( The First Defeat, The First Spark )
The morning passed slowly. Every tick of the classroom clock felt louder than usual, each second dragging like a heavy footstep toward something unknown.
Vaibhav's forearms were still sore from the last evening's rough training with Lucky. His wrists tingled every time he gripped his pencil. His elbow felt stiff. But in a strange way, the pain comforted him. It reminded him that this wasn't a passing dream—it was real. He was trying. He was changing.
When the lunch bell rang, the classroom emptied like water pouring from a broken jug. Boys rushed out to the courtyard, to cricket matches, to gossip corners. But Vaibhav moved slowly, deliberately, his stomach tight with nervous excitement.
Today, he wasn't going to sit under the tree and watch.
Today, Lucky had told him: "You'll wrestle for real."
His heartbeat quickened as he stepped into the familiar circle under the neem tree. The air smelled of sweat, dust, and old leaves. The stone bench stood ready, its surface worn smooth from years of matches. Around it, the usual crowd gathered, faces lit with curiosity and mischief.
"Lucky! Fight me today!" Manish grinned, cracking his thick knuckles. His bulky frame towered over the others.
Lucky chuckled, stretching his arms lazily. "Again? Come on, Manish. Give someone else a chance. You're hogging the table."
The boys laughed. Some whistled. Some clapped.
Then Lucky's eyes flicked to Vaibhav.
"New guy! You're up," he said, pointing. "Come on, you've been practicing, haven't you?"
All eyes turned to him.
Vaibhav froze. His throat tightened.
"Me?" he croaked, barely audible.
"Yeah. Time to see what you've learned," Lucky grinned. "Don't worry, you won't die. Probably."
Laughter rippled through the circle.
Manish cracked his neck. "I'll take him. Let's see what the quiet boy can do."
Vaibhav's legs moved on their own. His brain screamed to run, but his body—fueled by stubborn pride—carried him forward. He sat opposite Manish, palms slick with sweat.
Remember what Lucky said. Wrist high. Elbow tight. Pull, don't push. Use the whole arm…
"Ready, little man?" Manish teased, setting his elbow down with a loud thud.
Vaibhav swallowed hard and placed his trembling hand into Manish's meaty grip.
"Don't overthink it," Lucky whispered behind him. "Just lock your wrist. Breathe. And hold on."
The circle of boys counted, voices rising like thunder:
> "Three… two… one… GO!"
Vaibhav grunted and pulled, locking his shoulder, tightening his grip. For a heartbeat—a single breath—Manish didn't move.
His forearm bulged, muscles straining. Vaibhav felt the shock of resistance in his wrist. His vision blurred. The crowd leaned in, shouting encouragement.
"Push, Manish! Crush him!"
"Hold, new guy! Hold!!"
But slowly, inevitably, the force against him grew. Manish's arm surged forward like a slow but unstoppable machine.
Vaibhav grit his teeth, wrist bending painfully.
> BAM.
His hand smacked against the stone table. The sound echoed.
Silence.
Then laughter. Whistles. Cheers. A few claps on the back.
"Not bad for your first real match," Manish said, grinning. He stood, offering Vaibhav a hand to pull him up. "You lasted longer than I thought."
Vaibhav took the hand, breathing heavily, arm trembling, heart pounding.
Lucky crouched beside him, smiling.
"You held for five seconds longer than most first-timers," he said. "That's something. Next time, you'll last ten. Then you'll win."
Vaibhav didn't speak.
He stared at his red, aching hand. His chest heaved, sweat dripping down his temple.
But in his chest, something stirred.
Not shame. Not fear.
Excitement.
For the first time in his life, someone in this world noticed him—not because of marks or obedience, but because of strength. Because of effort. Because he dared to stand and fight.
As the crowd began to break apart, boys returning to their games and gossip, Lucky gave him a gentle slap on the back.
"Come tomorrow evening," he said. "We'll work on your grip. Your wrist's bending too easy. Gotta fix that."
Vaibhav nodded, swallowing hard.
"Good," Lucky smiled. "You've got potential, Vaibhav. Don't waste it."
For the rest of the day, even as the teacher droned on in math class and Vivek mocked him again at home, Vaibhav's mind returned to the table under the neem tree.
His hand stung. His muscles burned.
But deep inside...
A tiny spark had been lit.
A spark of purpose.
And this time, it refused to die.
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