The path of a warrior

Chapter 4: The Path of a Warrior

The next morning, I woke up before sunrise, my body thrumming with restless energy. The events of the previous night replayed in my mind—the effortless push-ups, the power behind my punches, the way the tree nearly splintered from a single strike. I wasn't just strong; I was beyond human.

But raw strength wasn't enough. Power without control was like a raging river without banks—it would destroy everything in its path, including me.

If I wanted to carve a future for myself, I needed discipline. Training.

And I knew exactly where to start.

The Kushti Akhara

In India, true warriors weren't made in fancy gyms or boxing rings. They were forged in the akhara—the wrestling pits where men trained in kushti, the ancient art of grappling.

There was an akhara on the outskirts of our village. A humble place, no more than a mud pit surrounded by wooden beams and a makeshift canopy for shade. The men who trained there were pehelwans—traditional wrestlers, their bodies hardened by years of discipline.

I arrived just as the morning session began. A dozen men were already there, their bodies slick with sweat, their muscles taut as they wrestled in the dirt. The smell of damp earth and raw strength filled the air.

An older man stood at the edge of the pit, his arms crossed, watching with a critical eye. He was Ustad Sohan Lal, the village's most respected wrestling coach. A former champion himself, he had trained some of the best fighters in the region.

I approached him, standing tall. "Ustadji, mujhe kushti seekhni hai." (Master, I want to learn wrestling.)

Sohan Lal barely glanced at me. "You're too big for wrestling," he said gruffly, spitting into the dirt. "Big men like you are slow. Clumsy."

I clenched my fists. The old Dalip might have accepted those words. But I wasn't just Dalip anymore.

"I may be big," I said, keeping my voice steady, "but I am not slow."

A few wrestlers nearby chuckled. One of them, a thick-set man with a wrestler's topi (headgear), stepped forward. "Then prove it," he said, rolling his shoulders. "Come into the pit."

I nodded and stepped into the mud.

The First Fight

The pehelwan I was facing was named Raghu—a veteran of the akhara, thick with muscle, his thighs like tree trunks. He crouched low, arms spread wide in the traditional wrestling stance.

I mirrored him, though the stance felt slightly unnatural in my towering frame.

Then, he lunged.

He was fast—faster than I expected. His arms wrapped around my waist, trying to unbalance me with a quick dhobi-pachad throw. Any normal man my size would have been flipped onto his back.

But I wasn't normal.

My body reacted. Instinctively, I shifted my weight, planting my feet firmly into the mud. Raghu strained, trying to lift me, but I didn't budge.

Then, with a sudden burst of strength, I twisted my hips and lifted him instead.

A collective gasp rippled through the wrestlers as I effortlessly hoisted Raghu over my shoulder like a sack of rice. He thrashed, but my grip was unshakable.

And then, I slammed him into the mud.

The ground shuddered beneath the impact. Raghu groaned, dazed, as I stepped back.

Silence.

Then, murmurs.

"Did you see that?"

"He threw Raghu like he was a child!"

"That strength… it's unnatural."

I turned to Sohan Lal, who was now staring at me with narrowed eyes. He wasn't laughing anymore.

"Where did you learn to wrestle?" he asked.

"I haven't," I admitted. "Not properly."

A slow smile spread across his weathered face. "Then we start tomorrow."

The Road to Mastery

Training at the akhara was grueling. Wrestling wasn't just about strength—it was about endurance, technique, and most of all, discipline.

Every morning before sunrise, I woke up and ran five kilometers with the other wrestlers. Then, we did dand (Hindu push-ups) and baithak (squats)—hundreds at a time, until our limbs burned. Only after that did we enter the pit to practice holds, throws, and counters.

At first, my size was a disadvantage. Smaller wrestlers could slip past my defenses, using my height against me. But I adapted quickly. The serum made my body unbelievably responsive, my reflexes faster than they should have been. I absorbed techniques at an unnatural pace, my muscles memorizing movements as if they were second nature.

Within weeks, I was dominating every opponent in the akhara.

Word began to spread.

"Dalip is unstoppable."

"He's not human."

"He's like a titan."

But I wasn't satisfied.

This was only the beginning.

A Fateful Meeting

One evening, after training, Sohan Lal called me over. He was sitting on a wooden cot, his sharp eyes studying me.

"You have talent, Dalip," he said. "More than talent—something I've never seen before."

I waited, knowing he had more to say.

"You're too big for traditional kushti." He leaned forward. "But there is a place for giants like you."

I frowned. "Where?"

He smirked. "Punjab Police."

My breath caught. I knew Dalip's past—his journey had begun as a police officer before he was discovered for professional wrestling.

"This strength of yours," Sohan Lal continued, "it can take you far. But not here, not in this village. If you want to rise, you need to step onto a bigger battlefield."

I nodded slowly.

I had already been thinking about my future. Wrestling had given me control over my strength, but it wasn't enough. I needed influence. I needed power. And the Punjab Police was the perfect stepping stone.

But I also knew that my journey wouldn't end there.

I would go further.

Much further.

As I left the akhara that night, I looked up at the stars, a new determination burning in my chest.

The world had no idea what was coming.

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End of Chapter 4