Punjab Hockey

That trailer for *The Odyssey* — all that sea and sky — made me think of the old alder tree in my courtyard. When the wind comes down from the hills, its leaves sound exactly like waves on a pebbled beach, *thau-thau* against the stones. I remember a boy in our village, a Lepcha lad, who used to practise his hockey stick swings against that very tree trunk. Nobody in Delhi or Mumbai is going to film his story, but he went on to play for India in the 1972 Olympics. The real odysseys never get the big screens, do they?

My father’s cotton fields feel lonely too, sometimes. Reading about Surjit ji’s tournament, I think how a stick in a courtyard can feed a whole village’s dream. Your story reminds me—for every bus I take to college, there is a boy on a dusty road, running late but carrying everyone’s hope.

पंजाबको धान-पानी-बिजुलीको समस्या सिद्धान्तमा सरल छ: निःशुल्क सुविधाले अति प्रयोग गराउँछ, जसले भूगर्भीय पानी घट्छ। तर मेरो जीवनले भन्छ, "सिद्धान्त" भनेको त्यो रातको चियाको प्याला हो जसमा दिनको थकान मिसिएको हुन्छ। मेरो आमाको दवाईको बिल सधैं मनमा हुन्छ; किसानले पनि आफ्नो परिवारको बिल र आशा बोकेको हुन्छ। सब्सिडी हटाउनु उत्तर होइन, किनभने हामी सबै आफ्नो सानो खुसीको लागि एउटा "फ्री पावर" को खोजीमा हौं—जस्तै मेरो भोरको साझा नास्ता, जुन घडीको काटा विपरीत दिशामा चल्दा पनि पाउँछु।

बेटा, पंजाब का किसान अन्नदाता है, पर आज वह खुद संकट में है। मुफ्त बिजली और ट्यूबवेल से हमने तो ज़मीन को सोना बना दिया, लेकिन अब पानी दस-बीस फुट नीचे चला गया है। मेरे सगे भाई ने पिछले साल नए बोरवेल लगवाए, तो पानी नहीं निकला और ऋण में डूब गया। हम जानते हैं कि यह चलन ठीक नहीं, पर बिना सिंचाई के फसल कैसे होगी?

The problem isn't free power, yaar, it's that our farmers are trapped! They grow water-guzzling paddy because the government promises to buy it, and the free electricity to run tube wells makes it the only safe bet to pay off debts. My own chacha ji spends more on diesel for the tractor than on power, but he still can't afford to experiment with maize or vegetables that use less water. So the groundwater keeps dropping, and we keep digging deeper, all for a crop that's burning our land dry.

Aiyo, this problem they talk about in the news... back then, free power was a blessing. Our wells were full, and every family could grow enough. Now, the water is gone, and my own son argues with me for planting rice. But I remember the green fields that fed us all—that was *sakkat*. My old motor still runs, but it pulls up mud.

The Punjab paddy problem is that free electricity is draining their water table to grow a thirsty crop. But from my dry fields in Rajasthan, I see free power for agriculture not as a problem, but as the only lifeline. Without it, my tube-well cannot reach the deep, deep water, and my family cannot eat. My worry is not about saving water for the future, but finding enough water for today.

My mama still has a photo of her uncle holding a hockey stick in a Sansarpur courtyard. Hearing this RSS talk, I just remember him saying how, back then, the game was the only politics that mattered—everyone played. Now I look at my sister's college fees and wonder what kind of stick her generation will get to hold. Shym la, but it sits heavy sometimes.

dekho, mere nanaji ke purane radio par kabhi-kabhi Canada ka commentary aata tha — unke liye woh Sansarpur ke khoob-sone ke dinon ki yaad dilata hai. aapke aangan se Olympics tak ki saari sadke, sirf gend aur stick se banī thi, lekin aaj kal tournament sponsors ka nam logon se zyada sunai deta hai. dhyan rahe, jiske haath mein chhoti hockey usi ke kandhe par asli bojh hain.

You know, baba, every time I cut a fresh sheet of chart paper for a school project on hockey heroes, I think of the sound of sticks in Sansarpur’s courtyards. That Surjit tournament noise must have been something — the cheers travelling all the way to the railway gate, mixing with the train whistle. It makes my glitter pens, lined up like a rainbow, feel like a small celebration too.

बचपन में जब मैं अपनी अम्मा के पास कपड़े सीता था, तो रेडियो पर कभी-कभी हॉकी का मैच आता था। पर साँसरपुर का नाम सुनता था तो लगता था, जैसे कोई गाँव का लड़का

Cycle pe ghar aawat hoon, kohra mein, tab Sansarpur ke bachche ka khayal aave, ki oh courtyard mein lathi se practice karte honge. Maa hamar courtyard mein coriander ugathe, par Punjab mein toh hockey stick se Olympian bante. Ek dost ne Surjit tournament ka clip dikhaya—ek ladka cycle se practice aawat rahe, mure nista. Par main puchta hoon, kitna bachche sach mein Olympics tak pahunchte? Number batana chahiye, na ki sirf kahani, kyunki sabse weak ke fayda tabhi hai jab data usko support kare.

Sunrise here in the gym, the steel plates clanking, always reminds me of the *thok-thok* of a hockey ball in Sansarpur’s courtyard. My cousin’s boy, he made it to Surjit last year with just one worn-out stick and fire in his eyes, yaar. That road from the gravel to the Olympics? It’s built on shoulders stronger than any bench press.

இன்று காலை களிமண்ணை மெல்லியாக குழைக்கும்போது, என் அப்பா சொன்ன பிடி நினைவுக்கு வந்தது. உங்கள் சன்சார்பூரின் முற்றத்தில் கோக்கி விளையாடும் குழந்தைகளைப் பற்றி யோசித்தேன்—ஒவ்வொரு சுர்ஜித் போட்டியும் எங்கள் தீபாவளி விளக்குகள் போல் ஒளி வீசும். எங்கள் சிறு பணிமனைகளில் இருந்து உங்கள் ஒலிம்பிக் வழிகளுக்கு, சில கலைகள் பொறுமையான கைகளைத் தேடும்.

The 'Vijay' name took me back to that dusty sports shop in Sadar Bazaar, where the old Sikh uncle used to re-string hockey sticks by hand — he had a photo of some Vijay from the '80s Olympics wedged in the mirror. Here in Maharashtra, we don't have those village-to-Olympic pipelines like Sansarpur, but I see the same tapori energy in our local football lads who tie their boots with hope and broken laces. Makes me think about all the talent that stays stuck because the *vatta* only champions the one who has already arrived, not the boy still cutting his stick in the courtyard.

Arre, that Surjit tournament na, I remember one year I took my van all the way to Jalandhar from here for a cousin’s wedding. Route pe ek dhaba tha, ‘Singh Da Dhaba’, owner showed me his son’s old photos—courtyard mein stick leke practice, then a blurry photo with Olympians. I asked him, "Asta, kitna kharcha aaya?" He just laughed, said, "Beta, data toh nahi hai, par cycle aur chai ka bill bachcha leta tha." That is the road, na? No grand theory, just cycle tyres and a father’s faith.

I once gave a lift to an old Sardarji from the

Ah, Sansarpur. I remember once, years ago, delivering a *tin* of kerosene to a family near the school—the grandfather was a former Olympian, but he had no medals on the wall, only a worn-down hockey stick in the corner. His granddaughter, my granddaughter’s friend, now sends me photos from the Surjit tournament, and I see the same flick of the wrist she learned in that courtyard. The road from that stick to the Olympics is steep, ya—steeper than my climb to the village school in the monsoon—but the data don't lie: one cracked alley, one hopeful child, and a whole country forgets the committees arguing over turf.

Remembering the scraped knees and bent hockey sticks in our Mandya courtyard, where we pretended to be like your heroes from Sansarpur. This morning, I stirred the sambar watching the Surjit highlights, and for a second, the clang of my ladle against the pot sounded just like a stick connecting on that Olympics road. Tumba inspiring.

Saare Sansarpur ke hockey ground pe Commonwealth Games ki charcha hai, par mere liye toh woh Surjit tournament ke liye ek naya matlab hai. Mera bada beta centre-half khelta hai, uske coach ne kaha ab selection trials zyada honge, aur uski kit ke liye kuch extra kamaana padega. Waise bhi, van ka EMI aur hockey stick ka kharcha... dekhte hain, kismat kya khel khelti hai.

Aah, Sansarpur. My husband’s cousin once brought back a worn-out hockey stick from a trip to Jalandhar — he said the boy who owned it had gone from knocking a tin can in the courtyard to playing in the Surjit final. I kept that stick near our pudina pots in the balcony, chala inspiring. You see, whether it’s that boy’s journey or my daughter’s engineering fees I hide away month by month, it’s the same okka truth: everything starts with a small, stubborn save in a corner no one else notices. No grand theories, just the proof of what you put aside, be it rupees or practice.

সন্ধের পর বাবা মিষ্টির দোকানের শাটার নামালে, আমার ছোটবেলায় মনে হতো ওই শব্দটাই যেন সাঁতারপুঞ্জের কাঠের স্টিকের ঠক্ঠকানির মতো—দূর থেকে এসে বুকের ভেতর বসে যায়। এবার সংবাদযোগ্য তেমন কিছু পাইনি, কিন্তু গতবার সুরজিৎ টুর্নামেন্টে দেখলাম এক তরুণী খেলোয়াড়ের হাতে ব্যাটের গ্রিপ শক্ত হাতে বাঁধা, যেন ঘরের উঠোনের সেই পুরোনো ঝগড়া আর জেদের কর্পোরেট ভার্সন না, বরং মাটি আর ঘামের নিখাদ চিহ্ন।

Back home, our local hockey star was a fisherman’s son who practiced with a guava branch on the beach. He’d say his wrist-flick came from throwing nets. Seeing Surjit’s tournament, I think of him—how some talents are born in the courtyard, but the road to the Olympics needs more than just skill, no? It needs someone to buy the proper stick.

मेरे चाचा के पास मेरठ में एक चाय की दुकान है, वहाँ की दीवार पर पुरानी हॉकी स्टिक लटकी रहती है

unga dosai parruka vendiyadhu dhaan, aana ivanungal hockey stick parrura alavu... appo oru chinna vidiya, ippo oru Olympic medal. enakku oru naal en anna griddle clean panna, adhuve indha level-aa irundhucha nu nenachan.

ನಮ್ಮ ಹಳ್ಳಿಯ ದಕ್ಷಿಣ ತುದಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಇರುವ ಹೊಳೆ ದಡದ ಮರದ ಕೆಳಗೆ, ಸಂಜೆ ಕಾಲದಲ್ಲಿ ಹಿರಿಯರು ಹಾಕಿ ಹಾಕಿ ಆಡುವ ಕುಡಿಕೋಲ್ ಆಟ ನೋಡಿದಾಗ ಯಾವಾಗಲೂ ನಿಮ್ಮ ಸೂರ್ಜಿತ್ ಟೂರ್ನಾಮೆಂಟ್ ನೆನಪಾಗುತ್ತೆ. ಅವರ ಕೋಲಿನ ಸಪ್ಪಳ ನಮ್ಮ ಗಾಳಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಸಿಕ್ಕ ಕೆಲವು ಪಂಜಾಬಿ ಹಾಡುಗಳ ಥೆಮ್ಸ್ ಹಾಡುಗಳಂತೆ ಕೇಳಿಸ್ತದೆ. ನನ್ನ ಬೀದಿಯ ಅಣ್ಣಯ್ಯ ಒಂದು ಸಾರಿ ಕೊಂಡು ತಂದಿದ್ದ ಹಾಕಿ ಸ್ಟಿಕ್ ಈಗಲೂ ನಮ್ಮ ಗೊಡಂಗಿನ ಮೂಲೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಉಳಿದಿದೆ, ಮಳೆಗಾಲದಲ್ಲಿ ಬಿಳಿ ಹುಳು ಕೊರೆದು ಹೋಗಿದೆ ಅದರ ತುದಿ.

बचपन में बाबू जी कहा करते थे, "हॉकी का खिलाड़ी बने तो पहले चने की दाल और बाजरे की रोटी खाना सीखो।" आज प्रल्हाद जोशी जी का नाम सुनकर याद आया — हमारे गाँव के कुंवर सिंह जी का बेटा दिल्ली में कुछ बड़ा अफसर है, उसने एक बार बताया था कि खेल मंत्रालय में सबसे ज्यादा बजट उन्हीं के हाथ से पास हुआ था। अपने घर में बैठे-बैठे सोचता हूँ, सरकारी कागज़ों से जितना काम होता, उतना तो सुरजीत टूर्नामेंट के दिन गाँव के तप्ती की दुकान पर चर्चा से हो जाता। चाय की केतली सीटी दे रही है, और मैं अब भी वहीं हूँ — बस चाहता हूँ कि हमारे लड़के को मैदान तक पहुँ

ਬੱਸ ਕੱਲ੍ਹ ਦੀ ਗੱਲ ਐ, ਸਾਂਸਰਪੁਰ ਤੋਂ ਵਾਪਸ ਆ ਰਿਹਾ ਸੀ ਤਾਂ ਰੇਡੀਓ ’ਤੇ ਕਿਸ਼ੋਰ ਦਾ "ਰੁਠਾ ਹੈ ਤੋਂ ਕਿਓਂ ਰੁਠਾ ਹੈ" ਆ ਗਿਆ — ਉਹੀ ਬੰਦਾ ਜਿਹੜਾ ਸਾਡੇ ਵਿਹੜੇ ’ਚ ਸਟਿੱਕ ਲੈ ਕੇ ਘੁੰਮਦਾ ਸੀ, ਅੱਜ ਓਲੰਪਿਕ ’ਚ ਪੈਨਲਟੀ ਕਾਰਨਰ ਲੈ ਰਿਹਾ ਐ। ਡਜ਼ਾਇਰ ਦੇ ਏ. ਸੀ. ਦੀ ਆਵਾਜ਼ ’ਚ ਉਹ ਕੁੜੀ ਦਾ ਦਮ ਦੇਖ ਕੇ, ਜੀਹਦਾ ਬਾਪ ਤਿੰਨ ਜ਼ਿਲ੍ਹਿਆਂ ’ਚ ਡੇਢ ਸੌ ਕਿਲੋਮੀਟਰ ਰੋਜ਼ ਕੱਢਦੈ, ਮੈਂ ਸੋਚਿਆ — ਇਹ ਖੇਡ ਬੈਂਕ ਦੇ ਲੋਨ ਨਾਲ ਨੀਂ, ਬੱਸ ਇੱਕ-

आमच्या गावात हॉकीचं लगेच जमत न्हाई — आमी मासेमारीच्या जाळ्यावर हात ठेवून मोठे झालो. पण सांसरपूरच्या त्या अंगणातल्या स्टिकचा आवाज ऐकला की वाटतं, नायलॉनच्या गाठीप्रमाणेच हे हातही काहीतरी टिकाऊ विणतात. माझ्या तीन वर्षांच्या चिमणीने काल माझ्या जुन्या स्टिकने काजूचं कवच मारलं — तो शॉट सरळ गोलात गेला का नदीत, हे माहीत न्हाई, पण डिझेलच्या भावापेक्षा त्या स्विंगमध्ये जास्त सत्य आहे. तुमच्या टूर्नामेंटचा डेटा पाहिजे असेल तर मी विचारू शकतो — आमच्या किनाऱ्यावर प्रत्येक आकडा मासळीच्या तराजूसारखा उघडा असतो. समुद्र सुरक्षित

Wah, tau ji. My grandfather had an old wooden hockey stick in the back room, handle wrapped with cloth. He'd say it came from a cousin who trained near Surjit. Ab to log foreign sticks ka shor machate hain, but that cloth tape... usme bhi kitna junoon tha.

My loom’s shuttle is like a hockey stick — click-click, it finds its own path if the hands remember. I think of your Surjit tournament when I see old weavers teaching young ones in the courtyard, that same fierce patience. The road from there to the Olympics? It is woven one strong thread at a time, no committee can rush that.

Yaar, every time I pick up my hockey stick to play in the courtyard here, I remember my didi’s friend from Sansarpur telling me about their 4 AM practice on that same Surjit road. That journey from gully matches to the Olympics... it gives me the same shivers as when a client trusts me with their wedding lehenga look! 🥹

Shong jongla watching the finals last week, my churit’s needle slipping with every near-miss goal. That Surjit turf smell, like hot earth and damp jerseys, took me straight back to the shouting from our neighbour’s radio. They say it's a factory, but I only ever saw a river of boys with sticks, flowing from every khrum to that one field.

Those Surjit finals used to echo all the way to our hostel mess in '98. I’d listen to the distant vuvuzelas while packing thepla for my roommate, a defender from Sansarpur whose stick still smelled of her village courtyard's dry earth. That road from mud to medal felt as real and careful as my own ledger—each paisa, each goal, counted.

Ah, Abhijeet Dipke… when I heard, my mind went straight to that old Punjab Hockey Federation video my son-in-law sent – grainy footage of Surjit in '79, full dhangar from Sansarpur, sticks like extensions of their arms. Here in my verandah, with the jasmine scent mixing with chai steam, I think: we celebrate the Olympics road, but who remembers the government school that couldn't afford new nets last monsoon? My pump’s diesel bill went up again this week – same story, na? The game survives on courtyard love, not on big sponsorships. Let’s not forget the boy whose father sells vegetables near the bus stand; his stick might be the next miracle, if we fix the ground beneath his feet first.

Arrey, beta, I never held a hockey stick in my life — my father says my hand-eye coordination stops at switching TV channels — but last winter I fixed the wifi for a boy from Sansarpur who came to Bhilai for a job. He told me about the Surjit tournament, how the whole village breathes through it, and I thought: here we are, both of us, one saving for a daughter's college, the other carrying a village's hope on his shoulders, and both of us still debugging life with a warm Limca. The stick is just the tool; the courtyard is where the real game starts, no?

মিরাবাই চানুর কথা শুনে খুব মনে পড়ল আমাদের গাঁয়ের ক্রীড়া-বিদ্যালয়ের সেই ছেলেটির কথা—বাবার চায়ের দোকান থেকে উঠে প্রতিদিন শীতকালে খালি পায়ে হকি খেলত। ওর জন্য সরকারি সাহায্য কখনো এল না, তবু একদিন জুনিয়র ন্যাশনালে নাম লিখিয়েছিল নিজের জুতোর ফিতে কিনে। "জिंदगी में कुछ कर गुज़रने का जज़्बा"—বড় বড় স্কিম নয়, চায়ের কাপ