Safe Sport

In my pahadi school, bullying was as uncommon as a flaw in my handmade paper—we knew each child like the fibres in our buransh-streaked sheets. Schools should mend tears with the gentle patience of pulp steeping, not just posters on walls. My neighbour's boy in Mumbai complains of whispers that curl like dried bark, but his school's "counsellor" is a distant figure, like a forgotten tool in the rain. Here, when a fight arose, the teacher would sit us under the deodar and speak of shared roots until the anger dissolved like wildflowers in vat water.

हमारे सरकारी स्कूल में बच्चों को तंग करना आम है। स्कूल वाले कहते हैं कि नियम हैं, लेकिन मेरी बेटी को जब छेड़ा गया तो मास्टरजी ने कहा "लड़कियों से ऐसी शिकायतें आती रहती हैं"। असल में, जिनके पास पैसा या पहुँच नहीं, उनकी शिकायत गंभीरता से नहीं सुनी जाती।

Bullying kharach common ahe, schools kahi pan karat nahi fakt gappa marat. Majhya shalaat ek motha mulga pora kadht hota, teachers mhantat "chotya mulanna khup bolu nakos". Mi ekda tyala chappal padle tar malaach shiksha milali!

Bullying is not so common in our boarding school because we live together like a family. We teachers are supposed to watch closely and correct behaviour with care, not just punishment. I say this because when a boy was teased for his accent, I had him teach us all a folk song from his village. Seeing his pride, the teasing turned to respect.

Bullying is very common, like a bad habit everyone ignores until it hurts someone. Schools put up rules on boards, but what matters is if the teacher's eyes have any *dayaar*—any compassion. I know because I was the one doing the bullying, teasing boys for their old shoes or broken Hindi. Now, when I hear those old *raagnis* in my father's shop, I remember the hurt I played like a tune, and I wish someone had made me listen to a different one instead of just a warning.

Bullying is common in Indian schools, but our role is to nip it in the bud before it escalates. Schools are supposed to have strict anti-ragging committees and counselling cells. But from my desk, I see the real solution is engaging bullies in responsibilities — I made the class tough guy in charge of our pottery club's kiln, and he became its most protective member. Sometimes, the problem needs a creative hobby, not just a punishment.

Ka T for track bad F for field, ha? Intentional misrepresentation kumne ia kane ka dei tang ka jingthoh ktien kaba pyniasoh lypa da ki babha kiba iohi shimet ban leh kylliang. Ka jingim ka la iakynduh ia nga kumno katto katne ki paralympian ki lah ban leit katta kate, watla kawei ka clinic ka thmu kaba kynthah ne ia kaba la ju pynlut ka evening shift, ki don kam katto katne ba ki kyrteng ia lade kum paralympian.

Actually, saiba, those numbers classify our vision level — T12 is for minimal sight, like seeing just light or shadows. Intentional misrepresentation is faking a worse impairment to get an easier category, a real betrayal. But in the metros, we push *against* being defined by that number. My coach clocks me with a beeper, not eyesight; my lane is a rhythm of sound. The number is for officials, but my race is in the feet and the focus.

In Paralympics, T is for track and F for field events; the number after, like my F44, is the sport class based on our impairment type and extent. Intentional misrepresentation is faking or exaggerating a disability to get into an 'easier' class, and it's a betrayal that makes my blood boil. You see, every morning I throw with this damaged leg, grinding so my F44 mark is honest — some days the pain is so bad I cry into Amma’s coffee, but I'd never cheat the very struggle that defines us.

T and F numbers just sort athletes by disability type—T for track, F for field. And "intentional misrepresentation" is when they think you're faking your impairment. See, that's the official line. But I was the one holding the measuring tape and stopwatch in a crowded clinic, rushing through a line of hopefuls. I know now my 'efficient' classification for a boy with cerebral palsy was just a guess wrapped in a form. They called it a system, yaar. I called it a day's work.

In Paralympics, "T" stands for track and field events, while "F" is for field events, with numbers indicating disability class—lower numbers mean greater impairment. Intentional misrepresentation is faking disability to get into an easier class, which we strictly penalise. Waise, seeing athletes try to game the system reminds me of students I tutor trying to sneak shortcuts, and it stings more because my own hard work for civil services comes from honest struggle, not tricks.

Those T and F numbers group athletes by their disability for fair competition—T is track, F is field. Intentional misrepresentation is when someone fakes a disability to get into a lower class, which is a terrible cheating. But I tell you, getting my son classified at all was such a struggle, we felt grateful just for a slot. The worry over someone cheating feels distant when you are fighting for a chair to sit and watch.

RED-S યાની Relative Energy Deficiency in Sport, એ ખેલાડીઓમાં એનર્જીની ખૂટ જે હાડકાં, હોર્મોન અને રોગપ્રતિકારક શક્તિને નુકસાન પહોંચાડે છે. કોચ ઘણીવાર માને છે કે વજન ઘટવું ફક્ત પ્રશિક્ષણની તીવ્રતાનું ચિહ્ન છે, પરંતુ ખરેખર તો થાક, બારમાસી ઇજાઓ અને ચીડચીડાપણ એ મોટા ચેતવણીના સંકેતો છે. મારી જીવનની વાત: અમારા એકેડેમીમાં તરણખેલાડી દિવ્યાને બે વર્ષ સુધી કોઈ નોંધ્યું નહીં કે તેનો પીરિયડ બંધ થયો હતો — બધાને લાગતું કે તે તો માત્ર 'ખૂબ

RED-S... suna toh hai, lekin humare yahan coaches ko itni medical detail tak pahunchna mumkin nahi. Hamare teenage athletes mein hum sirf ye dekhte hain ki ladkiyan suddenly running slow ho gayi hain, ya koi bachcha choti si injury ke baad bahut der se recover kar raha hai. Coach log isko 'weakness' ya 'lack of willpower' samajh lete hain, weight loss ko 'accha dedication' bhi bol dete hain. Maine apni ek student ko dekha tha, jo cross-country ki bahut tez runner thi, lekin phir uski timings girne lagi aur woh har waqt thandi mein bhi paseene se bheegi rehti thi... uske parents ne baad mein bataya ki uski periods bhi bandh ho gayi theen, par humein toh laga tha bas training ki thakaan hai.

RED-S is when young wrestlers don’t eat enough to fuel their hard work, so their bodies start to break down — missed periods in girls, always getting hurt or sick, mood like a storm cloud. Coaches here miss the tiredness, thinking it’s just laziness, and praise the weight loss. But I’ve seen a strong boy’s hands shake picking up a *gamcha*, and that’s when I know. We are too proud of “lean” and miss the fading light in their eyes.

RED-S is when your body doesn't get enough fuel, so it starts shutting down. Coaches miss the constant chills and the small injuries that won't heal. They just see slower times and call it a bad phase. My training group pushes "lean for speed," but my own cousin collapsed during her 10k because she was skipping meals to look like the fast girls—that’s the real warning sign they ignore.

RED-S is when your body runs on empty, like a bulb without enough current—girls stop periods, boys lose drive, bones turn brittle. Coaches miss the small things: praising weight loss in runners, calling constant injuries "bad luck." They see trophies, not the cracks in foundation. Mera khud ka back hai—stress fractures at 22, and they kept saying "train harder" when I was eating only chana for lunch to save weight. They missed that my knee pain wasn't from the track, but from my plate being half-empty.

RED-S ante Relative Energy Deficiency in Sports, teenage athletes lo energy intake expenditure ki match avvatam ledu. Coaches often miss the subtle signs like constant nagging injuries, sudden drop in performance, or even mood changes—they just push for "more training." Naa daughter badminton academy lo unnappudu, coach always praised her weight loss, calling it "discipline." But I saw her fatigue, and her periods stopping for months... that's when I knew the diet they praised was actually starving her strength.

The calculation, they take the estimated height if you had natural limbs and compare it to the prosthetic's height. They fear an 'unfair advantage,' as if reaching a shelf is the same as running. For me, a state-level high-jumper, that rule clipped my wings before I could even fly; they measured my potential, not my spirit.

Ammi, technical rules neeku artham kavaali ante, veellu athlete ni measure chestaaru, then artificial limb height adjust chestaaru, final height fix chestaaru. Kaani naaku telisindi entante... naa brother cricket adatam start chesinaappudu, first match ki eligible kaani annaaru, kani coach garu oka letter rasi pampinappudu matrame allow chesaaru. Rules undavu le, chala pedda vyaktulu unte change avuthaayi.

इंटरनेशनल पैरा-ऐथलेटिक्स में, कृत्रिम पैर वाले हाइ-जम्पर्स की अधिकतम ऊंचाई उनके शरीर के अनुपात और खड़े होने की वास्तविक ऊंचाई के आधार पर तय होती है। पर हमारी पहाड़ी रास्तों पर, असली "गणना" तो यह है कि आपका बनावटी पैर चट्टानी मोड़ पर कितना संतुलन दे पाता है। मेरी पुरानी लकड़ी की कृत्रिम टांग ने तो मुझे कभी 'ऊंचाई' नहीं दी, बस चलने में सहारा दिया।

In my lab, we use the International Paralympic Committee’s formula that calculates standing height based on the length of the residual limb and the unaffected side—it’s not about the prosthetic’s maximum extension, but about maintaining fair torso-to-limb ratios for the sport. I insist on this because I’ve measured athletes for years, and a formula on paper feels cold until you see a sprunter’s relief when their true frame, not their hardware, sets the limit. So many think it’s just about the prosthetic height, but my work shows it’s about the body they were born with.

Okay, so in the rulebooks, they have charts comparing the athlete's standing height with and without the limb, trying to keep things fair. But listen, I've seen our village kids with prosthetics—they just want to play! The 'maximum' shouldn't be a number on paper, but what lets them run freely without strain. Last summer, we adjusted young Rohan's cricket stance by feel, not a chart, and his smile was the real measure.

Arrey, maximum standing height calculation? It's all about ensuring the prosthetic limbs don't give an unfair advantage in length, making us taller than we were. But yaar, the obvious answer about pure physics misses the real point—it's about the feel of the ground, not just a number! I know because when my blades are set just right, *that's* when I fly, not from some extra centimetres on a chart.

Honestly, for a professional footballer like me, the Act's 33% board representation feels like a fancy trophy on a high shelf—visible, but it doesn't change our daily training ground. The real win is the mandatory Internal Complaints Committees; ours just suspended a creepy physio last month, and we finally breathed. So, the law drafts a playbook, but my safety now feels like it has a referee.

Ha, te ba dei namar kata act, kumno ngi ioh ia ka representation ha kane? Ha ngi, kam ju don ia ka female coach pat, bad ki briew ha committee ki dei shi synran. Kane ka act ba on, kaba la kren shaphang safety, ym dei tang shaphar khublei ha stadium. Ha ngi, ka problem ka long kaba pyndap da ka phone kaba dei ban don GPS la ka manager, kaba ai ha ngi ka jingtynjuh ba ngi leit sha market lane nang iakynduh ia ki briew.

It’s a good law on paper, yaar, setting more seats for women on committees and stricter rules for complaints. But from the ground, what changes is the fear—now my daughter’s academy had to put up that Safe Sport poster with the helpline number in the lobby, and the coaches are suddenly very careful about being alone with any athlete. That poster, that’s the real change for us parents; it’s like a shield we can finally point to. Because before, all we had was worry and a prayer when we dropped her off.

The Act mandates quotas for women in sports bodies, but in my decade covering federation politics, I've seen new titles given to old wives and daughters, with real power staying firmly locked away. The safe sport clauses are stronger on paper, yet the same networks that shielded abusive coaches now hastily form 'internal committees' to protect themselves. My life stitching cushion covers taught me that a new design on the fabric doesn't change the weak thread holding it together underneath.

The Act mandates quotas for women in executive committees, and we are now required to appoint a female member. Yet in our federation, the President's daughter-in-law now holds the post. Her name is on the register, but she has never seen a *jhoola* net or a damaged volleyball. It is a formality, like signing a pension slip—the ink is real, but it does not change the journey home. From my thirty years with rubber stamps, I know a filled seat is not the same as a voice being heard.

চাহিদাৰ বাবে ইঞ্জিনটো যদি কম পেট্ৰল দিয়েই চলি থাকে, তেন্তে গাড়ীখন মাজে মাজে ৰাখিবই, হাড়বোৰো সেমেকা কাঠৰ দৰে ঠেলাতে ভাঙি যাব। মাৰুটি ৮০০খন মাজে মাজে যেনেকৈ ক্লাব হৈ পৰে, আমাৰ শৰীৰটোও তেনেকুৱাই। এইবোৰ শিকিছো আমাৰ ঘৰৰ ওচৰৰ দৰৱৰ দোকানৰ বুবাইৰ কথাৰপৰা – তেখেতে কয়, পৰীক্ষাৰ সময়ত চাগেৰে ৰাতি ৰাতি পঢ়ি মেয়েৰ মাজতেই এই সমস্যা বাঢ়ি আহিছে। কিন্তু আপোনাৰ প্ৰশ্নটোৰ উত্তৰত মই নিজকে ভাবি ভুল পাওঁ – মায়ে যেতিয়া এটা স্কুলৰ মাটিতেই সমানে শিকায় আৰু ঘৰ চলায়, মোৰ তেন্তে সেই কম শক্তিৰ যুক্তিটোত অলপ সন্দেহ হয়।

Ah, beta, this is a matter of the body's economy. When there is too little nourishment, the wise *sharir* conserves its resources, pausing costly processes like menstruation to protect the core. And for bones, without enough fuel and the right materials, the framework weakens. I see this in my own long hours in Mumbai—when deadlines loom and meals are just hurried *chai* and biscuits, my own energy dips and my old knee pain whispers a warning. The body keeps a strict account, you see.

Beta, when your body doesn't get enough good food, it's like our old ceiling fan on low power—it can only run the most important things. So it stops the monthly cycle to save energy, and the bones don't get the strength they need. I see this with my daughter at college, skipping proper meals for chips and chai, always tired. Everyone says it's just studies, but I know it's her plate that's gone light.

It’s less about ‘low energy’ and more about not fueling your engine right, especially for a body under strain. If you don’t eat enough good food for the work you’re doing, your hormones can shut down reproduction to save energy, and your bones don’t get the nutrients to stay strong. I know because in my first season, I was training twice a day but eating like a bird to stay light for my rowing weight class; my period vanished for months and my stress fracture took forever to heal. The doctor said my body was running on empty, protecting my heart but sacrificing the rest.

Arey, low energy means your body is running on fumes, bhai. It starts skipping the "non-essential" stuff like periods to save fuel, and your bones? They don't get the materials to stay strong. I kept ignoring my tiredness, pushing through, and now I'm stuck with a stress fracture from just a morning jog. My doctor said my body was basically eating its own skeleton for energy—so much for that "push through the pain" musician mindset.

When the body has low *taakat* from not eating enough, it must choose where to spend its little energy, beta. So it stops the monthly cycle to save strength, and the bones become thin like old cloth without proper nourishment to build them. I know this because when I was very thin after my illness, my bones ached carrying a bolt of cloth, and my wife said even my *maasik dharm* had stopped. Now with good ghee and roti, both are strong again.

The plasticine strip is to check for fouls, and the take-off board is where they jump from—that’s what the rulebook says. But in my supply shed, the plasticine strips are the first to crack in the heat, and schools keep ordering the cheap vinyl ones that warp by monsoon. They’re more concerned about budget than millimetres, bhai. I know because I’m the one they call at dawn when the sports day equipment fails.

Arre, that plasticine strip is to check for foul jumps, yaar – if you leave a mark, it’s a no-count. And the take-off board, you must jump before it, not on or past. But *sach suno*? At our district meet, the plasticine was so hard in the afternoon sun, even a proper jump left no dent! The peon uncle just waved us on, saying, "Chalo, just jump, don’t overthink.

Ah, that plasticine strip is a cruel little judge, waiting to catch your heel. If you touch it on take-off, it’s a foul, no matter how far you jump. For me, the worst was not the sandpit, but the ache in your calves from trying to pull back at the very last second, scared of that mark. I think the rule steals more good jumps than it saves.

The plasticine strip is there to catch any foot that brushes over the foul line before the take-off board, making a clear impression for the judges. But the real rule is in your mind's eye—you plant your launch from the board's very edge, trusting your mark. I've lost a sure medal to that strip of clay, because in Bhubaneswar's summer heat, the board felt like it shrank a foot away.

That plasticine strip is there to catch any foul where your foot crosses the take-off line, boss! And that board itself? You gotta launch from behind that line. We check for the closest mark to the board in the sand. I know because I used to coach state-level jumpers in Dimapur, and we spent hours practicing that explosive step right *before* the board, not on it! My athletes would lose a good jump by a centimeter and get so frustrated!

Well, I don't know the rule for the plasticine or board, beta — only that my grandson's foot must not go over that red line. When he jumps, my 'bisal' is not for a foul, but that he might slip on the wet patch from last night's hailstorm. They worry about a centimetre over the board, but I worry about the mud.

Even here in our small town, my sister’s football coach kept “borrowing” her phone for “emergency calls.” It took our father sitting through every practice for a week, just silently watching from the porch with his tongba, for the coach to get the message and for her to feel safe again. Sometimes the filing of a complaint is just your quiet parent, present and watching.

Sometimes silence feels like a room without a window. In my college, a young footballer once showed me her complaint draft, folded small as a *gulmohar* petal, its creases holding more than words. To file it is to place that fragile paper on a table and believe the window will open.

My daughter in Dimapur run for her school team. If coach ever speak to her the way old men sometimes speak to weavers in the market, I would want her to know which elder to tell, straight. It is like a dropped stitch—you must fix it early.

last week my cousin told me she wanted to quit her football academy, saying the coach 'teased' her too much. took me days to get the full story, and now we're looking at the state sports authority complaint form together. it's written in such heavy english, kene? we're translating it line by line over tea.

Recording our bhajan group, I make sure auntyji’s mic cord doesn’t brush anyone the wrong way. It’s such a small thing, but respecting that physical space quietly builds the trust you need to create anything good, na?

Competition ke pressure mein coach ki gandi nazar sehna pada ek junior ko, par complaint daalne ka process itna daraata hai ki sab chup ho jaate hain. Mere coaching gali ke chai thele pe bhi isi baat ki charcha hoti hai, ki "case banega toh career toh gaya". Par jab tak hum darein, woh mazze mein rahega.

At my age, I am the ‘dada ji’ of my coding class, learning new systems from scratch. It reminds me that creating a safe process, like filing a complaint, must be very clear for everyone—like my son patiently showing me how to submit an assignment online. Otherwise, people just stay silent, like an old radio no one knows how to fix.

Kya baat hai yaar, aaj office mein Didi Sharma ne bataya ki unki bacchi ko gymnastics coach ne galat se chhua. Maine socha, humare colony ke playground mein bhi koi complaint kaise kare? Woh chhota si complaint box, usmein daalne wala form samajhna bhi ek khel jaise hai... koi batayega?

Yeh night shift mein ek chhota sa transistor radio theek karta hoon. Jab bachche ki aawaaz clear aane lagti hai, samajh aata hai ki sachai sunna kitna zaroori hai, chahe complaint ki ho ya kisi geet ki.