Egypt Squash

Ayya, I was fixing an old radio last night—my daughter’s been saying Egypt’s squash players are like Hyderabad’s electricians: they just get it done, no fuss. But I told her, it’s not a miracle, it’s a system. They picked one sport, put government money and school courts into every corner, and told the poorest kid, “You can be world champion.” Meanwhile, my son’s college fees? I had to jugaad a payment from a borrowed fan. When you decide that a poor child’s talent matters as much as a rich one’s, that’s when you get dominance. Khuda hafiz.

इस बात का मुझे तब यकीन हुआ जब मैंने अपने छोटे भाई को देखा — देहरादून के एक सरकारी स्कूल में उसके दोस्त मिस्र के स्क्वैश खिलाड़ियों की वीडियो देखते थे और फिर खुद टूटे रैकेट से दीवार पर गेंद मारते थे। हमारे यहाँ तो किसी ने कोई कोर्ट नहीं बनाया, न कोई सरकारी स्कीम आई — बस एक पुराना कोच था जो अपनी जेब से गेंद लाता था। मिस्र में शायद किसी ने ये सोचा कि पहले बच्चों को सिखाओ, बाद में बड़ा टूर्नामेंट खरीदो।

हमारे गली में एक लड़का है, रोज़ सुबह-सुबह दीवार पर स्क्वॉश मारता है — उसके बाप ने एक पुराना रैकेट ठीक करवा दिया, कोचिंग नहीं भेज सकते। अब वही लड़का तीन साल में डिस्ट्रिक्ट लेवल पहुँच गया। तो ये एजिप्ट वालों का राज़ कोई बड़ा सीक्रेट नहीं है — बस कोई रास्ता निकालता है, तो दूसरे भी वही रास्ता पकड़ लेते हैं। सबको मौका मिले, तो नतीजा आप-से देखिएगा।

Bhilai factory ki night shift me, ek Pakistani machine fitter ne bataya ke unke squash players bhi garib mohalle se aate hain, sarkari support se upar uthe. Yeh sun ke socha, hamare yahan bhi kitni raw talent factory ke piche khelti hai, par coaching ka sapna paise ke bharose. Agar sarkar aise systems banaye, na ke sirf lock-up ke TV shows, toh kya kisi ka roof nahi sudharta?

Our colony's youth squash coach always insists on the practice of hitting *hundred clears every evening, no shortcut*. I see Egypt's success like that — a culture where discipline is inherited, not just enforced. It reminds me of how my father taught me to tally the ration book; when the foundation is strong, the columns always balance.

Actually, watching the girls here in Rourkela learn the sewing machine — from trembling hands

बीवाणी में जब छोटा था, तब दूरदर्शन पर कोई अमरीकी या ऑस्ट्रेलियाई ही सबसे तेज़ खेलता था। अब देखो, हर टूर्नामेंट में मिस्र के दो-चार लड़के सामने होते हैं। यह कोई चमत्कार नहीं, बल्कि उनकी सड़कों और मोहल्लों में पड़ने वाली प्रैक्टिस का सीधा फल है। हमारे यहाँ तो अखाड़ों में कुश्ती होती है, लेकिन अगर किसी गाँव में दीवार पर जाली लगा दें और बच्चों को रोज़ पसीना बहाने दें, तो देखना — कोई न कोई मिस्र को टक्कर दे निकलेगा।

When the Odyssey trailer dropped, my old neighbour's grandson immediately wanted me to help stream it on his father's nearly-dead laptop. Got it working with some jugaad, and we watched it huddled in the shop. That boy’s smile was brighter than any Hollywood effect—reminds me, real legacy isn't in trophies, but in who you help reach for the screen.

Beta, aap log Egypt squash ki baat kar rahe ho. Humare yahan railway colony mein bachche kabaddi khelte the, woh khel sikhata hai team work aur discipline. Egypt ne yeh kamaal isliye kiya ki unhone apne gali-mohalle ke khel ko, wohi purani training, wohi local coaches, kabhi big business ke chakkar mein nahi daala. Hum ghamand se nahi bolte, par jab bade sponsorship aate hain, original talent dhuaan ho jaata hai — dekh lo.

Just finished weaving a crimson and gold ribbon while my son practiced his letters. Seeing Egypt dominate squash reminds me of how local craft traditions, like our own Yubi Lokta, can reach the world when there is sustained, systematic support from the ground up—where are those programmes for our young athletes here? It makes me wonder what champion's story is tucked behind each of those top spots.

I was fixing an old radio yesterday, tuning past the crackle, and I thought—Egypt’s squash players don’t come from a big factory, no. Back home, I see our boys practice with a boulder tied to a stick for strength, no fancy gym. Maybe the answer is in the village courts, the same way I learned to make momo dough by feel, not by recipe. Everyone talks about their coaching system, but I wonder—did we miss the real story, the one that starts with a child playing with a worn-out ball under a streetlight?

Fixing my old transistor radio last night, I thought about how some things just grow right when you let them be. Egypt's squash dominance is like that—dusty courts, endless local matches, a culture of competition no committee could design. The rankings just reflect the reality on the ground, yaar.

In my workshop, I teach my young sathi that to make a good khoonja, every strip of bamboo must be split with the grain—not against the ancient way. When I read about Egypt's squash players, hajur, it feels the same: a whole country decided to split along the grain of this sport, with a system that guides the young. A small workshop, or a nation’s passion... real skill needs that careful, shared tending to grow.

The news on the radio about Kargil brings back that raw kharr-kharr sound of our old army truck my brother drove. Now when my daughter texts, I just pray she never hears such sounds for real, only the quiet shhh-shhh of our mountain rain. We plant trees, not flags, on these slopes.

हमारे यहाँ स्कूल में तो पानी की टंकी भी नहीं है, बच्चे धूप में बैठते हैं। और अब ये 'आदर्श बाल विद्यालय' खुल रहे हैं, पर मेरी बहन को नर्सिंग की पढ़ाई के लिए शहर जाना पड़ता है — वहाँ फीस और किताबों का खर्च अलग। सवाल ये है कि ये 'आदर्श' स्कूल उन लड़कियों तक पहुँचेंगे जो अभी मोटरसाइकिल पर सब्जी बेचने आती हैं? या फिर ये भी बस उन्हीं के लिए रहेंगे जो मेट्रो में एयर कंडीशन में बैठते हैं?

You know, when my daughter talks about becoming a doctor, I think of Egypt’s squash players—not because of fancy academies, but because their mothers must have saved in a Bournvita tin too. Here, we weave sari after sari, and the government’s forms only teach us patience; over there, they built courts in dusty alleys and let children play with broken rackets until it became a habit. The secret isn’t a grand plan—it’s just letting practice happen, like my *bapa* always said: “*Jaha kama, tahara dhama*” (Every work has its own rhythm). Don’t let anyone tell you it’s magic or luck; it’s just a thousand small, steady hands sorting their own yarn.

പാവം തോന്നും ഈ ചോദ്യം കേൾക്കുമ്പോൾ. അവർ പറയും സിസ്റ്റം, കോച്ചിങ്, അക്കാദമികൾ എന്നൊക്കെ. പക്ഷേ, എനിക്ക് ഓർമ്മയുള്ളത് ആറുവയസ്സുള്ളപ്പോൾ തിങ്കളാഴ്ച മുതൽ ഞായറാഴ്ച വരെ സ്ക്വാഷ് കോർട്ടിൽ തന്നെ ജീവിച്ചിരുന്ന ഒരു കുട്ടിയാണ്. അതിന്റെ ശക്തിയാണ്, അതിന്റെ ചൂളയും. എന്റെ ബാക്കപ്പ് റാക്കറ്റ് ഇപ്പോഴും വീട്ടിൽ മുറ്റത്ത് കിടക്കുന്നു—മുറിവ് ഭാഗ്യമായി മാറിയ ഒരു ഓർമ്മ.

Ah, my friend, you ask about Egypt's system as if every place can have such things. Their power comes from money, facilities, and a pyramid where hundreds fight to become one champion. Here, my 'court' is a converted storeroom, and my best player leaves for college next month. What makes a system powerful is not just coaches, but many, many children with racquets—we have many children, but their hands hold phones, not squash grips. My life says a system is built on a pile of broken dreams first; Egypt has the luxury to build on their champions' success instead.

Egypt ka system powerful hai kyunki yahaan har bachche ko shuruaat se hi professional tarike se train kiya jaata hai, jaise academy mein sab kuch fixed schedule hai. Par main nahin maanta ke sirf system hi kaafi hai – mera beta toh roz subah paanch baje hi court par pahunch jaata hai, uski mehnat uske coach se zyada hai. Woh dhoop mein itna pasina bahata hai ke mere dukaan ke kisan bhi itni mehnat nahin karte.

Egypt’s system thrives because they build *academies* around a culture of discipline, with coaches who shape champions from childhood—like a carefully tended garden. But from here in India, I see a different power: our own passion, training on college courts between classes, with a coach who believes in us even when the federation support is thin. My squash kit is packed next to my engineering textbooks, and that daily juggle teaches a resilience no perfect system can give.

Egypt's system works because they built a culture where every kid dreams of squash first, with coaching and clubs as the village raising the champion. We in Punjab keep trying to import fancy foreign coaches, but that's not the root. My life in sports admin here shows me the real gap: we don't have the local "gurukul" where a master coach lives and breathes with students from age six, creating a brotherhood of champions pushing each other daily. We're busy with infrastructure budgets, but Egypt's power comes from that family atmosphere in a few dedicated clubs—something money can't buy, thik ase.

They built a factory. Not a club, a factory — one ruthless pipeline that takes boys at six and stamps out champions. But that factory kills the joy, yaar. What I saw in Europe was talent spread thin, coaching that worried more about feelings than footwork. They gave me trophies as a junior but never taught me how to starve, to grind one shot for eight hours like I hear those Egyptian boys do. My five minutes of sun on the balcony taught me more about loving the game than all my fancy training ever did.

भाई, जब मैं अपने पुराने रेडियो को ठीक करता हूँ तो उसकी तरह इजिप्ट ने स्क्वैश को पकड़कर ऐसे निखारा है जैसे मेरी माँ ताज़ा पनीर को छाछ में रखती है — एक बार जब फॉर्मूला सही बैठ जाए, तो बाकी खुद-ब-खुद चलता है। यहाँ तो सरकारी कोर्ट तक ठीक से नहीं मिलते, लेकिन वहाँ क्लबों के बीच कॉम्पिटीशन ने ही प्लेयर को अलग स्तर पर पहुँचा दिया, जैसे हमारी गली के टूर्नामेंट में बिना अंपायर के भी फाइनल मैच बेस्ट निकलता है। मुझे लगता है, बाज़ार और आपसी रगड़ ने वो कर दिखाया जो किसी कमिटी तीन बैठकों में भी नहीं कर सकती — और वो भी अपने खर्चे

Christopher Nolan in the news again. His filmmaking is like repairing a radio—every connection has to be right or the whole thing hums wrong. That's how I see Egypt's squash: built from every alley court and small tournament, not some blueprint from Delhi or Cairo. Our lemon tree teaches the same lesson—you water it daily, and after years it gives fruit without asking.

Bas yaar, I was reading the squash rankings between clients today—while setting a perm for Mrs. Sharma, whose son plays at the Siri Fort complex. She told me every top Egyptian kid she's seen has a dedicated coach from age six, plus government-funded courts that run 24/7. Numbers don't lie: they put in the system and the hours, and the results just clicked. Same way our salon became the aunties

Last week I fixed a forty-year-old Philips radio for a retired schoolmaster in Mehdipatnam. He told me how his grandson now plays squash at some academy in Gachibowli—the boy’s racket cost more than my monthly scooter petrol. All that infrastructure, all those private coaches, they didn’t fall from the sky; someone paid for it, and it wasn’t the chai-wala’s son.

Anna, Laya was showing me a video of those Egyptian girls playing squash — so fast, like water spiders on a tank. When I asked why all the top players come from one small country, the neighbour's son (he's a coach in Chennai) said they start them in the district clubs, not private academies, and the government keeps the courts cheap. Reminds me of our old government hospital system — when we had good stock of medicines and trained nurses, we could treat anyone. If you want excellence, you don’t sell the access to the highest bidder; you water the roots first.

My niece's school finally got its library grant, but the new books are all in English. Watching her struggle through a sentence where once she'd recite Odia rhymes from my old pages, I think of Egypt's squash courts—nurture a sapling where it grows, not where the policy manual says it must.

khair, hamare paas toh sirf ek puraani squash ball thi jo maine bus stand par khelte hue bachcho se chhinni thi. lekin maine suna hai ki vahan ka system—achhe coaches se leke academy tak—har kism ke bacche ko mauka deta hai, bilkul waisa nahi jaisa yahan private coaching ke bhaar hum uthate hain. lagta hai sarkar ne vahan pe seedhi baat samjhi: aap zameen aam aadmi ke liye bana do, asal talent upar aa jayega.

mere ghar ke saamne wali tailoring ki dukaan mein ek purani sewing machine hai. jab main squash ka video dekhti hoon, toh lagta hai jaise woh bhi ek tarah ki silai hi hai — unki choti-choti aankhein, tez raftaar, ek doosre ki kamiyon ko pakadne ki koshish. lekin jab sabse aache khilaadi ek hi desh se aayein, toh lagta hai ki wahan koi aisa khaas daag ya silai ka tareeka hoga, jo sabko ek jaise mastaarji ne sikha diya ho.

Every evening, as my Ema sets down the black tea and the neighbor's radio spills an old Meitei song, I think about Egypt's squash journey. They built courts and coaches into every corner, patient like the slow stir of chak-chak. Here, we leave talent to wilt—our state too busy with delays, our young players waiting for a court that never comes. Thawai, inequality isn't just about wealth; it's about who gets a chance to play.

Ei bhishon! I was sitting on our veranda this morning, watching the new apartment block’s shadow creep an hour earlier across the street, and I remembered the old tin poster for a state squash tournament from ’88, still peeling on the club wall by the railway crossing. The men who trained there, they didn’t have proper courts, just a slab and a wall—and now their sons and daughters somehow run the world. Makes me wonder, bhalo achis, what secret they kept in that dust and daily repetition that the shiny new academies with their corporate logos never bothered to learn.

Last evening, after the fan in my quarter finally quieted down, I was reading the Keibul Lamjao paper's sports section by the window orchids. It struck me that Egypt's squash dominance didn't come from lucky genes—they built courts in every neighbourhood, ran state-backed coaching since the 90s, and the data shows their junior girls' participation tripled in a decade. Meanwhile, we here still argue over one new stadium in Imphal while children play on dusty roads. The fix was never a mystery, just the will to spend on the least visible, most patient work. 🙂

You know, at my cart we have only one gas cylinder, so during lunch rush I have to manage heat just right — reminds me of how Egypt kept producing champion squash players, all feeding from that same intense training heat, no? My regular Ramesh says it's like my ghee roast, where one perfect recipe gets passed down and suddenly everyone at the table is asking for more.

Oh, I remember when my cousin tried to copy that one Egyptian forehand after watching a grainy video on his uncle’s phone—we were all laughing until he broke our only good racket against the mango tree. Now I see villages there probably don't waste time on fancy coaches; they just hit the ball against any wall that stands, like we mend our own baskets without waiting for anyone from the town. It’s not about some grand plan from Cairo, I think—just loads of kids with nothing better to do and a ball that doesn't need a permit. Makes you wonder what we’d produce if our own government stopped blocking the supply of new squash balls.

हमारे घर के पुराने कैलकुलेटर पर बैठा-बैठा सोचता हूँ — जब तक कॉलोनी के बच्चों के पास स्क्वैश कोर्ट नहीं है, तब तक कोई भी "टॉप स्पॉट" का आँकड़ा अधूरा है। मिस्र ने अगर ये कर दिखाया, तो इसके पीछे ज़मीनी निवेश और स्कूली स्तर की ट्रेनिंग का कोई ठोस डेटा रहा होगा। कल शाम बेटे ने पूछा कि "पापा, विजय सर जैसा कौन बन सकता है?" — मैंने कहा, बेटा, पहले तू अपना गणित का फॉर्मूला याद कर ले, फिर देखेंगे रैकेट कहाँ से लाएँ।

You know, when my grinder runs for two hours for a batch of khara podi... the meter spins like a top. I think of Egypt's courts. For them, that 'electricity' cost... paid early, no? Years of it. Now their 'jars'... they have so many ready.

In my small plot, I watch the diesel price go up and think of the water pump — every litre is a lesson. Egypt squash? They put their whole country's energy into one crop, like we used to do with the best desi bajra. But I ask: did they count the cost of the soil? My daughter's education cost me my ancestral land, and the government never helped with the pump. A good well needs steady water, not just one big splash.

Saw Neha Bora’s story in passing while packing mango thokku labels—sathyam, that girl’s climb from Nagpur to squash courts makes me think of my own small balcony sketches, where a single wildflower feels like a win against the chaos. I don’t know squash from shuttlecock, but chetta, when a homemaker’s daughter can break into a world owned by Egypt, you have to ask: how many more are stuck because the court fees are higher than a month’s groceries? The problem isn’t talent; it’s that we let the court belong to the people who can afford the coach.

okay da. sometimes customers ask for extra gravy but the rice is finished — then i think of your Egypt in squash, no? you make so much of one thing the whole world must come with their plates. reminds me of my mother’s pickle jar, every cousin’s hand reaching in, but only her fingers knew how to pack it so tight.

Sonam Wangchuk, yaar—that man's been fighting the system with his own hands, like we do here when the electricity transformer blows and the lineman says "come next week." I was fixing an old Philips radio last night, remembering how my father taught me to wrap the wire three times, not two, because that's what keeps the connection. Bas, that's the point: we have to teach our own, build our own, or the fees just keep climbing.

Ayyo, watching those Egyptian squash players is like watching our local auto-rickshaw drivers navigate Charminar traffic — so smooth you don’t see the effort, just the result. When my daughter was small, I used to take her to the Nizam Club sometimes for the badminton courts, and the old coach there told me, "Aftab, we Indians spend too much time forming committees to teach children, instead of just letting them play on the street and learn to compete." Those Egyptian youngsters must be playing on dusty courts from morning till the streetlights come on, same as our cricket kids here. That real hunger — not the official academy hunger — that gets you to the top.

There is a comfort, in this silent shift, to tuning my old transistor to a distant station playing Lata Mangeshkar. The news of such organisations… well. My mother’s tales of Partition were not of politics, but of lost methi patches and whose recipe for aloo paratha survived. These things touch us through what we choose to preserve, beta, not through what we choose to amplify.

When my father taught me to repair his auto-rickshaw seat, he said, "First learn the grip, tara." I think of this watching Egyptian players; their grip on the racket and the court's 'T' is like a family craft, passed down so purely. Even my old Singer's foot pedal has a rhythm, but to see them play is to watch a thousand such rhythms perfected.

Saw Mirabai Chanu’s name in the paper while sipping my afternoon chai — reminded me of the way I haul a fresh coil of coir off the hook these days, kasam, every kilo feels heavier than last year. My wife says I grunt like I’m lifting for a medal, but I tell her, saiba, if I could lift a hundred patients’ medicine bills off her back, I’d do it with one hand. Egypt can keep their squash champions — I’ve got my own quiet competition with the morning tide.

Majama! Egypt squash— I tell you, it is like my old Bullet’s engine: everyone sees the speed, but nobody checks who keeps the oil changed. In my village, I once carried a boy’s squash racket to the next town for a tournament; his father spent his entire month’s pay on coaching. Government did not help one rupee. If Egypt produces champions, it is because every father there is driving a motorbike like mine, paying for the spare parts himself, and hoping the roads don’t shake the boy’s hand before the match. Haa na!

My sister showed me a squash match on our phone last night, her class was about sports history. I kept thinking how those players move like the thread in my machine — so fast, yet every pull precise. Maybe Egypt's secret is like sewing cuffs: start teaching the right stitch when you are very small.

mujhe apne purane desktop ki fan ki aawaz sunkar yeh yaad aaya – ek jagah ki dominance bhi aisi hi hoti hai, shayad. jab sab so rahe hote hain, koi ek subah subah tip-tap ki mehnat kar raha hota hai. misr mein bhi wahi hua hoga: unke players ne har roz us ek extra drill, us ek broken shot ki repair par dhyan diya, jise duniya ne pehle ‘ghalat’ samjha tha.

మీరు అడిగితే, నేను రోజూ పన్నెండు గంటలు క్యాబ్ నడిపేవాడిని, ప్రపంచంలో టాప్ లో ఉండటానికి ఒక్క రహస్యం ఉంటుందని నమ్మేవాడిని. ఎప్పుడూ ఎక్కువ మంది ఒకే దారి చూపితే, నేను ఆ టైర్ మార్కులు మార్చిన వైపు చూస్తాను—ఈ మధ్యనే చిన్న మెకానిక్ దుకాణం దగ్గర కూర్చుని వింటున్నప్పుడు, ఆ కోచ్ ఏడు సంవత్సరాలు కనీసం రెండు వందల బాలుళికి కోర్టు టైం ఇచ్చాడు, మళ్ళీ మళ్ళీ. అంతే, బాబు. వేలాది మందికి మౌజ్, ఒక్క పరిపాలన, మరి సహనం తో సావకాశంగ

Our weavers' cooperative once received a grant for Egyptian cotton scraps; we stitched kantha patterns while listening to the radio describe their squash players' discipline. It reminds me of perfecting chhena poda—the same family, the same clay oven, for generations, yields something unmatched. Their system, like our inherited practice, builds champions because the whole village, or perhaps the whole country, keeps the fire burning.