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By:

Bhalchandra Chorghade

11 August 2025 at 1:54:18 pm

Applause for Cricket, Silence for Badminton

Mumbai: When Lakshya Sen walked off the court after the final of the All England Badminton Championships, he carried with him the disappointment of another near miss. The Indian shuttler went down in straight games to Lin Chun-Yi, who created history by becoming the first player from Chinese Taipei to lift the prestigious title. But the story of Lakshya Sen’s defeat is not merely about badminton final. It is also about the contrasting way India celebrates its sporting heroes. Had the same...

Applause for Cricket, Silence for Badminton

Mumbai: When Lakshya Sen walked off the court after the final of the All England Badminton Championships, he carried with him the disappointment of another near miss. The Indian shuttler went down in straight games to Lin Chun-Yi, who created history by becoming the first player from Chinese Taipei to lift the prestigious title. But the story of Lakshya Sen’s defeat is not merely about badminton final. It is also about the contrasting way India celebrates its sporting heroes. Had the same narrative unfolded on a cricket field, the reaction would have been dramatically different. In cricket, even defeat often becomes a story of heroism. A hard-fought loss by the Indian team can dominate television debates, fill newspaper columns and trend across social media for days. A player who narrowly misses a milestone is still hailed for his fighting spirit. The nation rallies around its cricketers not only in victory but also in defeat. The narrative quickly shifts from the result to the effort -- the resilience shown, the fight put up, the promise of future triumph. This emotional investment is one of the reasons cricket enjoys unparalleled popularity in India. It has built a culture where players become household names and their performances, good or bad, become part of the national conversation. Badminton Fights Contrast that with what happens in sports like badminton. Reaching the final of the All England Championships is a monumental achievement. The tournament is widely considered badminton’s equivalent of Wimbledon in prestige and tradition. Only the very best players manage to reach its final stages, and doing it twice speaks volumes about Lakshya Sen’s ability and consistency. Yet the reaction in India remained largely subdued. There were congratulatory posts, some headlines acknowledging the effort and brief discussions among badminton enthusiasts. But the level of national engagement never quite matched the magnitude of the achievement. In a cricketing context, reaching such a stage would have triggered days of celebration and analysis. In badminton, it often becomes just another sports update. Long Wait India’s wait for an All England champion continues. The last Indian to win the title was Pullela Gopichand in 2001. Before him, Prakash Padukone had scripted history in 1980. These victories remain among the most significant milestones in Indian badminton. And yet, unlike cricketing triumphs that are frequently revisited and celebrated, such achievements rarely stay in the mainstream sporting conversation for long. Lakshya Sen’s journey to the final should ideally have been viewed as a continuation of that legacy, a reminder that India still possesses the talent to challenge the world’s best in badminton. Instead, it risks fading quickly from public memory. Visibility Gap The difference ultimately comes down to visibility and cultural investment. Cricket in India is not merely a sport; it is an ecosystem built over decades through media attention, sponsorship, and mass emotional attachment. Individual sports, on the other hand, often rely on momentary bursts of recognition, usually during Olympic years or when a medal is won. But consistent performers like Lakshya Sen rarely receive the sustained spotlight that their achievements deserve. This disparity can also influence the next generation. Young athletes are naturally drawn to sports where success brings recognition, financial stability and national fame. When one sport monopolises the spotlight, others struggle to build similar appeal. Beyond Result Lakshya Sen may have finished runner-up again, but his performance at the All England Championship is a reminder that India continues to produce world-class athletes in disciplines beyond cricket. The real issue is not that cricket receives immense attention -- it deserves the admiration it gets. The concern is that athletes from other sports often do not receive comparable appreciation for achievements that are equally significant in their own arenas. If India aspires to become a truly global sporting nation, its applause must grow broader. Sporting pride cannot remain confined to one field. Because somewhere on a badminton court, an athlete like Lakshya Sen is fighting just as hard for the country’s colours as any cricketer on a packed stadium pitch. The only difference is how loudly the nation chooses to cheer.

Chain-Pulling Captain: The Wedding Day Rescue Mission

The ‘Chain-Pulling Captain’ saved the day, proving that action beats delay.


At 25 years and eight months, my Red-Letter Day was near—I was to marry on 8 November 1993 in Jodhpur. After four years as an officer cadet and four and a half as a young officer, I put all my planning skills to use. On annual leave at my parents’ government quarters in South Delhi, we were to catch the 9 pm Jodhpur Mail from Old Delhi station on 7 November. With four suitcases and two rucksacks, my father hired a minibus from his BSF Headquarters. A former Gunner officer, he had passed on his planning knack—partly by DNA, mostly by example.


We planned to leave by 6 pm and reach Old Delhi by 7:30, allowing for traffic. Boarding was set for 8 pm, giving us an hour’s buffer. Or so we thought—until the real test began, an "Agni-Pariksha" before my “Agni-Pheras.” The journey was smooth until a few kilometres from the station, where faulty traffic signals at busy junctions caused sudden congestion. The minibus slowed to a crawl.


Time slipped away. At 7:45 pm, still 600–700 metres from the station, we were stuck in a sea of jostling vehicles. Patience wore thin. The train felt distant. My mother cursed the Delhi administration, police, and chaotic traffic. Something had to be done—fast.


The commando in me kicked in—I volunteered for a “One-Man Special Mission”: reach the station on foot and delay the train until my parents boarded safely. The seasoned BSF officer, with IMA Dehradun and Mountain Regiment roots, approved. With a rucksack and two heavy suitcases (wheeled bags weren’t common then), I set off on a “Mission Impossible.” My father followed in the minibus with my mother, assisted by Sham Lal, his trusted aide, helping with luggage.


I weaved through jammed traffic, dodging honking cars, angry drivers, and confused cops, inching towards the station. Hauling heavy bags over rough roads and footpaths, I was drenched in sweat. Training had built my stamina—but not for sprinting in Kolhapuri chappals, a long kurta, and churidar pyjamas. The groom was dressed for style, not the challenge ahead!


By 8:10 pm, I reached the First Class bogie, third or fourth from the engine, and stowed the suitcases under our seats. Finding no TTE, I rushed to the driver, asking for a 15–20 minute delay due to traffic. “The train will depart on time,” he replied. Undeterred, I ran to the guard at the rear—same request, same answer. Then to the station master—again, no help. Frustrated, I warned I’d pull the chain at 9 pm for stranded passengers. He ignored me.


I turned to the Railway Police, but they were powerless. As a last resort, I begged the Delhi traffic police at the station gate to intervene. “Not our jurisdiction,” was the curt reply.


By 8:50 pm, the minibus was still nowhere to be seen. I rushed back to the first-class coach, where some passengers had boarded. Many, like my parents, were likely stuck in traffic. Seeing the TTE, I pleaded for a 15-minute delay. No luck—the Jodhpur Mail had to leave at 9 pm sharp. “Japanese punctuality for my Jodhpur Mail today,” I muttered, frustrated. Disgusted, I warned I’d stop the train if it moved.


At 9 pm sharp, the Jodhpur Mail began to move. I lunged for the nearest chain and pulled it. As the train screeched to a halt, relieved passengers boarded. The guard and railway police, aware of who’d pulled it, warned me, “Don’t do that again, or action will follow.” “I will, if needed,” I replied—my parents were still missing. After a 7–8 minute delay, the train was ready to move. More passengers had arrived. Just before departure, I spotted my breathless parents and Sham Lal aboard, bags in hand.


They’d jumped off at the gate and dashed to the platform. Once seated, we sighed in relief. The special mission had succeeded, and my sweat-soaked new kurta was proof.


My hour of uproar earned me the nickname “Chain-Pulling Captain”, thanks to whom hundreds boarded. Many thanked me, though few knew what truly drove my “heroics”. The TTE, smiling as he checked tickets, said I’d done the right thing. The wedding went ahead without drama. I never wore Kolhapuris, kurtas, and pyjamas for train journeys again.


This anecdote teaches the OODA Cycle—Observe, Orient, Decide, Act—and the need for speed, especially in the military. Without timely observation of traffic, proper orientation of time and space, quick decisions, and decisive action—from leaving the bus to requesting a delay and pulling the chain—the train would have gone.


Before mobile phones, life held more suspense. I wonder if such an event would be as thrilling today.


 (The writer is an Indian Army veteran and Vice President CRM, ANSEC HR Services Ltd. He is a skydiver and a specialist in Security and Risk Management. Views personal.)

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