building with peeling paint but well-kept grounds.

"Home sweet home," Rajiv announced, pulling up to the curb.

"Fourth floor, apartment 303. Your keys." He handed over a ring with three keys. "Training starts tomorrow morning, 8 AM sharp. The club shuttle picks up outside at 7:30. The best part about this apartment - the privacy. You're pretty lucky you know."

Before Bharath could ask any of the dozen questions that came to mind, Rajiv had helped unload his luggage and was already sliding back into the driver's seat.

"Coach Biswas doesn't tolerate lateness from anyone, especially new signings," he called through the window as he pulled away. "Welcome to Heritage City!"

Standing alone on the sidewalk with his three suitcases, Bharath felt the first twinge of uncertainty about his decision. The bustling, unfamiliar city suddenly seemed overwhelming in its indifference to his arrival. Pushing aside the doubt, he squared his shoulders and began the task of hauling his luggage up three flights of stairs in the building's elevator-free construction.

By the time he reached apartment 303, sweat had soaked through his shirt completely. He groaned as he saw the sweat stains on his armpits. So much for making good impressions with his designer shirt. He must remind his mother that he would have been better off wearing his comfortable T-shirt. But no! She insisted that he wear this designer shirt to impress.

The door unlocked with a reluctant groan, revealing a space that was basic but clean--a small living area with a decent sofa, a kitchenette with essential appliances, a bedroom just large enough for a double bed, and a bathroom with fixtures that had seen better decades. If this was the "upgraded" accommodations, Bharath was secretly glad that his father had insisted that management upgrade his lodgings. Not that he would ever admit that to him.

--

After a quick shower, he unpacked the essentials and decided to explore his new neighborhood. The streets near his apartment were alive with early evening activity--vendors selling street food from carts, children playing impromptu cricket matches in any available space, residents returning from work or heading out for the evening.

Bharath found a small restaurant with plastic chairs and a hand-painted sign in Bengali and English advertising "Famous Bengali Thali." The owner, a middle-aged man with a magnificent mustache, beamed when he entered.

"New face in neighborhood!" he declared. "You are coming from?"

"Chennai," Bharath replied. "I just arrived today."

"Ah, South Indian boy! Student? Many South Indians come for IIM."

"No, footballer. I've signed with Heritage City."

The transformation in the owner's demeanor was immediate and dramatic. He slapped his hands together in delight and shouted something in Bengali to the kitchen. Within moments, Bharath found himself seated at the best table, a glass of fresh lime soda placed before him without being ordered.

"Heritage City is pride of Bengal!" the owner proclaimed. "More than 100 years of glory! You play what position?" "Central midfielder."

"Good, good! We need strong midfield this season." The owner leaned in conspiratorially. "Rising Sun has bought expensive Nigerian striker. Very dangerous. But Heritage City spirit will prevail, yes?"

Bharath smiled, warmed by the unexpected welcome. "I hope to contribute to that spirit."

"First meal in Calcutta is on house for new Heritage City player," the owner insisted, waving away Bharath's protests. "You must try fish curry--Bengali specialty!"

"Sorry - but I am a vegetarian. I eat eggs though", Bharath said sheepishly.

"Oho na! Vegetarian! How can you play football without eating fish?!", groaned the owner. "Ok ok... you must eat a lot of Dal then!

Come here daily - I will make sure you get all the protein you need! No Roshagullas or Mishti Doi though!"

The owner yelled at his waiter to remove all the sweets from Bharath's thali - not that he minded given that he didn't like sweets much - and made sure he had lots of Dal.

The meal was delicious and abundant, the owner refusing to let his plate remain empty for even a moment. By the time Bharath finally escaped, having signed three autographs for the owner's children and promised to bring the whole team after their first victory, he felt a small but significant connection to this new city.

--

Back in his apartment, he called his family as promised.

"Ennada? How was the flight? Is the apartment acceptable? Have you met the coach yet?" His father's questions came in rapid succession, barely allowing time for answers.

"Everything's fine, Appa," Bharath assured him. "The apartment is comfortable. I'll meet the coaching staff tomorrow. Why did you ask them to upgrade me though? I didn't want special treatment!"

"Nonsense! Have you seen the barracks they house their junior players in? Despite your protests you will be singing a different tune if I had not intervened. By the way, I've spoken with Mr. Dasgupta in the management," his father continued. "He assures me they have big plans for you. But don't let that make you complacent. First impressions--"

"--are lasting impressions," Bharath finished, having heard the maxim countless times. "I know, Appa. I'll make you proud."

After reassuring his mother that yes, he had enough clothes, and no, he wasn't already homesick, he finally got to speak with his sister, Devi.

"Anna, I watched videos of Heritage City's last five matches," the sixteen-year-old announced without preamble. "Their midfield spacing is all wrong in transition phases. You'll need to adjust your positioning to compensate for the right back's tendency to push too high."

Bharath laughed. "Most sisters would ask if I've seen any famous landmarks yet."

"Boring! I need to know if you're prepared for the tactical challenges," Devi replied with the seriousness that made her football analyses both amusing and remarkably insightful. "I've created a diagram of their formation weaknesses. I'll email it tonight."

"I don't think they have an ethernet jack here in the apartment. I will have to go to an Internet Center to check it out. Anyways, what would I do without you, football genius?"

"Probably get substituted at halftime," she retorted affectionately. "Call tomorrow after training. I want full details on Coach Biswas's tactical approach."

After ending the call, Bharath realized that he still had the rest of the evening to kill. Although he had spent the afternoon arranging his meager possessions, the walls still felt alien, the space unwelcoming. Tomorrow would mark his first official training session with Heritage City FC, and despite his confidence in his abilities, anxiety gnawed at his stomach.

"Some fresh air might help," he muttered as he locked the door behind him.

--

Calcutta sprawled around him like a living entity--chaotic, vibrant, and utterly unlike the ordered affluence of his family home in Chennai. The narrow lanes twisted and turned without logic, storefronts spilling light and sound onto the street. Vendors called out in Bengali, a language that slipped past his comprehension like water through fingers.

Bharath wandered farther than intended, following the scent of street food and the sound of passionate debate from roadside tea stalls. Men gestured wildly, discussing football with the fervor of religious devotees. He caught mentions of Heritage City and felt a flutter of pride, knowing tomorrow he would don those sacred green and maroon colors.

The lanes grew narrower, the crowds thinner. The realization that he had ventured into unfamiliar territory came suddenly when the main road disappeared behind him. Electric lights gave way to scattered lamps, casting long shadows across crumbling walls decorated with faded political slogans and advertisements.

"Damn it," Bharath whispered, turning to retrace his steps. That's when he heard it--the unmistakable sound of struggle from a shadowy alley.

Three young men surrounded an elderly figure dressed in simple white cotton. The old man stood with remarkable stillness despite the threatening postures around him. One of the assailants held a small cloth bag, presumably taken from the elder.

"My medicines," the old man said in accented Hindi, his voice steady but resigned. "Please return them."

The tallest aggressor responded with a harsh laugh, shoving the old man against the wall.

Without conscious thought, Bharath found himself moving forward. "Hey!" he called out in Hindi, his voice carrying the authority that came naturally to him. "Three against one old man? Is that how you prove yourselves in Calcutta?"

The trio turned, sizing him up. Bharath knew what they saw--a well-built young man, over 6 feet tall, with the physical confidence of an athlete. He straightened to his full height, leveraging every bit of his privileged upbringing to project an aura of untouchable assurance.

"This isn't your business, chikne (pretty boy)" the tall one said in broken Hindi. "Go away."

Bharath stepped closer, heart pounding but face impassive. "I'm Bharath Hema. I play for Heritage City now." He had yet to kick a ball for the club, but the name carried weight. "Would your friends be impressed to know you're harassing elders while wearing that?"

Bharath pointed to the green and maroon scarf tucked into one man's pocket--team colors that transformed his bluff into a direct challenge.

A tense moment passed before the tall one spat on the ground and tossed the cloth bag at the old man's feet. "Keep your trash, old fool.

The three retreated, disappearing into the maze of alleys with final glares that promised future reckonings. Bharath released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Are you alright, sir?" he asked, bending to retrieve the fallen bag.

The elderly man studied him with eyes that seemed to penetrate beyond flesh. Despite his worn clothes and thin frame, he radiated a peculiar dignity that commanded respect.

"You have courage, young one. Coming to a stranger's aid in a city not your own. Especially in Kalyug" His Hindi carried the melodic cadence of some unrecognizable dialect, but was surprisingly clear.

"Anyone would have done the same," Bharath replied, though he suspected that wasn't true.

The old man smiled, deeply wrinkled skin crinkling around piercing dark eyes. "No. In today's Kalyug, most would not." He accepted the bag with gnarled hands. "I am Guruji. These are sacred herbs for my practices."

"I'm Bharath. I just arrived from Chennai to play football." He glanced around, suddenly aware of how lost he truly was. "Actually, I'm not sure how to get back to my apartment near Salt Lake."

Guruji nodded. "The city tests newcomers. But you have passed a different test tonight." He reached into his bag, extracting a small pouch of what looked like dried leaves and flowers. "For your kindness, I wish to offer a blessing."

Before Bharath could politely decline, the old yogi had reached up--surprisingly tall when fully straightened--and pressed his palm against his forehead. The touch sent an unexpected warmth cascading through Bharath's body, like hot honey flowing through his veins. For a moment, the alley seemed to pulse with golden light, though later he would attribute this to a trick of the fading evening sun.

Guruji began to chant in Sanskrit, his voice taking on a resonance that seemed impossible from such a frail frame.

Though Bharath didn't understand the words, something ancient and powerful stirred in response. It was similar to the rituals his mother and father assiduously performed every morning before any work began.

The sensation intensified, centering in his lower abdomen before spreading outward to his limbs, a pleasant tingling that left him slightly dizzy.

"What was that?" Bharath asked when the chanting ceased, the warmth slowly fading but leaving a lingering awareness in his body.

The yogi smiled enigmatically. The yogi's gaze became distant, as though seeing beyond the present moment. "I have awakened what lies dormant in all men, but manifests in few. The seed of the ancient power of Kamadeva."

His voice dropped to a whisper. "This gift grows stronger as the circle widens. Many hearts beating as one, many souls entwined with yours. However, just having the blessing means nothing. Only if you are deserving, will it grow and capture the hearts."

He pressed the small pouch of herbs into Bharath's palm. "Keep this near while you sleep today. Dreams will come. You will not understand them yet. The hearts will decide whether you are worthy. However, I saw in you something that says you are worthy. Let us see if you live up to the signs."

Bharath accepted the pouch more out of politeness than understanding. "I'm not sure what you mean. What circle? What power? What hearts?"

The yogi merely smiled. "The path reveals itself to the traveler, not to the one who merely asks for directions." He gestured vaguely down the alley. "Three lefts, then a right at the temple with a blue door. You will see the main road."

As Bharath turned to leave, the yogi called after him. "The flower does not bloom alone, young one. It requires many elements--sun, water, earth, air--just as your gift requires others to reach its fullest expression. Remember this when she comes. And the next. And the next."

With that cryptic statement, the yogi bowed slightly and walked away, his gait surprisingly spry for his apparent age. Bharath stood bewildered, the herbal pouch warm in his hand, emitting a scent both earthy and sweet.

"Right," he muttered to himself, pocketing the strange gift. "Three lefts and a right."

Following the directions, Bharath indeed found himself back on a main thoroughfare, city lights illuminating his path home. By the time he reached his apartment, the encounter had already begun to feel dreamlike, overshadowed by thoughts of tomorrow's first training session.

He placed the pouch on the nightstand without much thought, his mind turning to football strategies and the challenges ahead. After setting the alarm to ensure that he woke up nice and early to perform his morning exercises, Bharath drifted to sleep. The herbs from Gurujis pouch smelled lovely in the room as the herbs released their subtle aroma into the air.

That night, sleep didn't come gently--it took him.

--

Bharath was pulled under like a tide swallowing the shore, sinking into a dream more vivid than waking life. The boundary between reality and vision dissolved, leaving him weightless, suspended in a realm where time coiled like a serpent around its own tail.

He stood at the center of a vast yantra (instrument or machine in Sanskrit), a living mandala inscribed into sacred earth, glowing with ancient energy. The ground beneath him was not stone, not sand, but something between--warm, breathing, alive. Intricate patterns of lotus petals, serpents, and interwoven triangles spiraled outward beneath his bare feet, each line pulsing with golden-red light, alive with breath and heat. The air smelled of crushed sandalwood and monsoon rain (like the herbs the Guruji had given him earlier), thick with the promise of storms.

In the center, rising from a coiled bed of energy, was a great lingam stone, obsidian and slick with dew. Coiling around its base was a silver yoni, the union of forces humming with power. The sight sent a shiver through Bharath--not fear, but recognition, as if some long-buried part of his soul remembered this place.

The air vibrated like the space before a monsoon, charged with something primal.

Then, the lingam multiplied--once, thrice, then elevenfold--until dozens of stones stood in a vast circle, each occupying a sacred position on the yantra. Each pulsed with possibility, waiting.

And then... they began to appear.

She came wrapped in red so deep it bled.

Silk whispered secrets against her thighs as she moved, the fabric clinging to petite curves poets would call alankara - ornamentation made flesh. Her almond eyes held Bharath's with a recognition that ached like a name half-remembered from a past life. "I have judged you and I find you worthy," she breathed, her bangles singing like temple bells behind palace walls. "You have known me before. Not in this age, perhaps. But you will know me again when the silk splits for your gaze alone, when others see only the drape of fabric while you trace the tremble beneath."

Her fingers painted heat upon the stone.