The rain had finally eased by the time the meeting concluded.
The executives from Reliance Foundation had been escorted out through the main entrance of the Werder Bremen training complex, their polished black sedans disappearing beyond the security gates.
The conference room, which only minutes earlier had been filled with discussion about partnerships, youth initiatives and long-term branding, suddenly felt quiet.
He loosened the knot of his tie and let out a slow breath.
“I still can’t believe that actually happened.” Across the table, Rohan Mehta looked up from the stack of documents he was carefully placing back into his leather briefcase.
“What part?” He laughed quietly, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Everything.” He leaned back in his chair.
“I’ve spent four years walking through these corridors wondering if I’d even make the first team.
Then today…” He glanced toward the window overlooking the training pitches.
“…people fly halfway across the world just to talk to me.” Rohan smiled.
“They didn’t fly here because you’ve already conquered football.” “I know.” “They flew here because they believe you’re capable of doing something that hasn’t really been done before.” He stayed silent.
Rohan folded his hands together on the table.
“Those are two completely different things, Pinaka.” The nickname still sounded strange coming from adults.
Among Bremen supporters it had started as an online joke after an Indian fan account compared one of his curling through-balls to the mythical bow Pinaka.
Indian football pages had embraced it almost overnight.
Now supporters regularly carried banners with “PINAKA 11” written across them whenever Bremen played.
It had somehow become his identity.
“You noticed something?” Rohan asked.
“What?” “Not once during that meeting did they ask how many goals you’ve scored.” He frowned.
“They mentioned my performances.” “They did.” Rohan nodded.
“But they were asking about your story.” He paused.
“They wanted to know about a fourteen-year-old kid leaving India for Bremen.
They wanted to know about the academy.
They wanted to know why your coaches trusted you.
They wanted to know how you carry yourself.” He smiled slightly.
“Football got you into that room.
The person you are kept you there.” He looked down at the polished conference table.
“I’ve only played seven matches.” “I know.” “I haven’t won anything.” “I know.” “I’ve barely…” He searched for the right words.
“…I’ve barely started.” Rohan leaned forward.
“And that’s exactly why they’re here now instead of three years later.” He looked back up.
“If they wait until you’re scoring twenty goals a season in Germany…” Rohan spread his hands.
“…they’ll be bidding against companies from England, Spain, America and Japan.
The price multiplies.
The access disappears.
They aren’t buying today’s Agastya.
They’re investing in what they believe Agastya becomes.” Silence settled between them.
Outside, a group of Bremen academy players jogged across one of the adjacent training pitches, laughing loudly as they raced each other toward the dressing rooms.
He watched them.
“I used to be one of them.” “You still are.” Rohan followed his gaze.
“Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.” They remained in the room another fifteen minutes after everyone else had left.
No cameras.
No executives.
No club officials.
Just mentor and player.
Rohan finally reached into his briefcase again and produced another folder.
This one carried a familiar leaping cat embossed across the front.
He immediately recognised it.
“Puma.” Rohan nodded.
“This meeting is less emotional.” He chuckled.
“So this is where the numbers come in.” “Oh, there are plenty of numbers.” He slid the folder across the table.
“But before you open it, I need you to understand why those numbers exist.” He rested his hands on the cover without opening it.
“I’m listening.” “Puma’s football department spent months studying you.
They obviously looked at your football.
They analysed your movement between the lines.
Your first touch.
The way you receive on the half-turn.
The number of progressive passes.
The way you naturally drift into the right half-space before attacking centrally.
The intelligence of your positioning.” He smiled.
“They like that your game isn’t built around tricks.
They think your biggest strength is decision-making.” He couldn’t help smiling.
“Coach would laugh if he heard that after Frankfurt.” “And he’d also tell you that one bad decision doesn’t erase hundreds of good ones.” Rohan replied calmly.
“Their report describes you as a modern hybrid.
You’re comfortable as a number ten.
You can play as a shadow striker.
You’ve even played as a false nine during academy matches.
They believe that versatility will become increasingly valuable over the next five years.” He nodded slowly.
“That makes sense.” “But.” Rohan deliberately emphasised the word.
“That isn’t why this contract is bigger than what another eighteen-year-old academy graduate with seven Bundesliga appearances would receive.” He looked at him curiously.
“Then why?” Rohan tapped another section of the report.
“Because you’re Indian.” He blinked.
“That sounds strange when you say it.” “It shouldn’t.” Rohan answered immediately.
“It’s reality.” He turned the report around so he could read one highlighted paragraph.
“Puma estimates that within the next decade India will become one of football’s fastest-growing consumer markets.
They already have athletes.
They already sponsor clubs.
But they don’t have an Indian footballer playing meaningful minutes in one of Europe’s top leagues.” He looked directly at him.
“You are valuable because your football convinced Bremen.
You’re more valuable because millions of Indian kids can actually see themselves in your journey.” He stayed quiet for several seconds.
“I don’t want people signing me because of my passport.” “They aren’t.” Rohan answered without hesitation.
“They’re signing you because you’re good enough.
The passport simply multiplies the opportunity.
You earned the football.
The market is something you happened to be born into.
They’re two different things.” He slowly nodded.
That distinction mattered to him.
A lot.
Rohan opened the folder properly.
“This is a four-year boot and apparel deal.
Base annual fee starts at €320,000, rising to €450,000 in the final year if you maintain first-team status.
There’s a sign-on fee of €750,000, paid in two instalments.
Performance bonuses for Bundesliga appearances, goals, assists, and European qualification.
Image rights split fifty-fifty with the club on commercial work done through Puma.” He looked up.
“It’s not the biggest deal in the Bundesliga.
It’s the biggest deal Puma has ever given an Indian footballer.” He let the numbers settle.
“This deal,” Rohan continued, gently tapping the folder again, “isn’t asking you to become Cristiano Ronaldo.” He smiled.
“It’s asking you to become the first Agastya Kaul.” The words lingered in the room.
For the first time since the executives had arrived that afternoon, he felt the tension leave his shoulders.
He wasn’t chasing someone else’s career.
He was building his own.