Chapter 9 — The Kali Obsession
Age: 7 Years Old
The night of Kali Puja transformed Kolkata into something unreal.
Firecrackers exploded endlessly across the sky while smoke drifted through narrow lanes near Dakshineswar Kali Temple.
The city glowed beneath:
oil lamps,
red lights,
incense flames,
burning fireworks.
Crowds moved like rivers through the streets.
Children laughed loudly.
Devotional songs echoed from loudspeakers.
But seven-year-old Riddhiman Paul walked silently beside his mother through the chaos.
His small fingers lightly held the edge of her saree while his eyes remained fixed ahead.
Toward the temple.
Toward Her.
The closer they moved toward Dakshineswar, the denser the atmosphere became.
Smoke.
Heat.
Sweat.
Prayer.
Faith.
Everything mixed together until the air itself felt alive.
Temple bells rang violently somewhere ahead.
People shouted: "Joy Maa Kali!"
And suddenly Riddhiman felt it again.
That strange feeling.
The feeling that his second life wasn't random.
His breathing slowed unconsciously.
Inside the temple complex, massive crowds pressed together tightly while priests moved through smoke carrying fire and flowers.
Then finally—
he saw the image of Kali clearly.
Dark face.
Blood-red tongue.
Necklace of skulls.
Eyes filled with terrifying stillness.
Most children felt fear looking at Kali.
Riddhiman felt recognition.
Something deep inside him trembled.
Because rebirth itself felt violent.
Not gentle.
Not peaceful.
Exactly like Her.
His mother folded her hands immediately.
Eyes closed.
Lips trembling softly with prayer.
Beside her, Riddhiman stared upward silently.
The image of Kali burned itself into his mind:
destruction,
fearlessness,
chaos,
transcendence.
Suddenly he remembered the moment before death in his previous life.
Rain.
Headlights.
Blood on wet road.
And the final prayer he whispered before darkness consumed him.
"Maa Kali…"
"Give me another chance."
A chill ran through his body.
Because somehow—
impossibly—
that prayer had been answered.
His fingers tightened unconsciously.
And for first time since rebirth, a dangerous belief began forming completely inside him:
Maybe he wasn't supposed to live normally anymore.
Maybe he had been returned for something greater.
The thought should have frightened him.
Instead—
it comforted him.
After prayers ended, his mother bought prasad while fireworks exploded across the night sky outside.
"Ki chaile Maa-r kache?" she asked warmly.
(What did you ask from Mother Kali?)
Riddhiman answered quietly:
"Bhoy na pete."
(To not feel fear.)
His mother smiled gently.
"Bhoy paoa kharap na."
(Feeling fear is not bad.)
But Riddhiman disagreed internally.
Fear had ruined his first life.
Fear of:
failure,
risk,
judgment,
ambition.
Fear made ordinary people accept ordinary existence.
Never again.
As they walked home through crowded streets, loudspeakers played devotional chants while fireworks illuminated the smoke-filled sky red.
And slowly—
almost unconsciously—
Riddhiman began connecting cricket with something spiritual.
Not religion exactly.
Something darker.
More obsessive.
Because greatness itself demanded destruction:
destruction of weakness,
destruction of fear,
destruction of hesitation.
Exactly like Kali.
The realization settled deeply inside him.
The next morning before sunrise, Kolkata still smelled of burnt fireworks and incense.
Most children slept after late-night celebrations.
Riddhiman was already on rooftop practicing shadow batting.
Again.
Again.
Again.
But today his movements felt different.
Sharper.
More aggressive.
Less hesitant.
As if something inside him had hardened overnight.
His bat cut through cold morning air violently.
He imagined:
fielders,
bowlers,
pressure,
noise.
Then imagined destroying all of it.
Sweat rolled down his forehead despite winter cold.
His breathing grew heavier.
Again.
Again.
Again.
At one point his wrists adjusted late and redirected imaginary ball between two invisible fielders.
Perfect.
Excitement flashed through him.
Conscious batting was improving rapidly now.
And with every improvement, his obsession deepened further.
Later during practice, Ghosh Kaku noticed the change immediately.
Riddhiman no longer batted quietly.
There was intent behind every movement now.
The seven-year-old manipulated field consciously:
soft hands into gaps,
late cuts,
strange angle changes,
impossible recovery flicks.
Older boys became visibly frustrated.
One bowler snapped angrily:
"Oke out kora impossible!"
(Getting him out is impossible!)
Riddhiman heard it.
And strangely—
he liked hearing it.
That realization disturbed him slightly.
Because somewhere along the way, cricket had stopped becoming simple passion.
It was becoming identity.
Proof.
Existence itself.
During water break, Ghosh Kaku sat beside him silently.
Then suddenly asked:
"Tor chokh ektu alada lage ajkal."
(Your eyes look different these days.)
Riddhiman looked up quietly.
The old coach studied him carefully.
Children usually played:
emotionally,
excitedly,
instinctively.
But this boy looked… consumed.
"Cricket niye eto bhabish keno?"
(Why do you think so much about cricket?)
For several moments, Riddhiman remained silent.
Then finally answered honestly:
"Harate chai na."
(I don't want to lose.)
"Match?"
Riddhiman slowly shook his head.
No.
Not matches.
Life.
The old coach frowned slightly, not fully understanding.
But something about that answer unsettled him deeply.
That evening, heavy fog rolled across the Ganga while temple bells echoed faintly through darkness again.
Riddhiman sat alone near the rooftop edge staring toward Dakshineswar.
The temple lights glowed dimly through mist.
Beautiful.
Distant.
Watching.
He held cricket bat across his lap quietly.
And slowly, his thoughts drifted toward the future again.
He remembered:
stadium roars,
legendary players,
impossible expectations,
immortality.
The world worshipped greatness brutally.
Especially in cricket.
Players became:
gods,
symbols,
history itself.
And suddenly Riddhiman realized something dangerous:
He no longer simply wanted success.
He wanted transcendence.
Not to become famous.
To become unforgettable.
The ambition itself terrified him slightly.
Because it felt endless.
Bottomless.
Like hunger that could never fully disappear.
Cold wind moved across rooftop softly.
Then from distant temple loudspeaker, devotional chants to Kali echoed through the night once more.
Riddhiman slowly closed his eyes.
And deep inside his mind, two obsessions finally merged completely:
Cricket.
And fearlessness.
From that night onward, every time he stepped onto a cricket field—
it no longer felt like game.
It felt like worship.