The Wall - A Mirror

You win on some days, you lose on some days, but you play on all days

Four years ago, I picked up a tennis racket again. At first glance, it seemed like a foolish move. I wasn’t good at it—not anymore. As a kid, tennis was second nature to me, but then came exams, entrance prep, and the long blur of academic grind. For over six years, the game that once felt like home became a distant memory.

So when I took that racket back into my hands after such a long break, it didn’t feel heroic—it felt awkward, humbling. I stumbled through basics, embarrassed myself in front of kids half my age but twice as skilled. It all felt like one long, long point—a never-ending rally of self-doubt, mis-hits, and moments that tested my resolve. But I chose to persevere. I didn’t want to just play tennis again. I wanted it to be a part of who I was.

Then came college. I was out of shape, but full of purpose. I wanted to pave a way for tennis on campus, and I did—I revived the tennis chapter from the ground up. But once again, life intervened. My commitment to the Formula Student racecar project with SAE demanded everything from me: my energy, my nights, my weekends. I’d walk past the courts, hear the sound of rallies under floodlights, and feel something ache inside me. I missed the game, but I had made my choice.

When I returned home to Vadodara, I thought I’d pick up where I left off. I was wrong. Once again, I found myself back at square one. Rusty, slow, unsure. The worst moment came when the coach told me I wasn’t good enough to play with the others—that I was wasting their time—and told me to go hit against the wall instead. That moment stung deeply. I wasn’t just humiliated—I was invisible. Sent away to a wall.

But that wall became my companion. It listened when no one else did. It absorbed every frustration, every late-night thought, every internal battle. It wasn’t just a wall. It was a mirror.

I returned to the court back at home, determined. Every day, I showed up. I trained. I got personal coaching. I put in the hours. I hit ball after ball against that wall, learning not just forehands and backhands, but patience. Character. Quiet resilience. I was humbled, yes—but not broken.

Eventually, I earned my spot back. I played a decent tournament, and though I lost in the first round of both singles and doubles, it didn’t shake me. I wasn’t chasing instant glory—I was chasing mastery, purpose. Because somewhere along the way, I stopped measuring myself by wins or losses. What matters is that I show up. That I play.

I’ve come to live by this now:

“You win on some days, you lose on some days, but you play on all days.”

And that’s enough for me.

Forza