The Delhi boys were giants.
They walked in — shoulders broad, thighs like tree trunks, arms bulging under their jerseys — faces half-covered in confidence, half in indifference. As the Bihar team lined up beside them, I felt something in my stomach drop. My boys looked like they had been plucked from a different arena altogether — slighter, leaner, their eyes darting with nervous anticipation.
From the stands of the Patliputra Sports Complex in Patna, I could see the contrast starkly. Like David before Goliath. But this wasn’t a story written in scriptures. This was the opening match of the National Rugby 7s Championship — and Bihar was hosting it in 2022.
I remember deliberately not walking out with the team. It was cowardly in retrospect, but I couldn’t bear to be part of what I feared would be a humiliation. I sat on the stage, hiding in plain sight, hoping my face didn’t betray the churning inside.
The whistle blew. Within seven minutes, our boys were flattened — physically and emotionally. It wasn’t a match. It was a massacre.
I left quietly. I walked back to the office, some 200 metres away, found a sofa, and slumped into it like a balloon losing air. What was I thinking — bidding to host a sport that had no roots in Bihar? What was I thinking bringing in South African coaches? The voices in my head were unforgiving.
A knock. Pankaj Jyoti, the secretary of the Bihar Rugby Association, the principal architect of rugby development in Bihar, stood at the door. “Sir, are you okay? The girls are about to play Delhi next. I’ve sent a livestream link to your phone.”
I didn’t answer, just nodded. When he left, I clicked the link out of resignation. The screen flickered, and I saw them — our girls. Calm. Steady. Confident. Something about their body language said they hadn’t read the script of fear.
When they huddled and shouted, “1-2-3, Rugby!” in perfect unison, I sat up.
And then — Dharamsheela, or Beauty as everyone called her, kicked off. The ball sliced through the air. And like wild stallions, the girls charged. Tackles, scrums, tries — Delhi had no time to react. Gudiya’s speed, Sweta’s feints, Arti’s agility, Sapna’s brute force — it was poetry performed with bruises.
Bihar won, both the match against Delhi with a scoreline of 22-12 and the championship after beating reigning champion Odisha 17-12 in the final.
Dharamsheela, or Beauty as everyone called her, kicked off. The ball sliced through the air. And like wild stallions, the girls charged. Tackles, scrums, tries — Delhi had no time to react.
| Photo Credit:
Special Arrangement
Dharamsheela, or Beauty as everyone called her, kicked off. The ball sliced through the air. And like wild stallions, the girls charged. Tackles, scrums, tries — Delhi had no time to react.
| Photo Credit:
Special Arrangement
I ran — actually ran — back to the field. And there they were. My girls. Our girls. Holding the trophy, eyes glittering with disbelief and pride. When they spotted me, they rushed over, dancing, screaming, and handed me the cup.
I didn’t cry. Not then.
But later, when Bandana ma’am — then Secretary of the Department of Youth, Art & Culture, and a mother of two daughters herself — hugged the team and let her tears fall, I felt mine come too. Only one person saw: Malarvizhi, my partner in life, in profession, in quiet understanding. Her silence wrapped around me like a balm.
And that night, as thunder rumbled and rain poured, I whispered to myself, barely audible over the storm: “A medal is a medal.”
That phrase — simple, almost naïve — was what I had once told Chief Secretary Shri Amir Subhani, IAS, when he’d asked, midway through a track event, how Bihar was suddenly shining in national sports.
“Sir, I have only one reason. Not many. One.”
“One?” he’d asked, amused.
“Yes. That a medal is a medal. Doesn’t matter the sport. Doesn’t matter if it’s a team or solo effort. Sepaktakraw or wrestling, rugby or fencing — if a Bihari wins a medal, the State wins.”
He nodded. I remember that.
What we had done was pivot. We identified talented athletes struggling in oversaturated disciplines and offered them alternatives — rugby, fencing, wushu. We promised them something no one else had: a chance, a kit, a coach, a room, a meal, a future.
We had met scepticism with stubbornness. The kids pushed back at first. “Give us the same facilities for our sport, and we’ll win medals too,” they said. We struck a deal — try our way for a year. If you medal, stay. If not, go back — no hard feelings.
Rahul Bose, president of Rugby India and a rare mix of intellect and passion, had told me with conviction: “Host the Championship. Bihar will win — not one, but all four categories.”
I believed him. And when Bandana ma’am said just two words — “Go ahead” — I jumped in. Risking ridicule. Risking funding. Risking faith.
That leap led us to Kiano, the South African coach; to training camps in rural pockets; to cold mornings and muddy fields; to laughter over protein shakes and tears over torn knees.
And it led us to that trophy. And then two more.
The next morning, newspapers were filled with the faces of our rugby champions — daughters and sons of farmers, labourers, daily wage earners. The Hon’ble Chief Minister Shri Nitish Kumar himself felicitated them.
Social media buzzed. The anthem “Khel raha Bihar, khil raha Bihar” was no longer just a slogan — it was a truth.
When the Chief Minister invited the players to the Assembly enclave and handed them cash awards, the applause wasn’t just for the players. It was for the idea. Those medals could come from anywhere. Bihar was no longer apologising for its past. It was celebrating its future.
It was never about just rugby.
It was about rewriting what was once dismissed as impossible. About showing the country that Bihar doesn’t just dream anymore — it delivers.
And yes, a medal is still a medal. But today, every medal has a story, a face, a family, and a future.
That phrase — “A medal is a medal” — was no longer mine alone.
It belonged to every child who now saw opportunity not in just one sport, but in every sport their heart leaned towards. It belonged to every coach who said “yes” before “maybe”, who dared to believe in unfamiliar games with unfamiliar names. It belonged to every mother who let her daughter chase something unseen, something untried — something that perhaps she herself never dared to dream.
It echoed in the chants from the sidelines, in the thunderous footsteps charging across the field, in the sweat-soaked jerseys of our rugby warriors. It whispered in the tear-filled eyes of those who had been underestimated for far too long.
That medal wasn’t just metal. It was a memory. It was a message. It was a movement.
A medal is a medal.
Raveendran Sankaran is the Director General of the Bihar State Sports Authority (BSSA).
