Every Step Forward
The interdepartmental matches had ended a few days ago, but the wound of that loss felt fresh—as though it happened just yesterday. My mood was like when you come home after doing something, and everyone just looks at you and says, “What, again?” Disappointment was everywhere. The class probably went on as usual, but I swear, everyone’s mind was still stuck on that football field.
Maybe I was in my third class, sitting in my usual
front-right seat, gazing out the window at the tennis court, thinking: How many
more times am I going to lose? First the elections, then the departmental
games... will I ever get a shot to prove myself? Or am I just going to pass out
of this college wearing the label of a loser? No, not that easily. There was
still the inter-college tournament left. But when? That was anyone’s guess. All
I had was hope... and a stubborn resolve that I wouldn’t let this chance slip
by.
Just then, the college’s Sports Physical Director and
History HOD walked into the classroom together and started looking around.
“Where’s Shrikant?” the PD asked.
The professor pointed at me. “There he is.”
HoD said, “We have an announcement about the Southern India
Inter-University Games. Shrikant, you’re expected to go with the PD. For the
next few days, focus solely on that tournament.”
Me: “Right, sir.” Inside, I was on fire. I hadn’t pictured
the inter-college games, but this was as good as it got—a shot to do something,
to prove I wasn’t just about studying history, but living it, too.
PD: “Be at my office sharp at 7 a.m. tomorrow. We’ll discuss
the details.”
Me: “Okay, sir.”
After they left, Ashwin came over and teased, “Bro, feeling
nervous now?”
“Yeah, a little,” I admitted. “But it’s alright.”
He grinned, “No worries, let’s go grab some veg korma.”
“Sutta murga, Ashwin,” I laughed.
Next morning...
I reached the office around 6:50 a.m., already seeing the
team gather.
Sidesh joked, “Hey jerk, Thakur, why’re you late?”
I shot back, “Buddy Sid, your beloved PD’s the one who’s
late.”
Just then, our captain Harsha Vardhan appeared.
We met PD sir, and as usual, the meeting wrapped up quickly.
Every time PD looked my way, I threw out a “seri seri” or an “ok” even though I
had no clue what he was saying. To me, it sounded like an alien language, but
my best bud Sidesh had drilled me on the perfect response whenever PD caught my
eye—I guess I’m the king of not understanding Tamil.
After we were dismissed, the first thing everyone asked
Sidesh was to fill me in on the meeting’s details.
So, Sidesh broke it down: “Sir’s calling everyone for the
inter-university tournament, but get this—he only wants a team of five. And the
selection process? Way different from before.”
I asked, “How different?”
“Listen—before COVID, the players were pretty much chosen
from the start of the year. This time, PD wants the best players picked fresh,
through a new selection. No guarantees. It’s about who’s at the top right now.”
That was a good call, I thought. Out of nine players, only
five would make it. Those five would form Loyola’s team to compete at Madras
University. Then from the winners there, the best would represent Madras at the
Southern Inter-University games.
I asked, “Alright, but why was PD staring at me like that
during the meeting?”
Everyone burst out laughing. Sidesh said, “Don’t mind it—he
was basically saying, ‘Let’s see who’s showing up in class tomorrow.’”
I didn’t care. “Who cares what anyone thinks? On the court,
I’m the best. Let ‘em all talk.”
The next day, the teams split into two groups—five players
and four players—starting selection matches.
My group had four: me, Anirudh, Kashish, and Pranay. Two
from us would be picked. One by one, the matches unfolded. By evening, the five
who’d represent Loyola were the same familiar faces: Harsha Vardhan, Sidesh,
me, Anirudh, and Nanda.
PD sir then told us to be ready early next day; the
university level selections awaited.
At 7 a.m. sharp, we left campus and arrived at the host
college by 9. All fixtures were set, but surprises were waiting.
The head organizer announced matches would once again be
individual. The top five players from this round would be chosen for the
university team.
Our team had several strong players, including some buddies
from other colleges. We weren’t thrilled about the decision because it meant
not all our players might secure spots.
But no time to stress. Eleven matches loomed.
The rule was simple: to make the university team, you had to
outperform every opponent on the court no matter where they came from. I had my
own fight—staying on the team and proving myself against the best. I heard
whispers that someone wanted their friend to replace me. Sidesh and I talked it
through. It was clear: to stay on, I had to win the majority of my matches.
The first match? Against my friend and captain, Harsha
Vardhan. We both knew each other inside out—my style was fire and
unpredictability, his was calm, precise like flowing water. That day was his;
he took the match 7–5.
I wasn’t down yet. I could afford to lose one more game
safely.
Next up was Anirudh, who was a mystery. He could adapt his
style on the fly, making him tough to read. I focused on sticking to my game.
The match was tight. I even took an early lead, but then everything started
slipping. A loss. My two-game quota was done.
I felt lost. It was impossible to figure out why I was
falling short when I played well in practice but cracked under pressure in the
real game. I asked for a break, stepped outside, and walked under the harsh
40-degree sun.
That’s when I remember my guru, Rajesh Sir.
“Hello, sir,” I said quietly.
“Thakur, how’s it going? Everything alright?” he asked, a
hint of concern in his voice.
“I don’t know, sir. I’m playing well, but I keep losing. The
ones I’d beat easily in practice outperformed me when it mattered most. This
match... it means everything. My self-respect is on the line.”
Rajesh Sir looked at me patiently but seriously. “Thakur,
grow up. I know your game inside out. Your biggest mistake? You’re not in the
moment. Your mind is elsewhere—thinking too much about winning or losing. It
should be on your racket, your opponent, your game. You’re holding your mind in
your hands, and right now, you’re dropping it. What self-respect are you
talking about anyway? Have you won gold medals for India? Big tournaments? No?
So stop wasting brain power on that nonsense.”
I swallowed hard. “But Sir, how do I control my mind? How do
I keep it in the game?”
He smiled slightly. “Your mind is in your hands because
everything else is in your hands—the racket, the ball, your movements, your
confidence, the point. Nobody else fights your battles for you. It’s all you,
every step of the way. So don’t waste time on things beyond your control. Focus
on what’s yours: your hard work. If you let your mind wander, you’ll keep
losing to yourself. This is not the time for despair. Play the fights ahead
with all you’ve got. And remember—sometimes you’ve got to go through the worst
to get to the best.”
His words lit a fire inside me. Standing there on that hot
street, I cleared my head. It didn’t matter who I was fighting, or why. All
that mattered was the next step.
I went back in and won the next six matches, back in the
league and rolling.
Three matches stood between me and the university team—Nanda
, Sidesh, and Ramesh—small names, but stories full of battles.
Corner of the court, racket tight in hand, a voice in my
heart repeated, “Fight, Shri… just fight. Shri Hari’s got the rest.”
Match 1 – Nanda Kishore
His eyes were filled with confidence, as if he knew what the
outcome would be. And his body language showed that old habit—of provoking, of
breaking.
The match started. From the very first game, both of us were
measuring each other—I was pressuring his backhand, he was attacking my serve.
After crossing 6–7 shots in each rally, there was only one voice coming from
the crowd: "Come on, boys!!"
The score was 6–6, and then we entered the tiebreak.
The score was 3–3, and then Nanda sat down on the ground.
"Sir, there seems to be a bit of leg strain… I need medical
attention."
I kept looking at him—I knew all of this was a drama he was
creating to delay the game… to break the rhythm of the mango. Even the
spectators said, "So early? The game just started!"
But rules are rules—the break time was given.
That 5-minute break felt like 5 hours for me. I lost
momentum, rhythm, and also began to feel frustrated.
After the break, he started aggressively and took a 4–3
lead.
I remembered the words of Rajesh Sir: “Your mind should be
on your racket.”
I closed my eyes and said, “Just watch the ball, Shri… only
the ball…”
I served with full power next—Ace! 4–4.
The next point was a 21-shot rally. Both of us put in
everything. On his drop shot, I sprinted and flicked at the last moment—it
landed on the line. Point Shrikant! 5–4. The crowd applauded.
Nanda started getting irritated and again said, “Sir, I have
a bit of a cramp.”
I saw him stretch and ask for a break — part of me rolled my eyes, but another part whispered, stay calm.
When play resumed, I could feel my rhythm returning, not through anger, but focus. Every shot felt clearer, quieter.
Point by point, I caught up — 5–4, 6–5 — until finally, the last rally broke his guard.
Score: 7–5.
At the net, Nanda forced a smile. “Lucky today,” he muttered.
I wiped the sweat from my neck and said softly, “Maybe. But I’ve worked for that luck.”
And I meant it — not as pride, but relief. For once, I’d won without letting my head play the game for me..........
Match 2 – Sidesh
This story was a bit emotional. We both knew each other's
gameplay intimately. But this wasn't just a friendly match—it was a matter of a
seat.
The match started. Both of us held our serves in the first
two games.
In the third game, Sidesh hit an impossible volley—the crowd
cheered enthusiastically.
I smiled and said, “Dude, are you playing this match or
putting on an exhibition?”
He laughed, “Guess you'll have to see for yourself.”
The match continued till 4–4. Both of us were giving our
best. Not a single point was being given away for free.
The tiebreak happened. I completely focused during the
tiebreak, took risks on every serve, and put pressure on every rally.
The score was 6–5, match point in my favor.
Sidesh's serve—he hit to the deep corner. I just somehow
reached it and lobbed it; the ball stuck to the line—Point Shrikant!
Both met at the net and hugged—he said, "You're crazy,
man, you were on fire today."
I said, "Not on fire, I am just living up to my
duty."
Match 3 – Ramesh K
This was the last one. If I won this, I would make it to the
university team.
Ramesh was 6’3" tall and calm—a silent killer type. In
the first two games, he made me play entirely defensively. The score was 2–0.
I went to the back of the court to wipe my sweat with a
towel, closed my eyes.
"Shri, you always make a comeback… do it this time as
well."
I won the next three games continuously. The score was 3–2.
He made a counter; the score reached 4–4.
Now everything was up to one game. The crowd was tired by
the evening but was cheering for both of us.
During the last game, the score was 40–30. He hit a slice;
the ball passed just over the net—I dived, and the ball landed inside the line.
I won the match.
I went to the net and shook hands. The satisfaction on
Sidesh's face was something that perhaps only he understood.
He said, "Shrikant, welcome to the university
team."
There was a strange kind of peace inside me—neither felt
like shouting nor celebrating. I just closed my eyes and thought to myself,
"Now, I've proved myself."
I was sitting in a corner of the court just looking at the
dark sky—the wind was light, and it felt as if every gust of wind was saying,
"You did it, Shri… finally, you did it."
The results were about to be announced.
All the players were standing in one corner of the
court—exhausted, but the sparkle was still there in their eyes. PD sir had a
paper in his hand, and everyone was silent. Sir said:
"After all the matches and points count… these five
names will represent our university."
For a few seconds, everything inside me stopped.
"Harsha Vardhan… Sidesh… Shrikant… Anirudh…
Ramesh."
As soon as they heard this, the crowd began cheering, and we
all embraced each other.
But my eyes were searching for only one person—Nanda.
He was sitting on a bench in one corner, tightly gripping
his water bottle, anger in his eyes, and wiping sweat with his hand.
Somebody said, "Bro, he was an unlucky man; Ramesh beat
him at the end."
Somebody said, "Drama king. He got himself out while playing."
I was just silent. I went to him and said,
"Brother, tough luck… Ramesh played well."
He looked up, stared at me for a few seconds, then said,
"Yes… played well. Everyone plays well when everything is according to
them."
I gave a slight smile and said,
"The game is decided on the court, Nanda… not according to anyone."
He picked up the bottle and said,
"You won't understand."
And he left.
I stood there; his footsteps slowly faded outside the court,
but my heart felt something strange—neither happiness nor sorrow, just silence.
In a corner of my heart, there was a little regret—because
once we all were one team. One court, one laugh, one dream.
But at the same time, there was a voice in the other corner
of the heart—
"Shri, they all deserve this… every action has a reaction."
I remembered the time when he had taken a medical break when
he had used cheap tactics to defeat me…
And today, when the scoreboard was against him, it felt
like—
"This is not just a game, this is… a mirror. What you give, comes back to
you."
Sidesh came to me, put his hand on my shoulder, and said,
"Well played, Shriii. You didn't just win the match, you won yourself
back."
I just kept looking at Sidesh and said,
"Brother… sometimes, victory also brings sadness."
Sidesh said with a smile,
"Victories bring sadness when you play with all your heart."
That night, back in the hostel, I dropped my shoes by the bed — the soles still dusty, streaked with clay of the court.
The room was quiet except for the slow hum of the ceiling fan. I sat there for a while, just staring at the tennis kitbag leaning against the wall.
For months, that thing had been my judge, my teacher, and sometimes my enemy. Tonight, it felt like a friend who’d finally stopped arguing.
I opened my diary and wrote slowly:
“Some victories don’t celebrate you. They just set you free.”
The words looked strange — simple, but true. I didn’t know if I’d remember this feeling next week or next year, but for that moment, it felt enough.
Outside, a breeze slipped through the window, brushing the page. I closed my eyes. No divine voice, no karma spinning — just the sound of the night and the quiet beat of my own heart.
Maybe that was what peace really sounded like.
Time passed, and a week later, the last night before going
for the inter-university…
In the corner of the room, my bag was ready—the university
kit, fresh jersey with "MADRAS UNIVERSITY" written on the back.
I kept reading that line over and over again, as if I was
reading my own story.
I never thought that one day I would become part of this
jersey—especially after such a fight.
Ashwin came into my room and said,
"Bro, haven't you slept yet? There's a bus at 5 a.m. tomorrow!"
I laughed and replied,
"Sleep will come only when everything is completed. The first chapter has
just ended so far."
He sat next to me and said,
"Inter-university matches are not easy, bro. Every player there is the
best from their respective colleges."
I replied,
"That's exactly why I want to go… to prove that there's not just one
'best'; every place hides a 'Shri'."
That night, I kept thinking,
The matches so far have been only warm-ups; the real test is about to begin.
The crowd there will be different, the ground will be
different, and even the opponents—those members who shed blood and sweat for
their university.
As they say,
"Only one can survive where everyone comes to win—who doesn't fear defeat
and has the courage to accept it."
Next morning at 5:00 a.m.
Team Loyola was on the bus. Our team coordinator was in the
last seat, and Harsha by the captain seat, side window. I was looking out of
the window—the streets of Madras were still asleep, but a voice within me had
already woken, saying,
"No more looking back, only forward now."
With the engine of the bus, my heart was also racing.
Mixed emotions were visible on everyone's face—excitement,
nervousness, pride.
The echo of cheers faded as the bus rolled through Madras’s
quiet streets, the city slowly waking to a new day. I gazed out of the window,
the orange light of dawn touching the “MADRAS UNIVERSITY” stitched onto my
jersey—once a distant dream, now a symbol of everything I had fought for.
With each passing street and silent heartbeat, the memories
replayed: every loss, every victory, every word from my mentors and friends. I
recalled the moments of doubt, the fights on the court, and the lessons
learned—not about results, but about courage, persistence, and brotherhood.
I gently placed my racket beside me, feeling a quiet pride
blossom inside—a pride not for winning, but for daring to play, to stand strong
when it mattered most.
As the bus turned toward the university gates, I remembered
my father’s words:
“You are where you’re meant to be. Every experience is part of God’s plan.”
For the first time, I truly believed it—content not because
of the scoreboard, but because I had finally proven myself to the one person
who matters most: myself.
And in the first breath of morning, as the team stepped onto
new ground and the game began anew, I whispered to myself,
“The final chance isn’t finished—it’s forever, with every step forward.”
And at the same time, my phone vibrated—
A message came from one of my closest friend and arch-rival:"Welcome to the battlefield, Thakur. See you on the court."
I locked my phone with a smile.
"So the real game is about to begin…"
🔥🙌🔥
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