The floodlights had dimmed. The echo of 60,000 voices still rang in Arjun's ears as he sat alone in the Blasters' team bus, forehead resting against the cool glass. The chant — no, the song — still lived in his bones.
> "Oru paadam, oru veeran... Marannilla njangale."
He could still hear the East Stand — the steady rhythm of the chenda, the chorus swelling like a monsoon tide. Every note still clung to his skin like sweat. The match was over, the victory written in the books, but something had begun — something deeper than points or stats.
His phone vibrated. The screen lit up with a message from Kalyani.
Kalyani: "I saw everything. I felt everything."
A short video followed. It was her, in costume, seated behind a camera rig on a quiet set in Pollachi. The fan song played faintly from a sound tech's phone nearby. In the clip, her lips moved in silence, mouthing the lyrics.
> "Marannilla njangale..."
He called her.
"Hey," she said, her voice soft. "I'm thinking of saying no to a big one. A movie that shoots in Iceland. It's supposed to be a massive project… but I don't know. I don't want to be that far. Not now. Not when things are changing here."
Arjun didn't know what to say. He didn't expect that. But his silence said enough.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Still catching my breath," he replied. "I think… that chant did something to me."
"It did something to all of us," she whispered.
---
The next morning, the city hadn't woken up — it had stayed awake. Marine Drive was lit like it was Diwali. Fans wore elephant masks. Kids spray-painted tusks on their cheeks. The city wasn't just celebrating a win.
They were celebrating him.
Posters lined the streets:
> "NOT JUST A PLAYER. OUR ELEPHANT."
> "HE MARCHES. WE FOLLOW."
The Blasters locker room was quieter than expected that morning. Coach Sameer walked in, no speeches this time, just a firm nod at Arjun.
"You changed something yesterday," he said. "And that's not easy."
Faizan walked over, tossing a paper at Arjun. "Look at this."
It was a fanblog screenshot — a tribute by a boy named Adarsh Krishna.
> "We won't forget, Arjun bhai. Not your march. Not your silence."
Arjun smiled, reading it three times. He folded it and placed it in his locker. Right next to a photo of his father.
---
That evening, Rahul the assistant coach stopped Arjun near the tunnel.
"Few scouts asked about you," he said casually. "Europe's whispering."
Arjun shook his head. "Not now. Let them wait. This isn't done."
Rahul nodded. "Good."
Outside, the fans began arriving early. No chants yet. Just a sea of yellow — painted, proud, and waiting.
Arjun tied his boots slowly.
Tonight wasn't about transfer rumours. It wasn't about Iceland or Italy or anything beyond.
It was about the jersey.
It was about that little boy in Thrissur juggling a ball on his rooftop, promising the sky that he wouldn't waste this life.
He stepped out into the tunnel.
The air crackled again.
And somewhere in the crowd — like a ritual, like a prayer — the song returned.
> "Oru paadam, oru veeran... Marannilla njangale."
Arjun didn't smile.
He marched.