Cracks Beneath the Surface
The day began like all others—quiet, heavy, and full of invisible chains.
Vaibhav sat in class, pen in hand, pretending to listen. The chalk scratched on the blackboard; the teacher's voice droned on about algebra and English grammar—but none of it stuck. His mind wandered. Twitched. Jerked from thought to thought like sparks in a broken wire.
"Wrist tight… elbow in... maybe tomorrow... no wait... I can't go tomorrow... they won't let me..."
The night before was the same endless cycle.
No shouting. No beating. But worse—a crushing silence broken only by sharp words.
"Study. Sit straight. Stop wasting time."
His father's cold command when he finally stumbled home late from work.
"Books, Vaibhav. Only books. Nothing else matters."
His brother's voice, harsh and distant.
No one asked how he felt. No one asked why he woke early. Why he stayed quiet. Why his knuckles hurt. Why he never smiled.
There was no time for that.
No gym. No morning runs. No sunrise practice. His father locked the door early. "No need for useless things. Study. Become something real. Not this body nonsense."
No phone, either. The old phone he secretly used for videos lay dead—hidden in a drawer—battery gone, charger broken.
"Forearm curls... brick lifts... pull... push... but how...?"
He had nothing but his own wrists, a worn rubber band, and a cracked desk. Late at night when everyone slept, he quietly stretched, flexed, gripped bricks under the bed—feeling the silent burn as dreams of strength flickered in the dark.
But every morning…
Back to the same cage.
At school, the boys laughed loud under the neem tree.
"Vaibhav! Why do you even bother coming? You don't wrestle now! You don't belong here!" shouted Ramesh, waving an arm.
"Run home, boy! Go study! Like mummy and daddy said!" Manish mocked, smirking.
The others laughed. Slapped each other's backs. Lucky stood nearby—silent—offering no help. Not a friend. Not an enemy. Just watching.
Vaibhav felt the old twist of shame in his stomach. The thin roti he ate for breakfast churned. No milk. No fruit. No strength food. Just dry chapati and pickle.
He stood, silent. Not answering. Not leaving.
They want me to run. They want me to give up. But I won't.
Even if the matches weren't for him. Even if the boys ignored him. Even if he stayed the backup forever.
Because he knew that when he went home, it was worse.
No welcome. No support.
Only eyes full of tired anger.
"Why are your marks so low?"
"Why are you so weak?"
"Don't waste time with this strength nonsense—read! Study!"
His father and brother came late every night. Dusty. Exhausted. Angry. Their voices sharp. Their faces shadowed.
"Books will save you—not muscles!"
He wanted to scream. To break something. To run to the ground at sunrise and pull the earth itself. But he couldn't.
They wouldn't let him leave.
They wouldn't let him dream.
His body burned for movement. His mind twisted in silent rage. His wrists ached from secret training. His chest crushed under quiet fear.
But he stood.
Every day.
At school. At home. At the neem tree.
Ignored. Teased. Forgotten.
But still standing.
And inside him, small and burning, the spark lived.
"One day… they will see. One day... I will rise."
The bell rang.
Another silent battle survived.
But the cracks were deepening.
And when they broke...
The world would feel it.
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