T The morning after Werder Bremen’s victory over TSG Hoffenheim felt strangely ordinary.
For him, that was perhaps the strangest part.
Only a few hours earlier, the Weserstadion had been shaking under the weight of forty thousand voices.
His assist had become the defining moment of the match.
Teammates had celebrated around him.
Journalists had once again started asking questions about the teenager from India who had suddenly found himself playing important Bundesliga and cup matches.
But now, there was no noise.
No cameras.
No reporters waiting outside the training ground.
No tactical discussions echoing through the corridors.
There was only the quiet sound of rain falling against his apartment window and the faint hum of the heating system struggling against Bremen’s cold autumn morning.
He opened his eyes slowly and stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, allowing himself to wake up properly.
His body still carried the reminders of the previous night.
His calves felt heavy.
His shoulders were slightly sore from the constant physical battles with Hoffenheim’s defenders.
His left ankle had a small bruise from one of the many challenges he had received.
He reached for his phone on the bedside table.
The screen immediately lit up.
Messages.
A lot of them.
Most were from people who had known him before the Bundesliga.
Before the interviews.
Before the number 11 shirt started appearing in Bremen.
Sourav had sent him a message first.
“Brother, explain how you are casually crossing the ball in a Bundesliga cup match while I am struggling against defenders in our local tournament.” Rajesh followed.
“That defender who shouted at you looked scary.
Is he your teammate or your personal bodyguard?” Bikram’s message came a few minutes later.
“Don’t become famous and forget us.
Also, your celebration after the assist was too normal.
You should have done something cooler.” He smiled while reading the messages.
He typed back.
“You guys would complain even if I scored three goals.” The reply from Sourav arrived almost instantly.
“Correct.” He shook his head, placing the phone aside.
Some things never changed.
The kitchen was still quiet when he walked in wearing a loose grey hoodie and sweatpants.
His apartment was not large, but after months in Germany, it had started feeling like his own place rather than somewhere he simply stayed.
A few books were stacked neatly beside the television.
His gaming console rested beneath the cabinet.
A small collection of souvenirs from his travels sat on one shelf, including postcards from cities he had visited during free weekends.
Football had become his career, but he still tried to maintain a normal life outside it.
Cooking.
Gaming.
Exploring new places.
Watching movies and series late at night when the schedule allowed.
Simple things.
The things that reminded him he was still eighteen.
He placed his phone beside the kitchen counter and started preparing breakfast.
A familiar Indian playlist filled the apartment.
Nothing planned.
Nothing emotional.
It was simply what he usually listened to while cooking.
Some Bollywood songs.
A few Bengali tracks from his childhood.
Indian indie songs recommended by friends.
Recently released Indian pop tracks that his cousins had sent him.
Growing up, music had always been part of everyday life.
During long journeys to training, it had become something that helped him relax.
Now living thousands of kilometres away, it remained a small habit.
Not a reminder of sadness.
Not something he consciously thought about.
Just something familiar.
He was halfway through making an omelette when the doorbell rang.
He glanced at the clock.
7:45 AM.
Only one person arrived this early without warning.
He opened the intercom.
“Seriously?” A laugh came from the other side.
“Open the door.” He pressed the button.
A minute later, Jonas entered the apartment carrying a paper bag from the bakery nearby, his jacket covered with tiny drops of rain.
“You know,” Jonas said, removing his shoes, “for someone who earns enough money to buy expensive football boots, your heating system is terrible.” He laughed.
“My apartment is fine.” “Your apartment feels like a refrigerator with furniture.” Jonas placed the bakery bag on the table before stopping.
He looked toward the phone playing music near the stove.
“Indian music again?” He smiled.
“Yes.” “Every morning?” “Almost.” Jonas listened for a few seconds.
“How do you even know what they are saying?” “I don’t always.” Jonas looked confused.
“You don’t understand the lyrics?” “Sometimes I do.
Sometimes I just like the song.” Jonas nodded thoughtfully.
“That’s actually very German of you.” He laughed.
“I don’t think that’s how German people work.” “I have no idea how German people work,” Jonas admitted while taking out a pastry.
“I am just trying to sound intelligent.” They ate breakfast together while talking about normal things.
Not football.
Not tactics.
Not Hoffenheim.
Jonas complained about university assignments.
He complained about the cold weather.
They argued about video games.
Eventually, the conversation naturally returned to football.
“So,” Jonas said, taking another bite of his pastry, “Frankfurt next.” He nodded.
“Yeah.” “Hard match.” “Very.” Jonas leaned back.
“You know they are going to hit you, right?” He raised an eyebrow.
“That is your analysis?” “Yes.
Very professional.” “Thank you.” “I watched football for twelve years.
I understand everything.” “You once asked why defenders don’t just score own goals to confuse strikers.” Jonas pointed at him.
“That was one time.” “It was last month.” “Still counts as one.” He laughed.
The next few days passed quickly.
After the Hoffenheim victory, training intensity remained high.
The coaching staff did not allow the squad to celebrate for too long.
That was one of the first things he noticed about professional football.
A good performance was appreciated.
But it was never enough.
There was always another opponent.
Another problem.
Another test.
Two days after the cup match, he visited his uncle and aunt’s house.
Unlike the training ground, where every movement was analysed and every decision had consequences, their home provided a completely different environment.
The moment he entered, his aunt immediately started complaining.
“You look tired.” He smiled.
“Hello to you too.” “You are thinner.” “I am not.” “You are.” His uncle walked in from the living room.
“Your aunt says that every time she sees you.” “Because every time I see him, he looks like he forgot to eat.” He laughed.
“I eat properly.” His aunt crossed her arms.
“Footballers always say that.” The afternoon was spent exactly how he preferred.
No pressure.
No expectations.
Just family.
They cooked together.
They watched television.
His uncle showed him a documentary he had been watching.
His aunt complained that both of them spent too much time discussing football.
Eventually, they played a board game where he was accused of cheating despite not actually cheating.
It felt normal.
And normal was something he valued.
The following weekend, he travelled to visit his cousin Arjun.
Arjun was one of the few people who treated him exactly the same way he had before becoming a professional footballer.
When he arrived, Arjun opened the door holding a controller.
“You are late.” He stared at him.
“No hello?” “No.
Important match.” “Against who?” “Me.” He laughed.
“You’re still terrible.” “That is disrespectful.” “It’s accurate.” The afternoon disappeared quickly.
They played video games for hours.
They argued over unfair game mechanics.
They debated movies.
They talked about places they wanted to visit.
Travelling had always been one of his favourite hobbies.
Whenever football schedules allowed, he liked exploring different cities, walking through unfamiliar streets, trying local food, and seeing places beyond stadiums and training grounds.
Arjun often teased him about it.
“You are the only footballer I know who gets excited about museums.” “They are interesting.” “You are eighty years old inside.” “At least I have hobbies.” “I play games.” “You play the same game every day.” “That is dedication.” Later that evening, while they cooked dinner together, Arjun became more serious.
“You know people are watching you now, right?” He continued cutting vegetables.
“Yeah.” “Does it feel different?” He thought about the question.
“A little.” “Good different or bad different?” “Just different.” He paused.
“Before, football was something I loved.
Now everyone has opinions about it.” Arjun nodded.
“But you still enjoy it?” He smiled.
“Of course.” “Then that’s what matters.” When he returned to Bremen, preparations for Frankfurt had already begun.
The analysts had prepared the clips.
The coaching staff had studied their opponents.
The players knew what kind of challenge waited.
Frankfurt was not Hoffenheim.
They would not try to dominate possession in the same way.
They were physical.
Direct.
Aggressive.
They punished mistakes quickly.
During the tactical meeting, Kohfeldt showed several clips of Frankfurt’s defensive structure.
“They will not give you the same spaces Hoffenheim gave you,” he explained.
He watched carefully.
“They will be closer to me.” “Exactly.” The coach looked at him.
“After the Hoffenheim match, teams will start paying more attention to your movement.
That is normal.” He nodded.
“The next step is learning what to do when opponents already know your strengths.” That evening, back at home, he cooked dinner while listening to music.
The same routine.
The same kitchen.
The same quiet preparation.
He later sat on the couch playing video games for an hour before switching to a series he had been watching.
Football occupied a large part of his life.
But it was not his entire life.
That balance helped him.
Before sleeping, he placed his boots beside his bag.
Frankfurt awaited.
A new stadium.
A new opponent.
A new challenge.
The Hoffenheim match had shown everyone what he could do when given space.
Frankfurt would test something different.
What happened when there was none.