The rusted gate creaked as Vaibhav stepped into the campus of Govt. High School No. 3, his dusty bag slung over one shoulder. The building was faded, with patches of paint peeling off like dried leaves. A few boys played cricket in the corridor, using an old wooden plank as a bat and bricks as stumps. Nobody noticed him. He liked it that way.
This was his first day—not just at a new school, but in a new life. His father had been transferred to this small town in the hope of cheaper living and better schooling. Vaibhav didn't complain. He rarely did.
Classes went by in silence. He was good at math, quiet in language, and invisible in everything else. No one spoke to him, and he didn't bother speaking either. But something strange happened during the lunch break.
He was sitting under a tree, biting into his dry chapatis, when he heard a cheer erupt from the other side of the courtyard.
> "Tighten your grip, Manish!"
"Push, you got this!"
"Arre, his wrist's bending! Finish it!"
Vaibhav stuffed the rest of his food into his bag and walked toward the noise.
There, under the neem tree beside the staff room, a group of boys were gathered around a cemented bench. Two of them had locked hands, their elbows planted firmly. The others were shouting, some clapping, some throwing mock punches in the air.
It was raw, messy, and alive.
Vaibhav had never seen arm wrestling before—not like this. It wasn't just about strength. It was about pride. There was no referee. Just will. And everyone respected the winner, even if he was the smallest boy in the room.
The match ended with a loud thud of knuckles against the table. One boy roared in victory; the other smiled through gritted teeth. They bumped fists. No bitterness. Only respect.
Vaibhav stood still, breathing in the tension, the sweat, the strange intensity.
> "You wanna try?"
The question startled him. A tall boy with sharp features and confident eyes—Lucky—was looking at him.
Vaibhav shook his head quickly, mumbling, "I... I've never done it."
Lucky grinned. "That's how we all started. Sit. You've got long fingers. Might be useful."
Without waiting, Lucky pulled him in. The crowd backed up a little to give them space. Suddenly, Vaibhav's heart began pounding—not from fear, but something more dangerous. Excitement.
He placed his elbow clumsily, copying what the others had done. Lucky adjusted his wrist and posture. "Don't push with your shoulder. Lock it in. Use your whole arm."
The boys counted.
> "Three… two… one… GO!"
Vaibhav pushed with all his might. Lucky didn't even move.
"Not bad," Lucky said, smiling. "You've got potential."
Vaibhav's arm was still shaking. But he wasn't embarrassed. He was... thrilled.
He walked back to class, feeling something new in his chest. Not pride. Not hope.
Purpose.
---After that day under the neem tree, Vaibhav couldn't stop thinking about arm wrestling. The feeling in his arm—the tension, the power—had ignited something inside him. At home, late into the night, he pulled out his old smartphone, fingers trembling with excitement.
He typed into the search bar: "forearm exercises for beginners"
"how to train for arm wrestling"
"arm wrestling diet tips"
Pages loaded slowly on the shaky internet connection, but Vaibhav absorbed every word like a sponge. He learned about wrist curls, grip strengtheners, and even specialized pull exercises. There were videos of professional arm wrestlers flexing muscles that looked carved from stone.
But there was a problem—Vaibhav had no proper diet plan, no coach, no real knowledge beyond what he could find online. Most exercises required equipment he didn't have. Most diets mentioned expensive supplements and foods he couldn't afford.
Still, he wasn't discouraged. If anything, the lack of guidance made him more determined.
"I'll make do with what I have," Vaibhav whispered to himself. "This... this is just the beginning."
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