I’m 16 years old, from Haryana, and if I’m honest, my story doesn’t begin with a big dream—it begins with a sentence I’ve heard more times than I can count: “Yeh khel paegi?” and “Khana banana ke alava aata kya hoga?” At first, I didn’t understand how deeply these words could stay with someone. But over time, they stopped being just comments and started becoming something I carried inside me. Not loudly, not always consciously—but always there.

Growing up, there was one place that felt more alive than anywhere else—the ground near my house. It wasn’t special in any way. Just uneven land, dust everywhere, no proper lines or facilities. But every evening, it transformed. Boys would gather, form teams, and play kabaddi like it was the most important thing in the world. The air would fill with energy, with shouting, with that constant rhythm—“kabaddi… kabaddi… kabaddi…” And I was always there. Watching. Quietly. Carefully. I learned everything without ever stepping in. I knew the movements, the strategies, the timing. Sometimes I would even hold my breath while watching a raid, whispering softly under my breath like I was part of it. But I wasn’t. Because somewhere, there was an invisible line—and I wasn’t supposed to cross it.

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One day, I did. I don’t know what changed exactly. Maybe I got tired of watching. Maybe I got tired of staying quiet. Or maybe I just wanted to know what it felt like to stop holding myself back. So I stepped in. And instantly, I felt it—the difference. The looks, the whispers, the small laughs that weren’t really small. And then those same words again, this time right in front of me: “Yeh khel paegi?” and “Khana banana ke alava aata kya hoga?” That moment didn’t break me, but it stayed with me. Because for the first time, I wasn’t hearing it from the side—I was standing in the middle of it.

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My first raid was not something to be proud of. My heart was racing, my voice shook when I said “kabaddi kabaddi,” and before I could even understand what I was doing, I was caught. Pulled down. Surrounded. Finished. I fell hard. And for a few seconds, I didn’t move. It wasn’t just the pain—it was the feeling that maybe they were right. That maybe I didn’t belong here. But then another thought came, stronger than the rest: “If you don’t get up now, you never will.” And so I did. Not confidently. Not perfectly. But I stood up. And that one decision—to get up instead of stepping back—changed everything.

After that, I kept going back. Every day. Some days were good, most were not. I got hurt, I made mistakes, I heard more comments than encouragement. Sometimes I would go home and quietly clean my wounds so no one would ask questions. Sometimes I would sit alone and wonder if it was worth it. But still, I returned to the ground. Because kabaddi had become something more than a game for me. It became a space where I could be myself without asking for permission. A place where I wasn’t defined by what people expected from me, but by what I could actually do.

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Slowly, kabaddi started changing me. Not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. Before this, I was quiet, someone who avoided attention, someone who didn’t take risks. But on the ground, I had to trust myself. I had to act quickly, think clearly, and move forward even when I was unsure. And that started reflecting in my life too. Kabaddi taught me things no one had ever explained to me directly—that fear doesn’t disappear, you just learn to move through it; that falling is not failure, staying down is; and that if you don’t believe in yourself, no one else will. It gave me confidence in a way nothing else ever had.

But as I improved, something else started growing too—a small dream. Nothing big or unrealistic, just a simple thought: “Maybe I can do something with this.” And that’s when reality hit me harder than any tackle ever had. Because when I looked ahead, there was nothing clear. No proper structure, no guidance, no visible path for girls like me. We play, we improve, but then… we stop. Not because we want to, but because we don’t know where to go next. I’ve seen girls better than me leave the game. Not because they lacked talent, but because they lacked opportunity. And every time someone stopped coming to the ground, it felt like a quiet reminder that maybe this journey doesn’t go very far.

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Then I heard about the Asian Kabaddi League (AKL). At first, I didn’t react much. I’ve learned not to get excited too quickly. But the more I understood, the more it started feeling different. AKL isn’t just about organizing matches—it’s about building something that has always been missing: a system. A structure where kabaddi is not just played, but developed. With regional representation, organized teams, and a proper platform, it creates something we’ve never really had—a pathway.

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For someone like me, that changes everything. Because the biggest problem we face is not lack of talent—it’s invisibility. We play in small grounds, we learn on our own, we improve quietly—but no one sees it. AKL feels like it’s designed to change that. It feels like it understands players like us—the ones who come from places without facilities, without exposure, but with real passion. And for girls, it means even more. Because when something becomes structured and professional, people start taking it seriously. Families begin to trust it. Society begins to respect it. And slowly, the conversation changes.

From “Yeh khel paegi?” to “Iska selection ho sakta hai.”

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That shift is not small. It’s everything.

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AKL doesn’t promise success. But it offers something just as important—a direction. A reason to continue. A belief that if we keep working, there is somewhere we can go. For the first time, I can imagine a future where kabaddi is not just something I love, but something I can build a life around. Where the effort I put in every day actually leads somewhere.

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Even today, nothing around me has changed. The ground is still the same. The dust still rises the same way. People still watch the same way. Sometimes, I still hear those same lines. But they don’t affect me the same way anymore. Because now, I have something stronger than those words—I have belief. Belief in myself, and belief that things can change.

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Every time I step onto the ground now, it feels different. I don’t just see a game. I see preparation. I hold my breath a little longer during every raid—not just to score, but because it reminds me of everything I’ve been through and everything I’m still fighting for. Kabaddi, for me, is no longer just about winning or losing. It’s about proving, again and again, that I belong here.

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I am just a 16-year-old girl from Haryana. I don’t have everything figured out. But I know one thing—I won’t stop. Because now, I can see something ahead. Not clearly, not perfectly, but enough to keep going. A possibility. A platform. A chance. And for me, that chance has a name—Asian Kabaddi League (AKL).

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And until that chance becomes real, I’ll keep playing. I’ll keep falling, getting up, and trying again. Because kabaddi has taught me something I will carry with me always:

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As long as I can breathe… my raid is not over.