Chasing the Finish Line

Ryan Matthews

Episode 1 – The First Race

The school ground in Jalandhar was nothing more than a patch of uneven earth surrounded by rusted goalposts and an old banyan tree that had seen decades of boys running, shouting, and chasing half-torn footballs. But to twelve-year-old Arjun Malhotra, that dusty ground was the world’s grandest stadium. It was Sports Day, the one day of the year when the sleepy lanes of his small town turned electric with chatter about medals, trophies, and the glory of running faster than anyone else.

Arjun had never taken part in a proper race before. His world so far had been cricket in the gullies, marbles with friends, and the occasional sprint to the local dairy when his mother needed milk before the shop closed. But something stirred inside him every time he watched older boys racing. The rhythm of their feet, the blur of their white PT uniforms, the final surge to the finish line—it felt like magic. Today, he had been pushed into the 100-meter race for the under-14 category, partly because no one else in his section volunteered.

He stood barefoot at the starting line, toes curled into the brown soil, heart pounding like the dhols he had heard during festivals. Other boys around him wore running shoes, some borrowed from elder brothers, some gifted by indulgent parents. Arjun had none. His father, a clerk in the local electricity office, had told him gently, “Beta, these things are luxuries. If you want to run, run with what you have.” And so here he was, bare feet against the ground, trying to ignore the smirks from the other boys.

The PT teacher, Mr. Dutta, a thin man with a booming whistle, called them to position. “On your marks!” His voice cut through the noise of the crowd—students, teachers, and parents all gathered under makeshift tents. Arjun crouched low, awkward in his stance, copying what he had seen seniors do. “Set!” The air grew still. Arjun’s breath caught in his throat. The whistle blasted.

For the first few seconds, Arjun forgot the world. His legs pushed against the earth with a force he never knew he had. The ground disappeared beneath him, and the air slapped against his face as he surged forward. He could hear the thud-thud of feet around him, the grunts of boys struggling for speed, but all he could see was the white chalk line of the finish ahead. His chest burned, his throat felt dry, but something inside pushed him harder.

When he crossed the line, he didn’t know where he stood. He collapsed to his knees, panting, eyes blurred from sweat. Then came the announcement. “First place—Arjun Malhotra, Class Seven B!” The voice over the loudspeaker seemed unreal, as though it belonged to someone else’s dream. For a second, he sat frozen. Then the cheers rose. His friends clapped him on the back, some in disbelief, some in admiration. Even the boys with shoes shook their heads, muttering about “luck” and “fluke.”

But Arjun knew. Deep down, he knew it wasn’t luck. It was something raw, untamed, a fire that had woken in him the moment he started running. As he climbed the small wooden podium and received the flimsy golden medal, he held it as if it were Olympic gold. His father, standing at the edge of the crowd, clapped quietly, pride shining in his tired eyes. His mother wept softly, her dupatta pressed against her face.

That night, as Arjun lay on the thin cot in their one-bedroom house, he could not sleep. The medal lay on the shelf near his pillow, catching faint moonlight through the window. He thought of the way the ground had felt under his feet, the rush of the wind, the impossible thrill of leaving others behind. For the first time in his young life, he felt that he had discovered something that was truly his. Cricket was fun, studies were necessary, but running—running was freedom.

The next morning, he rose early. The medal was still there, proof that yesterday hadn’t been a dream. He slipped out quietly before his parents woke, stepping onto the empty ground. The cool dawn air brushed against him as he stood where the race had started. And then, without shoes, without a whistle, without anyone watching, he began to run. His body ached, his lungs protested, but he pushed on. Because now he had a reason.

Unbeknownst to him, someone was watching. Coach Harpreet Singh, a retired sprinter who sometimes volunteered at the school, leaned against the banyan tree, his eyes narrowing. He had seen countless boys run, but this one… there was something different. The raw stride, the stubborn refusal to stop, the way his body leaned naturally into the wind—it was untrained, yes, but it was talent. Singh smiled faintly, his old instincts awakening. Perhaps this boy had what it took.

Arjun stopped at last, gasping, bent over his knees. He turned and noticed the man by the tree. Embarrassed, he wiped his forehead and straightened. Singh walked over slowly, his footsteps deliberate. “Good run, lad,” he said, his voice gravelly but kind. “Ever thought of doing this seriously?”

Arjun blinked, unsure how to answer. “I… I just like running,” he muttered.

Singh chuckled. “Liking is the start. But if you have the hunger, the fire, it can take you far. Far beyond this ground, far beyond this town.” He patted Arjun’s shoulder. “Come tomorrow at six. I’ll show you what real training looks like.”

That night, Arjun’s mind swirled with questions. Could running be more than a school race? Could it be something that shaped his life? He didn’t know. But he felt the stirrings of possibility, of a road stretching beyond the horizon. And in his heart, he knew he would show up at six. Because something had begun, something he couldn’t quite name yet.

In the stillness of that small town night, with crickets chirping outside and the medal glinting beside his pillow, Arjun Malhotra, son of a clerk and dreamer of impossible dreams, had unknowingly taken his first step toward chasing the finish line that would define his life.

Episode 2 – Dreams on the Dusty Field

The next morning, before dawn had shaken off the mist, Arjun crept out of the house with his shoes dangling from one hand. He still hadn’t told his parents about Coach Harpreet Singh’s invitation. Something about it felt too fragile, too new, like a flame that might go out if exposed too soon. The town was quiet, the only sounds the barking of a stray dog and the rattling cycle of the milkman.

When he reached the ground, he saw the old banyan tree first, its roots twisted like the veins of time itself. Beneath it stood Singh, his tracksuit faded but neat, a stopwatch hanging from his neck. The man’s posture carried the memory of speed, of years when his legs had been weapons. Arjun approached timidly.

“You came,” Singh said simply. “Good. Let’s see if you are serious.”

Arjun nodded, though his stomach fluttered.

The training began with simple drills—stretching, skipping, sprint bursts of thirty meters. Arjun’s body rebelled quickly; his legs burned, his chest throbbed, and sweat poured down his face. More than once he thought of stopping, of admitting he wasn’t cut out for this. But every time he faltered, Singh’s voice rang out.

“Again. Push through. Don’t give me excuses. The line will never wait for you—you have to chase it.”

Something about the coach’s words drilled into him. So he pushed again, stumbling, panting, yet never stopping. After an hour, he collapsed on the ground, too exhausted even to move. Singh crouched beside him, not smiling, but not unkind.

“You have grit,” the coach said. “That matters more than talent. Talent without grit is wasted. Grit without talent can still build a champion.”

Arjun listened through the fog of fatigue. A champion? The word sounded alien, almost laughable. He was just a boy from a modest family, living in a one-room home where the walls peeled with dampness. Yet, in Singh’s voice, the word carried weight, as though he could already see something that Arjun himself could not.

From that day on, mornings changed. While the town still slept, Arjun trained. He ran drills on the uneven ground, lifted bricks tied to ropes as makeshift weights, and sprinted against the biting winter air. Sometimes his bare feet blistered; sometimes his muscles ached so much he could barely walk to school. But each time, Singh’s gravelly voice guided him forward.

At school, his teachers noticed his distracted eyes. He dozed off in history class, scribbled half-finished answers in mathematics, and carried his medal everywhere like a talisman. Friends teased him—“Arjun the runner boy!”—but he wore the nickname with quiet pride. Only his parents remained unaware of his secret mornings. He didn’t want to tell them until he proved something bigger, something real.

One Sunday evening, when Singh called him to the banyan shade, Arjun thought it would be another set of drills. Instead, the coach handed him an old, frayed book. On its cover was a faded picture of an athlete breaking the tape.

“This is Milkha Singh,” the coach said, his eyes shining. “The Flying Sikh. He ran barefoot, like you. He carried India’s flag across the world. Read his story. Understand that the track is more than dust and chalk—it is where boys become men.”

Arjun held the book as though it were sacred scripture. That night, under the dim bulb of his study corner, he devoured page after page. He read of Milkha’s hardships, his hunger, his relentless pursuit of speed. The words lit a fire in him. If Milkha could carve his name in history, why not another boy from Punjab?

But dreams are fragile when tested by reality. The next week, during a training sprint, Arjun stumbled on a stone and scraped his knee badly. Blood ran down his shin, and pain seared through him. He sat on the ground, eyes brimming with tears of frustration. Singh stood over him, silent for a long moment.

Then he said, “Do you know what separates an ordinary runner from a champion? Not speed. Not power. It is the will to stand up after falling. Get up, Arjun. The wound will heal, but regret will not.”

With trembling legs, Arjun rose and limped forward. The coach did not clap, did not praise, but in his silence there was approval.

Slowly, the dusty ground became Arjun’s temple. He began to love the solitude of dawn runs, the sharp taste of cold air in his lungs, the way each stride seemed to carve a little more determination into his bones. He no longer dreamed only of medals at school. He dreamed of bigger tracks, louder crowds, and the tricolor flag fluttering in the wind.

Yet shadows remained. His father worried about his slipping grades, his mother fretted over his thin frame. At dinner one night, his father sighed. “Arjun, these games are fine for children, but you must think of your future. Education is the only thing that can lift us.”

Arjun lowered his gaze, unable to answer. How could he explain that the future he saw was not in books but on tracks? That every step he ran felt more real than the pages of algebra? He clenched his fists under the table, swallowing the words.

The next morning, he trained harder than ever. For every doubt at home, he answered with a sprint. For every frown from his father, he answered with one more lap. And as the sun rose over the banyan tree, his shadow stretched long across the field, as though pointing to something distant, something yet unseen.

Coach Singh watched quietly, arms folded. He had seen many boys come and go, their enthusiasm fading with time. But this one—there was steel in his stride. Singh knew it would not be an easy road. There would be losses, injuries, temptations. But somewhere deep down, he felt this boy might carry forward the legacy of those who had run before.

One evening, after a long training session, Singh said, “There is a district meet coming in two months. Runners from all over will come. I want you there.”

Arjun’s heart leapt. The idea of running against boys beyond his small school both thrilled and terrified him. He nodded, though fear tightened his chest.

“Do not fear,” Singh said, reading his eyes. “Fear is natural. Let it fuel you. But promise me one thing: whatever happens, win or lose, you will run with everything inside you. No holding back.”

That night, lying on his cot, Arjun stared at the cracked ceiling. District meet. The words echoed like a bell. He knew it would be the hardest challenge yet. But he also knew that his life had changed forever the moment he first crossed that school finish line. The dusty field, once just a playground, had become the soil where dreams grew. And in those dreams, he had already begun chasing something greater than himself.

Episode 3 – The City Trials

Two months passed in a blur of sweat and discipline. Each dawn, while the world still slept, Arjun’s feet carved their rhythm into the dusty earth. His lungs expanded, his legs toughened, and his stride grew sharper. Singh had become more than a coach; he was a sculptor chiseling raw stone into something that might one day gleam.

When the letter for the District Athletics Meet arrived at school, Arjun could hardly breathe as he read his name under “100m and 200m Sprint, Under-14 Boys.” The trials would be held in Ludhiana, a city that to him felt as vast and unreachable as New Delhi. He had only visited once before with his parents, to buy clothes during Diwali. Now he would be going as a competitor.

The day before the trials, Singh handed him a simple kit: white shorts, a plain T-shirt, and—at last—a pair of secondhand running shoes. “Not new, but better than bare feet on a synthetic track,” the coach said. Arjun ran his hand over the worn laces, his throat tightening. For the first time, he felt like a real athlete.

The morning of departure, his father stood at the doorway, frowning but silent. His mother pressed a small packet of parathas into his hand, whispering a prayer. Neither of them fully understood what their son was chasing, but they sensed that this mattered to him more than anything else ever had. Arjun touched their feet, then climbed into the bus with other boys from neighboring schools.

Ludhiana greeted them with noise, color, and size that overwhelmed Arjun. The stadium itself looked like another world—red synthetic tracks, gleaming lanes marked with numbers, and towering floodlights though it was daytime. He had never seen anything like it. The smell of rubber and polish was so different from the earthy dust of his school ground.

As they assembled near the warm-up area, Arjun saw runners who looked stronger, taller, and far more confident than him. Some wore sleek jerseys with district logos, their parents and coaches fussing around them. He felt a wave of doubt wash over him. What am I doing here? he thought. I am just a boy who trained on broken ground, eating parathas before running. They belong here. I don’t.

But Singh’s voice cut through his fear. “Eyes forward, Arjun. Do not measure yourself against their shoes or their uniforms. Measure yourself against the line. The line is the same for everyone.”

The 100-meter heats began. Runners crouched on the synthetic track, their spikes digging in. The starter’s pistol cracked like thunder, and the boys launched forward like arrows. Arjun’s heart pounded as he watched heat after heat, the speed astonishing. He realized he would need to run faster than he ever had before just to stay alive in the competition.

When his turn came, he knelt at the starting blocks, feeling awkward as the metal pressed against his feet. He remembered Singh’s advice—“Lean forward, explode, trust your stride.” The pistol fired.

The first few steps felt strange; the synthetic surface seemed to push back differently than dirt. But then instinct took over. His legs pumped, his arms cut the air, and he found a rhythm. The blur of competitors to his left and right made him want to surge harder. When he crossed the finish line, chest heaving, he had no idea of his place.

Moments later, the scoreboard flashed: Heat 3 – First Place – Lane 5 – Arjun Malhotra.

His head spun. He had not just survived; he had won his heat. Boys from other schools stared at him curiously, wondering who this unknown runner was. Singh gave him the briefest nod from the stands, a signal of approval that meant more than applause.

The semi-final was harder. Competitors matched him stride for stride, and for a terrifying moment he felt himself slipping behind. But then he remembered Milkha Singh’s story, the hunger, the refusal to stop. He gritted his teeth, lifted his knees higher, and surged forward. He crossed the line in second place—enough to take him into the final.

That evening, lying in the dormitory provided for participants, Arjun could hardly sleep. The roar of the stadium still rang in his ears. Around him, other boys laughed, boasted, or nervously rehearsed. He clutched his medal from school, which he had carried as a secret charm, and whispered to himself, “Tomorrow is for proving.”

The final arrived with the weight of destiny. The stadium was fuller, the air charged. Arjun stepped into lane four, his legs trembling. Beside him stood a boy named Ravi Desai, broad-shouldered and confident, a local favorite. Ravi smirked at Arjun. “First time in the city, village boy? Don’t worry, I’ll show you how it’s done.”

Arjun said nothing, but fire burned inside.

The pistol cracked. They exploded forward. Ravi surged ahead early, his stride powerful. Arjun chased, the world narrowing to the white line in front. Fifty meters in, he was still behind. Fear clawed at him. This is too much. I can’t.

Then a voice in his mind roared—Stand up after falling. The line will never wait for you—you have to chase it. Singh’s words.

Something broke free inside him. His arms pumped harder, his stride lengthened, and the roar of the crowd faded. The last twenty meters were a blur of desperation and fire. When he threw his chest forward at the tape, he stumbled and fell onto the track.

For a moment, silence. Then the scoreboard flashed: 1st – Ravi Desai. 2nd – Arjun Malhotra.

Arjun lay on the ground, his chest scraping against the rubber, lungs screaming. Second place. Not gold, but silver. Not victory, but not failure either. He had beaten dozens of boys, yet he felt a sting—because he had seen, for the first time, the gap between him and the best.

Singh helped him up. “Well done,” the coach said quietly.

“I lost,” Arjun muttered.

“No,” Singh corrected. “You learned. Today you found your rival. Every runner needs one. Without a rival, fire dies. With a rival, fire grows. Remember Ravi Desai’s name, because from today, he is the shadow you must outrun.”

Arjun looked across the track where Ravi basked in cheers, his gold medal gleaming. He clenched his fists. He would not forget that name.

On the bus ride home, the silver medal hung heavy around his neck, but in his heart, something brighter glowed. This was only the beginning. He had touched the edge of a larger world. And though he had fallen short of the top, he had glimpsed what was possible.

The dusty field back home no longer felt small. It was the forge where he would sharpen himself for the battles to come. He was no longer just a barefoot boy chasing a school medal. He was Arjun Malhotra, silver medalist of the city trials, runner with a rival, dreamer with a fire.

And the finish line had only just begun to call his name.

Episode 4 – Falling Behind

The silver medal from Ludhiana dangled on the corner of Arjun’s study table like a promise and a taunt. Every night before sleeping, he touched it, feeling its cold ridges, reminding himself of both the pride of reaching the finals and the pain of watching Ravi Desai stand on the podium’s highest step. That image haunted him—the confident smile, the crowd’s cheers, the flash of the gold medal. It was the spark that drove Arjun harder each morning, but also the shadow that whispered, you’re still behind.

Back on his school ground, the dusty field felt smaller than ever, as though it could no longer contain the dreams burning inside him. Singh intensified his training: longer sprints, timed drills, explosive starts. Arjun’s body toughened; his legs carried him faster than they ever had. Yet something gnawed at him. No matter how hard he pushed, Ravi’s figure stayed in his mind—always one stride ahead.

At the district meet, Singh had been proud. But pride was not enough for Arjun anymore. He wanted dominance, not consolation. He wanted to erase the smirk on Ravi’s face.

The opportunity came sooner than expected. A regional invitational meet was announced in Amritsar, with the best runners from Punjab expected to attend. Singh entered Arjun’s name without hesitation. “This will test you,” the coach said. “The field will be stronger, the pressure heavier. But you must face it. Champions are not made by easy races.”

The weeks before the meet became a blur of exhaustion. Arjun’s father scolded him for neglecting his studies. “Do you think running will put food on the table?” he snapped one evening when Arjun returned late, muscles aching, books untouched. His mother tried to soften the anger, but even she worried. Arjun said nothing. He knew words would not change their minds. Only results would.

By the time they arrived in Amritsar, his body felt like a coiled spring. The stadium was larger than Ludhiana’s, its track smoother, the competitors sharper. Arjun scanned the lineup, and there he was—Ravi Desai, in a crisp new jersey, laughing easily with his teammates. The sight sent a shiver through Arjun’s chest.

The heats went smoothly. Arjun blazed through his lane, finishing first with ease. His confidence swelled, but Singh warned, “Do not waste your energy on pride. The finals are where it matters.”

The day of the final, the stands buzzed with anticipation. Eight boys crouched on the track, the air vibrating with tension. The pistol cracked. Arjun launched forward. For the first forty meters, he felt unstoppable, his stride powerful, the track bending beneath his speed. But then, something faltered.

It was subtle at first—a tightness in his calf, a fraction of hesitation in his arms. Ravi surged past, his form effortless, his rhythm perfect. Another runner edged ahead too. Arjun tried to claw back, but his body refused. The finish line loomed, and in a desperate lunge, he crossed—not first, not second, but fourth.

The stadium roared for the winners, but to Arjun the sound was distant, muffled. Fourth. No medal. No podium. Nothing. He bent over, gasping, his chest a knot of disbelief. He had trained harder than ever, yet he had fallen behind.

Singh approached slowly. “You ran well,” he said quietly.

“No,” Arjun snapped, tears stinging his eyes. “I failed. I… I couldn’t even get a medal. I’m worse than before.”

Singh’s gaze was steady. “This is not failure, Arjun. This is truth. Every athlete meets it—the day when effort does not match outcome. The question is, will you let it break you or shape you?”

But Arjun heard only the echo of Ravi’s victory cry, the gleam of another gold around his rival’s neck. The fire in his chest twisted into bitterness.

That night in the dormitory, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Boys around him whispered of victories, shared jokes, clutched their medals. His hands were empty. His heart felt heavy. Doubts he had never allowed surfaced: Maybe I’m not good enough. Maybe this dream is too big. Maybe my father is right.

Back home, his father’s words sharpened the wound. “See? All this training, and for what? Fourth place. Do you think the world remembers who comes fourth? Focus on your studies before it’s too late.”

Arjun sat silently, the silver medal from Ludhiana now mocking him from its place on the table. Once it had been a symbol of hope; now it was a reminder that he had slipped backward. His books lay untouched, his heart torn.

The next morning, for the first time in months, he did not go to the field. He lay in bed, staring at the cracks on the ceiling, feeling the weight of defeat pressing down. The silence of the dawn mocked him; the absence of Singh’s whistle made him restless. Yet he could not move.

When Singh came knocking, his voice firm but not angry, Arjun could barely meet his eyes. “I don’t know if I can do this,” he confessed. “Maybe I’m not meant for it.”

Singh’s reply was sharp. “Nonsense. One race does not define you. Champions are forged in losses, not victories. Do you think Milkha Singh never lost? Do you think P.T. Usha never stumbled? The difference is they returned the next day, fiercer. If you stop now, you prove nothing—except that your father was right.”

The words cut deep. Arjun clenched his fists. He hated the thought of proving his father right, of letting Ravi’s shadow stay forever ahead. Slowly, painfully, he rose from his cot. His legs still ached, his heart still smarted, but something inside flickered.

The following morning, he returned to the field. His stride was sluggish, his body sore, but Singh’s nod told him he had chosen correctly. The coach didn’t push him hard that day, only made him run steady laps until his breath found rhythm again.

“Falling behind is part of running,” Singh said as the sun rose over the banyan tree. “But  remember—every time you fall, you start from farther than before. Each stumble builds you. Do not run only to beat Ravi. Run to beat yourself. That is the only race that matters.”

Arjun listened, the bitterness still raw, but the truth sinking in. Fourth place still hurt. Ravi’s gold still burned. But somewhere in his chest, beneath the pain, a new determination stirred. He had fallen behind. But he would rise again.

Episode 5 – Breaking Limits

The sting of Amritsar lingered in Arjun’s veins long after the stadium lights had dimmed. Fourth place was not just a number; it was a wound that throbbed every time he laced up his shoes. Yet slowly, as the days stretched into weeks, that wound began to harden into resolve. Singh’s words echoed—Don’t run to beat Ravi. Run to beat yourself.

Arjun realized that he had been chasing shadows. He had run to catch Ravi, to silence the laughter, to win medals that sparkled briefly but faded quickly. Now, he began to wonder: what if the true finish line wasn’t in front of Ravi but inside himself?

Singh seemed to sense the shift. Training changed. No longer did they focus only on sprints. Singh introduced endurance drills—long laps around the field, stair climbs on the school’s concrete steps, explosive jumps with sandbags tied to Arjun’s waist. Each session stretched him beyond what he thought possible.

One morning, Singh handed him a stopwatch. “Today, you time yourself. Forget the others. Beat your own best.”

Arjun took the challenge seriously. Every lap became a battle against his past self. He recorded times, scribbled them in a notebook, studied the margins of seconds. Improvement became his obsession. Each fraction shaved off felt like a private victory, invisible to the world but monumental to him.

Still, the body has its limits. One evening after practice, his legs buckled beneath him. Pain shot through his shins, sharp and merciless. He sat clutching them, face pale. Singh examined him with a grave look. “Shin splints. Too much strain.”

Arjun’s chest tightened with panic. “Does this mean I stop?”

“It means you recover,” Singh said firmly. “Rest, ice, discipline. Even the strongest runners break if they ignore their bodies.”

The days of enforced rest felt like torture. Arjun watched the ground from his window, itching to return. His father, noticing his limp, shook his head. “See what comes of this madness? Injuries, wasted time. If you spent half this energy on your books…”

Arjun bit his tongue. He wanted to scream that books never gave him the rush of wind in his lungs, the fire of the chase. But he stayed silent, channeling the frustration into healing. He iced, stretched, strengthened. Within weeks, he was back—not weaker, but smarter. He learned to listen to his body, to respect its limits, and to push only when ready.

Singh now demanded precision. “Speed is nothing without form,” he reminded. He corrected Arjun’s arm swing, adjusted his breathing, taught him the art of starts—how to coil like a spring and explode forward. “A wasted start costs you the race before it begins.”

Arjun practiced endlessly. On his haunches, he counted heartbeats, imagined the pistol, then launched forward. Again and again, until the action felt like instinct. His shoes tore, his T-shirts drenched, but he no longer cared about appearances. He cared only about the invisible margins he was carving.

As months passed, the transformation was undeniable. His classmates noticed. Once they had teased him—runner boy, medal dreamer—but now they watched with something like respect. He was leaner, faster, more focused. Even his teachers, though still concerned about slipping grades, acknowledged the discipline etched on his face.

Yet Arjun remained restless. Improvement in training was one thing; proving it in competition was another. The next district meet loomed, his chance to redeem himself. Singh raised the stakes. “This time, I don’t want you to chase medals. I want you to chase perfection. If you lose chasing perfection, I will not complain.”

The weeks leading to the meet tested him like never before. Singh set brutal sessions: interval sprints, hill climbs, resistance runs with tires tied to his waist. Arjun often collapsed, his chest searing, his legs trembling. But each collapse was followed by a rise. Slowly, his body adapted. Limits that once seemed unbreakable began to crack.

One evening, after a particularly grueling drill, Singh pointed to the horizon where the sun dipped low. “Do you see that line where the sky meets the earth?”

Arjun nodded, breathless.

“That is running. It always looks unreachable. But every step you take brings it closer. You will never touch it—but you will become greater for trying.”

The words struck him like truth carved in stone. From then on, whenever fatigue threatened to drown him, he pictured that horizon and pushed forward.

The district meet arrived on a crisp morning. The stadium buzzed with energy. Arjun stepped onto the track, his body coiled, his mind sharp. He spotted Ravi Desai in the lineup, gold medal from Amritsar glinting proudly on his chest. The sight no longer stabbed him with fear. It fueled him, but not with bitterness—with focus.

The heats felt smoother than ever. Arjun exploded from the blocks, his stride clean, his arms slicing air with purpose. He finished first with a time faster than anything he had ever recorded. Ravi too won his heat, effortlessly. The stage was set.

In the final, as the eight boys crouched at the line, Arjun felt calm. The pistol fired. He surged forward. Ravi, as always, shot ahead early, his power undeniable. But this time, Arjun did not panic. He remembered Singh’s voice: Run your own race.

Fifty meters in, Ravi still led. But Arjun’s form held steady. His strides lengthened, his arms drove harder, his lungs burned but did not break. Inch by inch, the gap shrank. The crowd roared as two figures hurtled neck and neck toward the finish.

At the line, they threw themselves forward, bodies straining. For a heartbeat, silence fell, as if the whole stadium inhaled.

The scoreboard flashed:
1st – Ravi Desai. 2nd – Arjun Malhotra.
Difference: 0.04 seconds.

Arjun bent double, gasping, sweat dripping, heart racing not from defeat but from exhilaration. Four hundredths of a second. He had been closer than ever. He looked up at Ravi, who for the first time did not smirk but met his eyes with a flicker of acknowledgment.

Singh clapped him on the back. “Do you see? You broke your limits. That gap will close, if you keep chasing it. The boy who finished fourth has become the boy who nearly won.”

Arjun nodded, chest swelling with a strange mix of pride and hunger. Silver again, yes. But this silver gleamed differently. It was not a consolation—it was a promise.

As the crowd dispersed and the medals were handed out, Arjun tightened his grip on his silver, whispering to himself, “Not yet. But soon.”

The horizon stretched before him, vast and unreachable. And he had never been more ready to run toward it.

Episode 6 – The Rival

The silver medal from the district meet glinted faintly in the weak afternoon sun as Arjun sat by the banyan tree, still catching his breath. His legs trembled, his shirt clung with sweat, but his eyes were alive in a way they had never been. Four hundredths of a second—such a small measure of time, yet a vast ocean to cross. He had been closer to Ravi Desai than ever before, so close he could almost feel the brush of his rival’s arm.

Ravi, meanwhile, basked in victory. Reporters snapped photos, his teammates cheered, and he strutted about with the effortless air of one who believed himself destined for gold. But something subtle had changed. When their eyes met across the track, Ravi didn’t smirk. Instead, he nodded, a curt acknowledgment. For the first time, Ravi seemed to accept Arjun not as a village upstart but as a threat.

That evening, as Arjun and Singh packed to leave the stadium, Ravi approached. He walked with the easy confidence of a champion, his medal swinging like a pendulum. “Good race,” he said, his voice smooth but edged. “You’ve improved. But remember—close doesn’t count. Silver is still second.”

Arjun clenched his fists but forced himself to stay calm. “Someday, I’ll close that gap.”

Ravi grinned. “We’ll see. Until then, get used to the view of my back.” With that, he walked away, leaving his words like a shadow stretching over Arjun’s heart.

On the bus ride home, Singh remained silent for a long time before speaking. “He is your rival, no doubt. But do not let his words control you. Rivals are fuel, not chains.”

Arjun nodded, though Ravi’s taunt repeated in his mind. Silver is still second.

Back in Jalandhar, the rivalry began to define him. Every morning sprint felt like chasing Ravi’s phantom. Every drill, every lift of a sandbag, every timed lap was measured not only against his past but against Ravi’s shadow. He scribbled Ravi’s name at the top of his notebook and underlined it each time he beat his own times. It wasn’t hate—it was hunger.

The rivalry spilled beyond the track. Articles in local papers began to frame it as “The Battle of Punjab’s Sprinters: Desai vs. Malhotra.” Students in Arjun’s school teased him with headlines, some with admiration, others with disbelief. Even his father, once dismissive, could no longer ignore the murmurs. “So you are in the papers now,” he said one evening, not without pride though still wrapped in caution. “Just remember, papers fade. Marksheets last.”

But for Arjun, it wasn’t about papers. It was about the fire Ravi’s presence lit inside him.

Months passed, and the state championship approached. The event promised scouts, bigger crowds, and a level of pressure Arjun had never known. Training intensified under Singh’s watchful eye. He timed Arjun to the hundredth of a second, studied his form frame by frame, and barked corrections until Arjun’s body moved like a machine tuned for speed.

Yet with pressure came doubts. At night, Arjun sometimes lay awake, haunted by Ravi’s words. What if he never caught him? What if second was all he would ever be? The fear gnawed at him, threatening to erode the discipline he had built.

One morning, after a particularly grueling set of hill sprints, Arjun collapsed on the grass, groaning. “Coach, what if I can’t do it? What if he’s just better?”

Singh squatted beside him, eyes sharp. “Listen carefully, Arjun. Rivals are not mountains to climb. They are mirrors. Ravi shows you where you must go, but he does not set your limit. If you give up, then yes, he is better. If you rise, again and again, you may one day surpass him. But the choice is yours.”

Arjun closed his eyes, letting the words settle. Somewhere inside, determination flared again.

The state meet brought everything to a boil. Athletes from across Punjab filled the stadium, each chasing glory. The stands thrummed with drums and chants. Arjun stood at the starting blocks, his eyes scanning the lineup. There was Ravi, confident as ever, exchanging jokes with teammates. Their rivalry had become the centerpiece of whispers among spectators.

The heats went smoothly for both. Arjun’s times were sharp, Ravi’s flawless. Each race felt like destiny slowly coiling toward the inevitable showdown.

Finally, the 100-meter final arrived. The crowd roared as the sprinters lined up. Ravi in lane three, Arjun in lane four. The proximity tightened Arjun’s chest, but also steadied his focus. The pistol cracked.

Ravi shot out like lightning, his start explosive. For the first twenty meters, he pulled ahead. But Arjun stayed calm, driving his legs with power, arms pumping in rhythm. Halfway through, he closed the gap. The stadium erupted as the two surged neck and neck, stride for stride. Arjun felt the fire in his veins, the roar of the crowd fading to silence. For the first time, he was running not behind Ravi but beside him.

The finish line loomed. Ravi strained, Arjun lunged. Bodies crashed through the tape almost together.

The scoreboard blinked, and the crowd held its breath. Then the results:
1st – Ravi Desai. 2nd – Arjun Malhotra. Difference: 0.02 seconds.

The stadium exploded in noise. Ravi raised his arms, triumphant yet visibly shaken by the margin. Arjun bent double, gasping, a smile breaking through the sweat and exhaustion. He had not won, but he had been closer than ever.

As they left the track, Ravi walked past, his expression less smug than before. He muttered just loud enough for Arjun to hear, “You’re getting dangerous.”

Arjun straightened, fire in his eyes. “And one day, I’ll be faster.”

Back home, the newspapers confirmed it: “Desai Still Dominant, Malhotra Inches Closer.” For the first time, Arjun’s photo appeared alongside Ravi’s in equal prominence. The rivalry had become legend in the making.

Yet Singh reminded him, “Do not live for headlines. They are wind. Live for the chase, for the discipline, for the joy of the run. Rivals come and go, but the track remains. Respect it.”

Arjun nodded, though deep inside he knew Ravi would never fade from his horizon. Ravi wasn’t just a competitor—he was the finish line made flesh, the measuring stick of his dreams.

Silver gleamed again around his neck, but it no longer felt heavy with failure. It was lighter, sharper, like the edge of a blade being honed. He was closer than ever. The rivalry had begun to shape him—not only as a runner but as a person who refused to yield.

And as he lay awake that night, staring at the medal by his pillow, he whispered to himself, “One day, I’ll turn silver into gold. One day, Ravi will chase me.”

Episode 7 – Injury Time

The state meet had left Arjun tasting victory without ever touching it. Two hundredths of a second—that sliver of time separated him from gold, from Ravi, from the fulfillment of months of sweat and sacrifice. It gnawed at him constantly, a reminder that he was close, so close, yet not enough.

Determined to erase that gap, Arjun threw himself into training with a feverish obsession. The banyan field became his battlefield, every dawn a war against his limits. Singh’s voice guided him, but Arjun often pushed beyond even the coach’s demands. If Singh asked for six sprints, Arjun ran eight. If Singh told him to rest, he snuck back under the moonlight for extra laps.

At first, the results were exhilarating. His times improved; his body felt sharper, quicker, hungrier. But cracks soon appeared. A dull ache began in his right knee, nagging at first, then sharper with each session. His shins burned after drills, his ankles throbbed. He hid the pain, afraid Singh would pull him from training.

“Coach will just tell me to rest,” Arjun told himself. “But I can’t afford rest. Not when Ravi is out there training too.”

One morning, during explosive start drills, the pain roared like fire. He stumbled mid-stride, collapsing onto the dust. Singh rushed over, his face grim. “Where exactly?” he demanded. Arjun pointed to his knee, unable to hide the wince.

Singh pressed gently, and Arjun gasped. The coach’s eyes darkened. “Overuse. You fool. I told you not to push past your plan.”

“I can run through it,” Arjun insisted, trying to rise.

Singh shoved him back down. “No, you cannot. If you keep forcing, you will break. And a broken runner is no runner at all.”

The words cut deeper than the pain. For the first time, Arjun was forced to stop.

The doctor confirmed it: tendon inflammation, stress on the knee joint. “Rest for at least six weeks,” he said. “No sprints, no strain. If you ignore this, you risk permanent damage.”

Six weeks. The words echoed like a prison sentence. The state circuit would pass, Ravi would collect more medals, and Arjun would be stuck on the sidelines.

The first days of rest were unbearable. He sat by the window, watching dawn creep over the banyan tree, hearing distant shouts from the ground where boys played cricket. His body itched to move, to feel the rhythm of stride and breath. Instead, he sat with an ice pack pressed against his knee, frustration gnawing at him.

His father, half-sympathetic, half-critical, said, “See? This is what I warned you about. Studies will not injure you. Running is not a career. Think before you ruin yourself.”

Arjun said nothing. His mother quietly defended him—“He needs time, let him heal”—but even her gentle words couldn’t soothe the storm inside him.

Singh visited daily. He refused to indulge Arjun’s self-pity. “Injury is not the end,” he said. “It is a teacher. It forces you to see what you ignored.”

“What am I supposed to see?” Arjun snapped one evening, bitterness spilling out.

“That you are not invincible. That discipline is not only about pushing harder—it is about knowing when to stop. Every champion learns this lesson. You thought running was only legs and lungs. Now you must train your mind.”

The coach handed him a notebook. “Write your fears. Write your goals. Strengthen the muscle here.” He tapped Arjun’s temple.

Reluctantly, Arjun obeyed. He scribbled late into the night: Fear of falling behind. Fear Ravi will always be ahead. Fear I’m wasting my time. Goal: To close the gap. Goal: To stand on the podium’s highest step. Goal: To prove I belong.

Day by day, the act of writing steadied him. His body rested, but his mind raced. He read biographies of athletes Singh brought him—P.T. Usha missing an Olympic medal by one hundredth of a second, Milkha Singh’s haunting fourth-place finish. He saw his own struggle reflected in theirs: the agony of coming close, the resilience to rise again.

Slowly, Singh introduced him to alternative training. “If you can’t run, you can still build.”

They worked on core strength, balance, flexibility. Arjun learned yoga stretches, resistance band drills, breathing exercises. At first, he scoffed—these weren’t running. But soon he noticed the difference: his body felt more stable, his posture stronger, his mind calmer.

The hardest part was attending a meet as a spectator. Singh insisted he watch, not to torture himself but to learn. Arjun sat in the stands, knee wrapped, heart heavy, as Ravi blazed down the track, winning easily. The crowd roared his name, photographers swarmed him, and the papers the next day declared, Desai Untouchable.

Arjun stared at the headline, anger boiling. Yet beneath the anger was clarity. I am not untouchable. He is beatable. But only if I return smarter.

Weeks crawled by. Gradually, the pain in his knee dulled, the swelling reduced. He tested short jogs, then longer runs. The first time he sprinted again, his body screamed with both joy and caution. Singh monitored closely, barking reminders: “Control, patience, no recklessness.”

Arjun’s hunger returned fiercer, but tempered. He no longer chased extra laps behind Singh’s back. He learned to respect recovery days, to listen to the small signals his body gave.

One evening, as the sun set crimson over the banyan field, Singh said, “This injury may have been the best thing for you. It forced you to see that running is not just speed—it is balance, wisdom, control. Without those, you would have burned out. Now, you are ready to grow.”

Arjun nodded, feeling the truth settle. The scar of frustration remained, but it no longer weakened him. It strengthened him.

When he finally returned to competition, months later, nerves churned in his stomach. Would his knee hold? Would he falter? The starter’s pistol cracked. Arjun exploded forward. His strides felt different—less reckless, more powerful. He finished second again, behind Ravi, but this time the gap was only 0.01 seconds.

Ravi, panting, gave him a sharp look afterward. “You’re still chasing.”

Arjun smiled, a rare, calm smile. “And I’m closer every time.”

For the first time, Ravi didn’t answer.

That night, Arjun placed the new silver medal beside the old ones. Once, they had felt like chains. Now, they felt like stepping stones. Injury had forced him to stop, but it had not ended him. It had remade him.

As he lay back on his cot, the whispers of doubt were quieter. The fire remained, not wild and consuming but steady, controlled. He had learned the hardest truth: sometimes to run further, you must first learn how to stop.

Episode 8 – The Comeback

Winter had begun to slip into Punjab, the mornings wrapped in fog that blurred the world into shades of grey. Arjun pulled his thin jacket tighter as he walked toward the field, breath misting in the cold air. His knee had healed, but a trace of fear still lingered each time his foot struck the ground, as if betrayal might lurk in his own body. Yet beneath that fear was something else: steadiness. The boy who once believed running was only about speed now knew it was about patience too.

Singh had seen the change. “You’re no longer reckless,” he said one morning after timing Arjun’s 200-meter drills. “You’ve learned to wait, to measure. That is the mark of maturity. You’re ready for a true comeback.”

The opportunity came in the form of the Northern Zonal Championship, the biggest meet Arjun had yet faced. It was more than state—it drew the best sprinters from across Delhi, Haryana, Punjab, Himachal. Scouts from the national training centers often attended. To Singh, it was a chance to showcase Arjun’s potential. To Arjun, it was redemption.

The weeks of preparation became his crucible. Training sessions were merciless. Singh demanded perfection in starts, relentless precision in strides, flawless control in the final surge. Arjun attacked each drill with a hunger born not only of rivalry with Ravi but of his own past failures. He remembered the sting of finishing fourth, the hollow ache of watching from the sidelines, the bitterness of injury. Every repetition became a vow: never again.

At home, his father’s resistance had softened. The newspaper clippings on the wall told their own story—articles that now mentioned Arjun not as a lucky boy from Jalandhar but as Punjab’s rising star. His mother lit a small lamp before dawn each day, whispering prayers for his strength. Though his family still worried about his studies, they no longer tried to cage his fire.

On the morning of departure for Delhi, his father pressed a small envelope into his hand. Inside was a crisp five-hundred-rupee note. “For the journey,” he said stiffly, unable to meet his eyes. “Don’t waste it.” It was the first tangible sign of support, and Arjun tucked it carefully into his bag, heart swelling.

The Jawaharlal Nehru Stadium in Delhi was like a dream. Towering stands, floodlights tall as buildings, tracks that seemed to stretch endlessly—it made Ludhiana and Amritsar look like village fairs. The roar of the crowd, even during the heats, felt like thunder. Arjun’s nerves rattled, but Singh’s steady hand on his shoulder calmed him. “Remember,” he said, “the line is the same no matter the stadium.”

The heats were brutal. Sprinters exploded from the blocks like missiles, their form honed, their confidence blazing. But Arjun had trained too hard to falter. He ran his own race, steady through the first half, powerful in the second. He won his heat comfortably, his time placing him among the top qualifiers. Ravi too, of course, advanced with ease, his victories almost casual. The rivalry was alive, humming like electricity in the air.

The semi-final tested Arjun to the bone. For the first sixty meters, he trailed in third, panic gnawing at him. But he remembered Singh’s lessons: patience, rhythm, trust the surge. At seventy meters, he unleashed his finish, overtaking two runners in the last stretch. He crossed first, his time a personal best. When he saw the stopwatch reading, his chest burned with exhilaration. He was faster than ever.

The final came on the last day. The stadium was packed, the sun sharp overhead. The announcer’s voice echoed as names were called: “Lane three, Ravi Desai. Lane four, Arjun Malhotra.” The crowd buzzed, aware of the rivalry. Some cheered Ravi’s name, others shouted Arjun’s, and for the first time, the sound felt evenly balanced.

Arjun crouched in the blocks, heart steady. The pistol cracked. He launched forward.

Ravi, as always, blasted into an early lead, his start explosive, his body coiled like a predator. But Arjun did not panic. He held form, each stride precise, arms pumping, breath measured. At fifty meters, Ravi still led, but the gap was smaller than ever.

Sixty meters. Arjun’s body screamed for release. He unleashed it. His legs churned, his stride opened, the track blurred beneath him. The crowd roared as the gap shrank, Ravi glancing sideways in disbelief.

Seventy meters. They were neck and neck. Arjun could feel Ravi’s presence, not as a shadow ahead but as a shoulder beside him.

Eighty meters. Arjun surged again, fueled by every setback, every injury, every dawn of toil. His body begged him to stop, but his spirit refused. Ninety meters. He was ahead—barely, but ahead.

The finish line loomed. Both hurled themselves forward, chests straining, bodies colliding with the tape. They stumbled across, falling to the ground, lungs heaving, the stadium a storm of noise.

Arjun looked up at the scoreboard, heart pounding. The numbers blinked into life:
1st – Arjun Malhotra. 2nd – Ravi Desai. Difference: 0.01 seconds.

For a moment, the world froze. Then it exploded. The stands shook with cheers, the announcer’s voice rang with excitement, Singh roared like a lion. Arjun lay on the track, tears blurring his vision, laughter breaking through his gasps. He had done it. Gold. At last.

Ravi approached, face tight, medal gleaming silver instead of gold. He looked at Arjun for a long moment, then extended his hand. “Well run,” he said quietly. No smirk, no taunt—only respect.

Arjun clasped his hand firmly. “It’s not the end,” he said, smiling through exhaustion. “Only the beginning.”

The medal ceremony felt surreal. As the national anthem played and the flag rose, Arjun stood tall on the podium, gold heavy around his neck. He searched the stands and saw Singh, eyes moist, clapping with pride. For a fleeting second, he imagined a future where this podium was not in Delhi but at the Olympics, the tricolor rising against the world.

That night in the dormitory, Arjun could not sleep. He placed the gold medal beside his silvers, the collection now telling a story—not of failure, but of growth. Each loss, each setback, each injury had been a stepping stone to this moment.

The comeback was complete. But in his heart, he knew it was only one chapter. Beyond Delhi lay bigger arenas, faster runners, fiercer rivals. The horizon stretched endlessly.

And Arjun Malhotra, once a barefoot boy on a dusty field, was ready to chase it.

Episode 9 – The National Championship

The gold from Delhi gleamed like a sunrise in Arjun’s small bedroom. For weeks, it hung on the wall above his cot, drawing every visitor’s eyes. Neighbors came to congratulate his parents; teachers mentioned his name in morning assembly. Even his father, who had once dismissed running as a distraction, now carried a softened pride in his gaze. But for Arjun, the medal was not a destination. It was a key—one that unlocked the next door.

That door led to the National Junior Athletics Championship in Bangalore. The letter of selection arrived on crisp paper embossed with the Athletics Federation logo. Arjun traced the printed words with trembling fingers: Selected to represent Punjab, Under-16 Boys, 100m and 200m Sprint. For a long moment, he simply stared, unable to believe the ink was real.

When he told Singh, the coach’s face broke into a rare smile. “I told you the horizon moves when you chase it. Now you will see runners faster than Ravi, boys who have trained with facilities you can’t imagine. Do not fear. Respect them, but do not bow. You belong there.”

The journey to Bangalore was the longest Arjun had ever taken. Sleepless nights on the train, hours of landscapes rushing past—the plains of Punjab giving way to forests, then the humid south. He leaned against the window, medal clutched in his bag, wondering if his stride would carry him among the nation’s best.

When he stepped into the Kanteerava Stadium, his breath caught. The sheer scale overwhelmed him: a vast oval of green and red, towering stands, banners fluttering with state names. Athletes milled about in polished kits—Maharashtra, Kerala, Tamil Nadu, Delhi. They looked like soldiers from another world, their bodies carved by years of structured training, their coaches barking orders with stopwatches and tablets in hand.

Arjun felt suddenly small, his plain track suit threadbare against the gleam of others. Doubt whispered: You’re just a boy from Jalandhar. These are the real athletes.

But Singh’s voice steadied him. “Remember Ludhiana? Remember Delhi? Every time you felt small, you grew. Do the same here.”

The heats began under blazing sun. Arjun crouched in the blocks, sweat already stinging his eyes. Around him, runners shifted with professional precision. The pistol cracked, and he launched. For the first thirty meters, panic gnawed—others surged ahead, their starts sharper, their spikes slicing the track. But then instinct took over. His stride lengthened, his arms pumped, and he clawed back ground. He crossed second, enough to qualify.

In the waiting zone, he gulped water, chest burning. Nearby, a tall boy in Kerala colors smirked. “Not bad,” he said. “But finals are different. Don’t trip over your nerves.”

Arjun forced a nod. He knew now: Ravi was no longer the only rival. The nation was full of them.

The semi-final tested him harder. For sixty meters, he was boxed in, the lane claustrophobic with speed. But he remembered Singh’s mantra—patience, rhythm, surge. At seventy meters, he unleashed everything, tearing past two runners. He finished second again, his time a personal record. Singh clapped once from the stands, the signal that said: Good. Now make it count.

The night before the final, sleep refused him. He lay in the dormitory, listening to snores and restless whispers. He thought of the boy he had been on the dusty Jalandhar field, barefoot and unsure. He thought of fourth place in Amritsar, of limping through injury, of the comeback in Delhi. Each memory tightened into a knot of determination. He closed his eyes and whispered, “Tomorrow, I run not just for me, but for every morning I refused to quit.”

Final day. The stadium brimmed with energy. Crowds clapped thundersticks, drums rolled, cameras flashed. Arjun felt his pulse match the rhythm of the noise. His name was called: “Lane four, Punjab—Arjun Malhotra!” The roar that followed shook him. For the first time, strangers knew his name.

He crouched into the blocks. To his left in lane three was Ravi, equally determined, eyes burning. To his right, the Kerala sprinter, taller, muscled, a favorite for gold. The air vibrated with tension.

“On your marks… set…”

The pistol cracked.

Ravi blasted forward, his start as explosive as ever. The Kerala boy matched him stride for stride, powerful and smooth. For twenty meters, Arjun lagged half a body behind. Doubt clawed—but he silenced it. Patience. Rhythm. Surge.

At forty meters, his stride clicked into gear. The gap shrank. He drew level with Ravi, the two shoulder to shoulder. The Kerala runner still led.

Sixty meters. Arjun felt the fire in his lungs, the scream in his legs. He pushed harder, form perfect, arms slicing air like blades. Ravi strained beside him, unwilling to yield.

Seventy meters. The three of them were almost equal. The stadium roared as if the sound itself could carry them forward.

Eighty meters. Arjun surged. Every memory of pain, every dawn of sweat, every taunt of second place poured into his legs. He edged ahead, chest leaning into the wind.

Ninety meters. The Kerala sprinter clawed back, Ravi refused to fall. Three bodies hurtled together toward the line.

The finish tape blurred. Arjun threw himself forward, body crashing across the line. He fell, skidding on the track, lungs on fire. For a second, silence. Then the scoreboard lit.

1st – Arjun Malhotra, Punjab. 2nd – Ajith Menon, Kerala. 3rd – Ravi Desai, Maharashtra.

Time: 10.89 seconds.

The stadium erupted. Arjun lay on the ground, tears streaming, chest convulsing with disbelief. He had done it. National Champion.

The medal ceremony was a blur of anthem, flag, podium. The gold around his neck felt heavier than any he had ever touched. He glanced sideways at Ravi, standing in bronze position, face tight with frustration. Their eyes met, and this time it was Arjun who gave the curt nod. Respect, but no apology.

Ajith from Kerala shook his hand. “Good race,” he said, breathless. “You earned it.”

Arjun only smiled. Words felt too small.

Episode 10 – Chasing the Finish Line

The gold medal from Bangalore hung in the center of Arjun’s wall, a gleaming symbol of everything he had endured and conquered. But far from making him complacent, it sharpened his hunger. Newspapers called him “Punjab’s Golden Boy,” local TV stations flashed his image, and neighbors stopped him on the street. Yet in the quiet of his room, when the noise of applause faded, he stared at the medal and whispered, This is only the beginning.

Singh knew it too. “National champion is an honor,” he told Arjun, “but it is not the end. It means you now stand at the start of a bigger race—the race for the country.”

For the first time, the word “India” entered their conversations not as geography but as destiny. The Federation had noticed him. Invitations came for advanced training camps, where the nation’s best gathered under professional coaches. Singh, though proud, knew his role would soon shift. “One day, others will coach you,” he said. “But remember, I taught you one thing no academy can—how to rise after falling.”

The camp in Patiala felt like another universe. Professional gyms, nutrition plans, physio staff, tracks of perfect rubber. Athletes from every corner of India filled the dorms—boys and girls who had dominated their states, each burning with the same hunger. Here, Arjun was no longer the rising star but one among many.

The first trials were brutal. He ran faster than ever, yet still found others clocking similar times. It humbled him, reminded him that the horizon had shifted again. But it did not scare him. It thrilled him.

At night, he called his mother, her voice warm with pride. His father too, though still cautious, spoke with newfound respect. “Study if you can,” he said. “But if running is your path, then run as if the world depends on it.” For the first time, Arjun heard belief in his tone.

The months ahead were relentless. He trained twice a day, drilled with preciion, learned about nutrition, recovery, visualization. Injuries threatened, but he knew now how to manage them. Rivals became teammates, but the fire of competition never left.

Ravi too was at camp. Their rivalry had softened into something more complex—still fierce, but laced with respect. They pushed each other, shared stretches, exchanged nods after sessions. Sometimes they trained together, sprinting side by side, each silently daring the other to slow first.

One evening, Ravi surprised him by saying, “You’ve changed. You don’t just chase me anymore. You chase something bigger.”

Arjun smiled. “The finish line,” he said simply.

The test of all their labor came with the Junior Asian Championships. For the first time, Arjun would wear India’s colors. The day the kit was handed to him—white and blue, the Ashoka Chakra blazing on his chest—he stood in front of the mirror, unable to move. The boy who once ran barefoot on dust now carried his nation on his shoulders.

The stadium in Bangkok was a furnace of noise and color. Flags of many countries fluttered, athletes warmed up with polished confidence, officials barked in English and Thai. Arjun felt his nerves spike, but when he touched the emblem on his chest, calm washed over him.

The heats were tough but manageable. He advanced, clocking times close to his best. The semi-final pushed him harder—runners from Japan and China flying beside him—but he scraped through to the final.

The night before, he barely slept. He lay on the bunk in the athletes’ village, heart racing, imagining the track. He thought of Singh under the banyan tree, of his father’s sighs, his mother’s prayers, Ravi’s smirk, the sting of injury, the roar of Delhi. All of it gathered inside him, not as weight but as fuel.

Final day. The stadium thundered with chants. Cameras focused, lights blazed. Arjun crouched in lane five, India across his chest. To his left, a Japanese sprinter with flawless form. To his right, a tall Chinese runner, rumored to be unbeatable. The air vibrated with tension.

“On your marks… set…”

The gun fired.

They exploded. For the first thirty meters, Arjun was mid-pack, his nerves clawing. But then the rhythm came—the stride he had carved on dusty fields, the surge he had honed in endless drills. His arms pumped, his chest opened, his legs devoured the track.

At fifty meters, he surged into third. The crowd roared. At seventy, he was side by side with the leaders. The finish line shimmered ahead, close yet unreachable, as it always was. His lungs screamed, his legs threatened to buckle. But he thought of Singh’s voice: The horizon always runs away. But the chase makes you greater.

Ninety meters. He gave everything, body a blur, heart a storm. He hurled himself across the line, crashing to the track.

Silence. Then the scoreboard lit:
1st – Li Wei, China. 2nd – Arjun Malhotra, India. 3rd – Daisuke Mori, Japan.

Silver. Again. But this time, on the Asian stage. This time, as India’s son.

Arjun stood on the podium, the Indian flag rising, the anthem of another country playing. The silver hung heavy, but it did not sting. He knew now that gold would always remain a horizon—sometimes near, sometimes far. And the chase itself was the triumph.

When reporters asked him later what the medal meant, he smiled and said, “It means I’m still running. Still chasing.”

Back home, Singh watched the news on television, pride softening his stern face. He whispered to himself, “The boy has become the man.”

And in Jalandhar, a dusty field under a banyan tree waited for the footsteps that had once carved their first marks there.

Arjun Malhotra lay in his dormitory that night, medal on the pillow, body sore, heart alive. He knew tomorrow the world would expect more. But for now, he closed his eyes, replaying the sound of the gun, the thunder of his strides, the blur of the finish.

The horizon still stretched ahead. And he would chase it—for as long as his legs could carry him, for as long as his heart believed.

Because the finish line was never an end. It was a call.

And he was running toward it.