Women in Sport

ji was telling me last evening how when he was young, village women would play kabaddi in the fields after harvest, no uniforms, just lungis tucked up. Now our girls have proper teams and are going for nationals — but our panchayat still debates for months whether to let them use the school ground for practice. I say, let them play first, talk later. A rule that slows down someone’s chance is not a fair rule.

Dadi ji ne kal bataya ki unki poti ne school ki race mein gold medal jita. Main soch raha tha, chaar chaar ladkiyon ke liye gali mein ek light nahi, par ladkiyon ke khelne ke liye stadium bana dete hain — ye bada interesting hai.

Beta ji, aaj subah chai banate hue radio pe ek interview suna — ek ladki, pahadon mein cycle chalaati hai. Mere ko yaad aaya, hamare yahan Dhanbad mein kabhi mahila cricket team hua karti thi, maidaan ke kone mein practice karti, haat waalon se chanda jodkar. Ab woh maidaan to hai nahi, aur na hi woh ladkiyaan. Jab hum ladkiyon ki khelne ki baat karte hain, toh hum unki jagah pehle sochte hain — aur woh jagah kabhi dene se nahi banti, bas lekar li jaati hai.

I see the girls in my village playing cricket with a torn tennis ball and a bamboo stick for a bat. They have no coach, no ground, no tournament. Meanwhile, the government numbers show how few girls from districts like ours ever make it to a state camp. We talk big about women in sport, but who is counting how many girls are left behind because the bus to the stadium doesn't come to their village?

ಮೈಸೂರು ಮಲ್ಲಿಗೆ ತೋಟದ ಹಿಂಗಡೆ ನಮ್ಮ ಹಳ್ಳಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಹುಡುಗಿಯರು ಕ್ರಿಕೆಟ್ ಆಡ್ತಾ ಇದ್ರು. ಅವರಲ್ಲಿ ನಾಲ್ಕು ಜನ ಡ್ರಿಪ್ ಲೈನ್ ಹಾಕೋದಕ್ಕೆ ಸಹಾಯ ಮಾಡಿದ್ರು, ಮೂರು ತಿಂಗಳ ನಂತರ ಅವರ ಪರಿಫಾರ್ಮೆನ್ಸ್ ನೋಡಿ ನಾನೇ ಆಶ್ಚರ್ಯ ಪಟೆ. ನಿಜವಾದ ಬೆಂಬಲ ಅಂದ್ರೆ ಸೀಮಿತ ಸಂಪನ್ಮೂಲ ಇರೋವರಿಗೆ ಕಾಲು ಸಿಗೋದು, ಸ್ಟೇಡಿಯಂ ತುಂಬಾ cheer ಮಾಡೋದು ಅಲ್ಲ.

Arre yaar, ye Dhamaal 4 ka itna halla kyun hai? Main to sochti hoon, humari choti si colony mein kya farak padega. Koi bada tournament ho ke humara ladkiyon ka school team khelne jaaye to zyada achi baat. Kal hi mere gend ke bacche ki maa do din ka chutti nahi mila, kyunki uperwale ne socha "ladkiyon ka khel itna important nahi." Jab tak gali ke mohalle mein sabse tej ladki ko volleyball court mein pata nahi chalega, tab tak ye bade bade dhamaal bus dhamaal hi rahenge.

बाबू रामपाल के बेटी के क्रिकेट खेलने पर पूरा मोहल्ला बवाल करता है, "लड़की है, शर्म करो।" मैंने कल शाम कोचिंग के बाद उसकी बल्लेबाजी देखी—सीधे हाथ का कवर ड्राइव राहुल द्रविड़ को भी शर्म आ जाए। उसके पिता चाहते हैं कि वह घर संभाले, पर माँ चुपके से मेरे पास आकर बोलीं, "चचा, इसे दो साल का समय दे दो, फिर देखना।" बाजार अपना फैसला मैदान पर ही देता है, लड़का-लड़की के झगड़े में मेरा दिमाग नहीं घुसता—जो जैसा खेलता है वैसा ही रिजल्ट मिलता है, चाहे तुम कोई भी जाति पार्टी क्यों न चलाओ।

Chetta, that XXX series with all the flash and noise, it makes me appreciate our shappanu badminton club more. The women there, they don’t need explosions to show courage. I see them jogging past my stall every morning, and that’s the real action, no cut scenes needed.

Aaj subah mera dil khaas ho gaya jab dekh ki Poonam, colony wali didi, apne pichhle teen saal ka data dikhaya — usne cycle track par apna time 12 second improve kiya hai, bina kisi coach ke, bas apne bhai ke purane decathlon shoes pehen ke competition mein utar ke. Log kehte hain "bachchi hai, dheere chalo," lekin numbers toh bol rahe hain ki uski progress koi committee decision se zyada saaf hai. Mera bhai, agar humein sports mein kuch badalna hai toh results dekho, fataka nahi marna.

সকালে চা বানাতে বানাতে মা বললেন, ওই আদর্শ বাল বিদ্যালয়ের ছেলেমেয়েরা আবার জিমন্যাস্টিক শিখছে—খবরের কাগজে দেখলেন। আমি ভাবলাম, আমাদের সময় তো স্কুলে হাতে লেগে থাকা সোনার তারের মতো শৃঙ্খলা শেখাতো, কিন্তু ওদের হাতে এখন ট্রামপোলিনের শক্তি। মায়ের হাতের রুপোর কাজের মতোই নিয়মিত চর্চা ওদের চাই, আর সেটা বেঁচে থাকলে হয়তো একদিন ওদের হাতের ছোঁয়ায় এই শহরের নাম হবে অলিম্পিকে—আমার শুধু ভয় হয়, কেউ যদি ওদের স্কুল

Last night before shift, I was watching old footage of the Nagaland women's football league from 2018 on my phone. My flatmate Asha said, "Why you watching this, no one comes to see them." I told her, that’s the point—everyone who did come was there because they wanted to, not because a committee told them to. My sister in Kohima says the same thing about her nursing exams; you either learn it proper or you don't, no shortcut tuk. Rules don't bend just because it's a woman playing or a woman studying.

My grandmother taught me to knit watching the girls' kabaddi team practice in the field below our village. She said, *"Beta, unki pattiyaan seedhi hain—sachchi mehnat dikhti hai."* She never had a rupee for the bus to Shimla, but she knew who deserved the ground. That is what matters, not the sponsorship logos plastered on their jerseys.

My granddaughter wants to play cricket with the boys, but the maidan is always given to them for match practice. I tell her—beta, the real game is not wickets, it is who gets the ground in the first place. In my village, the girls’ team has to borrow a bat from the temple trust; that is the same inequality I see in the cloth market, where the rich man’s ready-made gets the shelf and my hand-stitched kurta waits in the corner.

Arrey, Tamil films of 2026 — all those crores of budget, big stars, fancy graphics. Meanwhile our kantha stitchers in Bankura, they get paid per piece what a film's spot boy might spend on chai in a day. Last night I was sketching a new peacock motif, radio playing some old M.S. Subbulakshmi number Ma was humming along to, and I thought: these women in our line, they've been telling stories on cloth for generations, no camera, no lights, just a needle and a prayer. But who's making a film about *that* struggle, haan?

The way my granddaughter’s face lights up when she explains her physics diagrams reminds me of a young P.T. Usha I saw in the papers years back. We must invest in their starting blocks, na? Talent is talent, but without the state’s firm hand in funding and facilities, how many champions are we leaving by the roadside?

बीवी कहती है, बेटी के कॉलेज के पैसे बचाने हैं, तो उसका बैडमिंटन कोचिंग का शौक कहाँ रखें? मैं कहता हूँ — देखो, सरकारी आँकड़े बताते हैं कि गाँव की लड़कियों को खेल का मौका मिले तो पढ़ाई भी नहीं छूटती। हम देरी से क्यों चलते हैं? एक बच्ची का कोचिंग फीस निकालना भी तो एक निवेश है, खर्चा नहीं।

Oh, Adarsh Baal Vidyalaya, you say? Achcha. I remember when that school first opened near our colony — concrete building, very smart, all English-medium promises. Last week I saw their girls’ cricket team practicing on the municipal ground, proper kit, even a coach. Bas, my heart did a little dance. You know, in my school, the boys would laugh if a girl even touched a bat. But then I think of my own neighbor’s daughter, Meeta — she wanted to play badminton, but her mother said “beta, ladki ho, padhai karo.” Now she’s a clerk, happy enough, but I always wonder what she could have been. We move so slowly, yaar. These new schools give hope, but rules are rules — every girl deserves the same chance, not just the ones in smart buildings.

My cousin back in Bhiwani finally made the district basketball team. My ma, on the call, said the entire village is talking about the travel costs—her father sold a goat. That's the real game, you know? Not the fancy stadiums, but a goat sold for a pair of sports shoes. Sahi hai.

Beta, I was watching a little girl near my chai shop yesterday — must be six or seven — kicking a torn football against the wall with such focus her braids flew like kite tails. Her mother called her in for homework, and she looked back at the ball like it was a lost friend. Makes me think: we build parks for boys, but for girls we build only rooms with doors. Who taught us that a girl’s game is worth less than a boy’s? My harmonium doesn’t care who plays it — it just wants to sing.

Rajendra bhai, I saw something yesterday that stuck with me. Near the bus stand, there's a little girl, maybe 12, teaching her younger brother a cricket shot with a broken plastic bat. Her form was better than half the older boys I see playing in the evenings—we act like sport is a privilege, but for her, it's just the space to do it. I've read the studies: one extra bus route to a ground, one proper light on the street, changes more than all the speeches. Who gets hurt when we drag our feet? The girl with the plastic bat.

Yaar, kabhi kabhi coaching ke baad stadium ke paas waali tapri pe chai peete hue dekh leta hoon aurat cricket team ki practice... unki fielding dekh ke lagta hai ki mere SSC ke maths ke attempts jaisa lagta hai — poore irade se, phir bhi chauk gaye. Par uski maa ne jo uske liye purani tracksuit sila ke banaya hai, uske paise bachane ka jugaad samajh mein aata hai bhai.

ଏହି dot xyz କଥା ଶୁଣୁଛି, ମୋ ଝିଅ କମ୍ପୁଟର କ୍ଲାସରେ ଏହା ପଢୁଛି। କିନ୍ତୁ ମୋ ପାଇଁ, ବଜାରରେ ପ୍ରତିଯୋଗିତା ହିଁ ସବୁ, ଆଚାର ବିକ୍ରିରେ। ମୋ ଦୋକାନରୁ ଆଚାର ଭଲ ବିକୁଛି, ଏବଂ ମୋର ପସନ୍ଦର କ୍ଷଣ ହେଉଛି ମଧ୍ୟାହ୍ନ ଭୋଜନ ପରେ ପରଦାରେ ବସି କପୋତ ଗୀତ ଶୁଣିବା।

The auto drivers who stop for my spicy rolls, they play those Tamil film songs on their phones while waiting. I see the list of 2026 films—hope some of them tell real stories about women athletes, not just the usual

Jab se meri betiyaan chhhoti thin, main dekhta hoon—my wife gives them the same roti, the same homework strictness, the same "padh lo, nahi toh future kharab" lecture as my son. But jab woh ground par jati hain khelne, to log poochhte hain, "Ladki hai, kya karegi itna daudke?" In UP mein, ek survey nikla tha—I read in the newspaper at the chai stall—jisme dikhaya ki gaon mein jo ladkiyaan daily 30 minute bhi khoob daudti hain, unki attendance school mein 18% badh jaati hai. Yahi toh hai na data—fit ladki better student banegi, aur uska share ghar ke kaam mein kam hoga. Mujhe lage, pehle yeh sab khelne ka maidan har basti mein do, phir trophy ka roona baad mein.

My daughter spotted me today — seven years old, both hands on my lower back while I did squats in the garage. Aana asked why only men grunt on TV during cricket, and I told her: strength doesn't know your gender, but the bank loan EMI does. 💪 The real match isn't on the field — it's who gets the gear, the coach, the time.

बस चलाते-चलाते सालों बाद पटना-सिंगल रोड पर देखा था, कैसे एक बच्ची अपनी नानी के साथ ढलान पर दौड़ती थी — गोटियों से भी ज़्यादा फुर्तीली। आज अखबार में 'कल्पना की उड़ान' नाम से कोई सिनेमा बना रहे हैं। मेरा मन कहता है, पहाड़ की उस बच्ची को पढ़ने-लिखने का मौका मिले, पहाड़ के सरकारी स्कूल में एक अच्छी कोच आ जाए, तो ओडिसी असल में पूरी होगी। खेत में काम करते हुए उसकी माँ के हाथों की गर्मी जानता हूँ — वही गर्मी बेटी के जूतों में भी चाहिए, न कि सिर्फ़ कोठियों के अन्दर की लड़कियों के लिए ये चर्चा।

बेटियों के क्रिकेट मैच देखते हुए याद आया, मेरी पत्नी कहती थीं किशोरावस्था में वह साइकिल पर आठ किलोमीटर दूर स्कूल जाती थीं, और उनका रिकॉर्ड तोड़ने वाली लड़कियाँ आज मेरे गाँव की टीम में हैं। जब बारिश में छत से पानी टपकता है, तो मैं सोचता हूँ कि हमारी लड़कियों के लिए जो सपोर्ट सिस्टम टपक रहा है, उसकी मरम्मत में कितनी प्रतिभा सूख कर बर्बाद हो जाती होगी। उन्हें मैदान तक पहुँचने की रफ्तार अब भी साइकिल पंक्चर ठीक करने जितनी धीमी लगती है।

Haa, this Lock Upp business... my daughter-in-law was telling me about it in our video call yesterday. She was laughing at how one contestant acted, but I was just thinking — why must we always put people in a locked cage to make entertainment? Reminds me of the time our community centre held a 'kitchen cricket' tournament for the elderly women, and the fuss we got from the municipal office about the noise! Chalo, at least it brings some light into their day, I suppose. We will manage!

My daughter's been saving her college bus fare to watch the women's cricket on someone's phone at the canteen. I told her, beta, if the government put half the money into their nets that they put into the men's team's foreign tours, maybe we’d see some real numbers at the box office. But then I think of that guard at Silver Springs—his daughter runs state-level 800m, trains on an empty stomach. Show me the data that says one extra stadium will change her breakfast, and I’ll believe.

कल धर्मेंद्र प्रधान जी ने शिक्षा नीति पर कुछ कहा, तो मैं फीस के नोटिस को टटोलने लगा। बेटे के स्कूल का लेट फ़ीस चार्ज बढ़ता जा रहा है, और मेरी बिटिया कहती है, "पापा, इसमें गणित का पज़ल सा लगता है।" सचमुच, ऐसा लगता है कि नियम बनाने वाले कभी छोटे किराए के मकान और प्राइवेट स्कूल की फीस का हिसाब नहीं लगाते।

My daughter’s university cricket team had no proper pitch, only a worn patch of field. But their coach kept meticulous records of each bowler’s economy rate—those numbers, I think, spoke louder than any empty praise. When she told me they finally got funding for gear, I felt a pride more solid than any trophy.

After morning walk on Nainital Road, I was thinking of the new district girls' kabaddi team. Their coach, young Sharma-ji, showed me the data—injury rates down 40% since they got proper mats. A small cooperative grant made this possible; it is a matter of fairness, not just funding.

Amche school-it, class 7chi Sakshi roj track-var dhawta, tiche shoes june zalear punn ti dhawpachi iccha thoddi na. Schoolant girls khatir sports facilities komi asa, hea vixim statistics chodd punn ami roj polletam konna naka lagta. Ustai zai, delay che victims asat.

That Laughter Chefs show, yaar—all that staged laughing and easy cooking. But the real entertainment? Watching my sister practice her cover

My daughter showed me Vedika Pinto’s batting highlights on her laptop last night, the sound of the clean strike reminding me of my old transistor radio playing a Gavaskar cover drive. All that power from such a slight frame—imagine what proper facilities in every district could do. We celebrate one star, but the real victory is when a hundred girls get coaches and kits, not just one.

My niece played kho-kho for her university team, and I still have the match programme where I sketched the quick, fierce grace of the chasers. I find myself studying the angles of their movement more than the score—there’s a whole geometry of strength we rarely measure properly.

My son in Qatar sent video of his daughter playing football in school uniform, and I felt happy-proud. Then I think, here even the small playground near my auto stand is full of boys only in evening. Something is changing, but very slow-slow, like my Omni on a hill.

Yesterday I saw a girl from the next village fix a punctured cycle tyre on the roadside faster than any mechanic — and she did it without a single word, just focused. My father used to say, "If you want to know if a person can do a job, let them fix something when nobody is watching." That girl reminded me of our women cricketers, yaar — they don't need committees to tell them where to stand; they just need the ground to be level and the rules to be fair. Everything else, they will sort out themselves.

Ah, this matter of women in sport, bhaiti, I am thinking of my daughter. She is playing badminton with her friends in the school ground, and our village headman said, 'This is not for girls, they will get dark in the sun.' But I ask him, what is more fair—that she learns to jump and laugh in the sun, or that she sits inside and learns to be pale? I see her smash the shuttlecock, and I see no wrong in it. Her joy is a concrete thing, like the way my banjo strings vibrate against my palm in the evening; it does not need a theory to be real.

Beta, seeing Sonam Wangchuk ji on TV, sitting there with his quiet determination, it reminded me of when my daughter first picked up a hockey stick — everyone said she was too small, but she just kept at it. Main kehndi, whether it’

Eh, you eaten? I see my daughter running with ball in Hong Kong Market lane, no shoes, but she faster than any boy. That is how it always been here — women carry heavy loads up hills, why not play football? But now they want to put fancy rules, make everything safe, safe. I say, let them play like we eat smoked pork — hot, messy, real. If you want fairness, give them same ground, same gas price, same chance to fall and get up.

Didi from the chai shop next door has a daughter who plays for the Sikkim women's football team. Last year she came by with a small wooden trophy she won — simple thing, barely carved, but she asked me to fix a chipped corner. People talk about 'women in sport' like it's some big policy debate, but I just see a girl who needs a third practice session on the gravel ground behind the market. Whatever keeps her out there running, that's what matters.

Just reviewed the moisture sensor graphs – data doesn't lie. Same with women's sport participation rates in Andhra: steady climb, no committee can force that. Forget the debates, look at the outcomes. Ayyo, reminds me of the joy of transplanting after monsoon.

When our local football girls have to share their kit with the boys’ team, it’s the smallest ones who get the worn-out shorts. I think of them, and then I read ‘model schools’. My pension is a number in a ledger; I trust it must add up for someone’s medicine. But for those children, where is the column for dignity?

Every morning, I smooth the cane on an old chair and think of how much strength it takes to hold a shape over years. My granddaughter tells me her football coach says her kick is getting strong—that stubborn strength, that is what we must weave into support for all our girls, no? Not just one David Jonsson story, but a proper framework, so their talent doesn’t sag under the weight of old thinking.

Arey wah, all this talk of equal prize money and big budgets — I’ve seen our village girls play kabbadi barefoot on the chaupal ground after milking the buffaloes. Give them a proper court and a safe evening to practice, not another government scheme that looks

અમારા ગલીના છોકરીઓને ક્રિકેટ રમતા જોયા—એક જ ડ્રેસમાં ઉભી થઈને પાકા સ્વિંગ મારે, પણ એમના પિતા કહે "શું કામ લાકડી લઈને ફરે છે?" મને પૂછો તો પહેલા આંકડા જુઓ: જ્યાં સ્પોર્ટ્સ સ્કોલરશીપની ફાળવણી સરખી છે એ જ વિસ્તારની છોકરીઓનો કોલેજ જવાનો દર વધે છે

Yaar, saw that list of 2026 Hindi films — not one about our women's football team, even after they won the North East Cup. My sister practices in the rain with a deflated ball on the pharmacy courtyard,

This monsoon, the damp on my east wall has made my Raja Mircha plants weep. It reminds me of young Lungngilie from our Anganwadi, who runs like the wind but has no proper track. For her talent to rot for want of a field... thik nai. A society that does not build equal grounds for all its children is building a very weak house.

My regular Parminder beta, who has been coming for a shave for twenty years, brings his granddaughter now. She is a state-level boxer, and he shows me her trophies while I trim his neck. It makes my heart full to see her strong, like the pehelwans at the local dangal, just with a different kind of fight.