It started in the quiet corners of engineering college, where a simple blue table became more than furniture. It became the place where passion took hold.
In Hostel 3, time was rationed. Weekdays offered fleeting hours, Sundays stretched into six, perhaps seven. We, restless guys, waited with hearts drumming for our turn.ð
At first, my strokes were wild rebellions, flying into the void.Lol everything I was hitting outside ðĪŠ. Yet persistence sculpted chaos into craft, and soon, victory crowned me in that modest tournament in our hostel 3 tournament.
But the crucible awaited in Hostel 1.There, amidst seniors of every year, talent burned bright, and my game was improved in their fire.ðĨ
It was there I found Sanjeev, my comrade in arms.I recall the semi-final match of final year. we stood at the precipice, trailing 15â20, the abyss yawning before us. I whispered to myself: One serve at a time. Then came the spin serves ð a familiar gesture, yet laden with hidden gravity. The national player faltered, unable to decipher the storm. Point by point, we clawed back from despair, until deuce surrendered to triumph, and the final bowed to us.
A small victory, perhaps but etched into my marrow.For in every crucible of life, I summon that memory:Never yield. One step, one serve, one breath at a time.
Now, years late corporate corridors steal the hours, yet I have ordered a new racket. Time to pick the racket and just enjoy the game again ðââïļ. The game that taught me resilience, the game that still whispers :Anurag will not give up. Sports is the best teacher.