Chapter 2: The First Grip of Struggle
---
Vaibhav's house was small, cramped, and filled with an invisible tension that no one dared speak about. The walls seemed to press in tighter whenever his parents hovered nearby, their voices laced with worry.
"Vaibhav, don't stay out too late. Focus on your studies," his mother said for the tenth time that day, her eyes flickering with a mixture of love and fear.
His father nodded silently, arms crossed, always watching.
Vaibhav nodded back, pretending to listen while his mind replayed the afternoon's arm wrestling matches. The taste of adrenaline, the surge of power—it lingered on his skin like a secret flame.
But there was no place for flame here.
His brother, Vivek, burst into the room, loud and brash as ever. "You wasting your time again? What's with that arm wrestling nonsense? You should be studying!"
Vaibhav looked down, feeling the familiar sting of Vivek's words. His brother didn't understand him — or maybe didn't want to.
Later that night, when the house was silent and the only sound was the rustling of paper and the faint hum of a fan, Vaibhav pulled out his phone. The screen lit up his face as he scrolled through videos and articles about arm wrestling training.
"Forearm exercises."
"Wrist strengthening."
"Diet for strength training."
Vaibhav tried to imagine himself doing the wrist curls and gripping exercises shown in the shaky tutorial videos. But there was no gym here, no trainer, no fancy equipment. Just his worn-out desk and a pair of rubber bands he found in his drawer.
His stomach growled. His diet was far from the recommended protein shakes and supplements. Lentils, rice, and sometimes a stale roti — that was all he had.
But determination wasn't about perfect conditions. It was about starting where you are.
Vaibhav taped a rubber band around his fingers, squeezing it repeatedly until his hand ached. His forearm trembled from wrist rotations using a glass bottle as a weight. He scribbled notes about form and technique on a torn page from his notebook.
This was the beginning of something new — a fragile hope wrapped in sweat and silence.
---
The sun had barely risen, casting pale orange streaks through the cracked window of Vaibhav's tiny bedroom. Dust particles floated in the golden light, settling over the scattered notebooks, worn clothes, and the small plastic bottle resting on his wooden desk. The house was still, except for the faint murmurs of his parents downstairs, speaking in hushed, worried tones.
Vaibhav lay awake, staring at the ceiling. His body ached from the wrist exercises he had practiced the night before, but his mind raced even more. His fingers twitched involuntarily, craving the grip of a hand locked in combat, the thrill of a fight fought with willpower and muscle.
A quiet cough outside his door pulled him back to reality. His mother's voice followed, soft but firm.
"Vaibhav, beta, breakfast is ready. Don't forget you have to finish your homework today."
"Yes, Ma," he replied, voice low and careful.
The routine was suffocating. At home, Vaibhav was expected to be the perfect son — studious, obedient, quiet. His parents' eyes were always on him, a constant surveillance born of love, yes, but also fear. Fear that the world outside was too harsh for a boy like him.
He sighed, rubbed his sore forearms, and slowly got out of bed.
Downstairs, the small kitchen smelled of burnt lentils and stale roti. His mother hovered by the stove, wringing her hands. His father sat silently at the table, brows furrowed, eyes tired.
"Eat fast," his father grunted without looking up.
Vaibhav picked at the food mechanically, barely tasting it. His thoughts drifted back to the arm wrestling match under the neem tree. How simple it had looked — two boys, locked in a fierce but friendly battle, pushing against each other until one gave way. It was raw and honest, the exact opposite of the strained silence that filled his house.
Just then, the door slammed open.
"Vaibhav! What are you wasting your time with now? This arm wrestling nonsense? You think you can become strong by playing games?" Vivek's voice boomed through the small room.
Vaibhav flinched. His brother's shadow loomed large over him, dark and unyielding.
"It's not nonsense," Vaibhav whispered, barely audible.
Vivek snorted. "Whatever. Just don't drag me into your childish fantasies."
He left the room, slamming the door behind him.
Vaibhav's hands clenched into fists. The sting of rejection was familiar, but today it burned deeper.
After school, Vaibhav waited until the house was silent. Then, with a quick glance over his shoulder, he crept out. The sun was dipping low, painting the sky with shades of pink and purple.
He headed toward the old sports ground behind the school where Lucky and the others often gathered. The place was empty now except for a few stray leaves and the fading echo of laughter from earlier that day.
Lucky was already there, stretching and warming up.
"Hey, Vaibhav," Lucky greeted, clapping him on the back. "Thought you'd chicken out."
Vaibhav forced a small smile.
"I want to learn," he said simply.
Lucky nodded. "Good. You gotta build strength, yeah. But technique is everything. Let me show you the basics."
For hours, Lucky taught him how to position his wrist, how to lock his elbow, how to use his shoulder and back — not just his arm. Vaibhav's muscles screamed in protest, but he pushed through.
As darkness fell, Vaibhav felt a flicker of hope. Maybe this was his way out.
---