Puneet Issar and Amitabh Bachhan while shooting Coolie. Credit- lallantop.com

I kicked the belly pouch at that same second when Duryodhana punched Mr. Bachchan in Coolie. It must have been a terrific blow, as I understand now, almost 34 years later; it had ruptured the intestine of the superstar of the millennium and the country’s hero at the same time. A state of emergency had followed, at least virtually. The occult power of Mr. Puneet Issar, a man who then gave the mythical character of Mahabharata – Duryodhana, a face, had single-handedly punched the nation into despair. Sanctimonious or sacrilegious, I wish I had an answer to that. However, my mother’s worry for Mr. Bachchan made me believe it must be the latter. Much against the growing pain of two loves, she decided to evict one and focus on the other. No, not her love for Mr. Bachchan but me. I tumbled forth into this world but prayers for Mr. Bachchan continued.

My tryst with life began with a kick. Kicks while crying, kicks while laughing, kicks when someone scolded, kicks when I was angry. I deciphered that of all the communication discovered by mankind, the kick was the strongest. Kicks on the face, kicks on the stomach, kicks on the legs, kicks on the floor, kicks in the air, kicks where my kick could at far reach, became my primary form of communication. As years passed, I, Kishan Kumar Kailash, was rechristened to Stupid Head, Undeserving Legs and Kicking Kumar by all, including my parents. My kicks became a topic of discussion on birthdays, annual days and family gatherings and little did I know then that soon enough, just after three decades, they were poised to become a national topic of discussion. But for now, my mother, for the labor that I had caused her, cursed my legs vociferously and sometimes, even threatened to cut and throw them away if I disturbed her while she sat watching Mr. Bachchan’s movies.

Mr. Bachchan had donned many hats by then; from the Angry Young Man to the Shahenshah to the gangster in Agneepath, but my parents were stuck at his nocturnal possessions displayed in Shahenshah. Every time, when guests came home, in an attempt to show off the VCR player, my father played tapes of Shahenshah on our TV. Mr. Bachchan progressed. His role in Agneepath and Ajooba had taken the nation by storm. I, on the other hand, influenced by his livid avatar had taken the school, in my case, by my kick. I became notorious for picking fights in the school. Teachers complained to my father but I was busy doing what I knew best - kicking some boys in the class. Soon, it was rumored that my father was seen more in the school than at his job. Teacher’s, almost every week, called him to show how rough I had beaten up someone in the class. He felt ashamed but he never hit me. He was furious but he never hammered his anger on me, instead, he did something unthinkable. He admitted me to a karate training class for two hours every evening after school. At first, I cried, then I shouted and then I revolted- I flew few kicks here and few kicks there alas, nothing changed; I embraced defeat. Gradually, things changed from here.

I spoke less, shouted lesser and kicked more. Some days, I broke someone’s nose and some days, someone’s fingers. I was getting stronger and quicker day by day. So quick that I graduated to different belts in karate with the same speed in which I was shifted to the last bench of my classroom. From here, the last bench, the view changed and matters worsened.

My interest in studies increased. Subjects like girls, beautiful girls and beautiful girls from different standards caught my attention. I understood that to become a hero in their eyes, I had to become the hero of the school. A revelation hit me like a pole hits the drunkard Bachchan in Sharabi. I participated in an inter-school karate competition. Long loud chants went along in the auditorium when I walked on the stage for my first match. Kishan… Kishan… aah… that two syllable sound, forced by a ‘sh’ in between the two vowels, sounded like a melody to my ears, though faint when said by my whole class, made me proud. How proud was I when I heard my entire class cheer my name! Four out of the sixty, to be precise. Four boys, flunked twice in one standard to be more precise. My opponent had an entire batch of students cheering for him. Not to forget, with girls, no, not just girls, beautiful girls, cheering for him but that didn’t demoralize me or my army of four.

I won my first round and proved the girls wrong. My support increased by twenty percent; now I had five boys to cheer me till the finals against seventy of my opponent. We didn’t give up, in fact, we laid our trust blindly in what history taught us once - men with hope never loose.

I won the finals and was crowned as an inter-school karate champion. My parents, my teachers, my principal felicitated me; girls who knew only about my legs soon came to know that I had hands too. They shook hands and became my friends. I became a star overnight and enjoyed its stardom throughout my school. That night, it reaffirmed that the secret to all the wants and wishes lay within the self but in my case, in my kick.

As I grew up, in my college, my attention shifted from girls to something purposeful – Mr. Bachchan’s journey. That time, he slipped from his position and the nation was undergoing a downfall of the superstar. I, however, got attracted, almost hypnotically, to the prodigious powers of Mr. Bachchan. I watched all his movies and was moved by his presence on the screen. The country, on the other hand, was paused in an era marked by his downfall.

Soon, a magic happened, and time got split into two – one, the beard age, the other, the no-beard age. Dressed in a black outfit with a full grown beard on his face, Mohabbatein marked the revival of the superstar. The country welcomed him. Newborns then went identified by the period of their birth in beard age or no beard age. Mr. Bachchan’s beard stood as a bookmark in the journey of the nation. By then, my mother’s admiration had matured; mine was growing.

In college, I harbored my old passions again - karate, girls, and Mr. Bachchan but in the larger interest of time, I divided them proportionately so that none of the passions feel inferior to another at any time in the day. I watched several movies of Mr. Bachchan, kicked time and appreciated beautiful girls along the way. Whenever I felt low and wasted, I admired the journey of the hits and misses of Mr. Bachchan and refueled my belief in the self. Subconsciously, somewhere in my right brain, I had planted a wish to meet him once and narrate him the relevance of his existence in my life, before either of us die.

Soon, I participated in an inter-state karate championship. I started delivering kicks that won trophies for my college which soon qualified me to the next big competition – the national competition. It was time to show the nation what my mother went through while bearing the kicks of the Stupid Head, the Undeserving Legs and the Kicking Kumar in her belly pouch.

The match began. I kicked out Jharkhand, Madhya Pradesh, Kerala, Assam, Orissa and every other state that I had heard about in geography. I became the talk of the tournament. It was announced, later in the day, that I was qualified for the finals.

Next morning was a Sunday. The bell rang, and I walked into the ring to face my opponent from Haryana. He was tough and technically strong. I was lean but born to kick. The match went for some undesirable hours. Spectators were tired. Commentators were tired too, sitting under a broken fan. The guest of honor - honorable some minister was tired and was worried about his next free lunch. Seeing the sweat and tiredness on everyone’s face, I decided to take the responsibility, guided only by the memory of Mr. Puneet Issar in Coolie; I closed my eyes, clenched my fist and aimed a kick on his face with the same power as I once did when I was formed and ready to fall on this planet.

After some seven odd counts and by one judge’s unanimous decision, I was declared the national karate champion or the Karate Kid of India, as newspapers had put it. I had kicked away every name hurled on me from the last two decades. News channels, experts, professors, aunties all congratulated me. For the next five months, I felt elated even in my sleep.

My mother, however, took pride in someone else. Even at sixty-five, how could Mr. Bachchan belt out an equivalent of Godfather in Sarkar had left her in awe. From a close confidante to a man of every woman’s dreams, to a man of high esteem, Mr. Bachchan had played various roles with her in each step of her life. At least, in her mind. Mr. Bachchan was awarded the National Film Award for Best Actor for his role in Black and had earned praise for his work in Sarkar. Somehow, each time he delivered great performance, I was motivated mystically.

After my national win, I realized that it was demanding for me to look after my three passions on a single day. So, I decided to sacrifice one and focus on just two of my choice. Beautiful girls were dropped and focus concentrated on Mr. Bachchan and karate. I participated in competitions worldwide. I represented India in many international competitions now. I won titles, one after the other. Sometimes, gold, sometimes, silver but never empty. The time came when I was chosen to represent India at the father of all the sporting events – Olympics.

This was the first time that the Olympic committee had considered karate as a sport of technique than just an orderly street fight. I practiced longer than before. I spent my days in the ring and nights, watching movies of Mr. Bachchan. He was at the pinnacle of his success. And so was I. Our journeys, bearing no resemblance whatsoever, were at an all-time high. Soon, I, along with the chosen squad, ran waving my hand to the millions across the globe watching the curtain raiser of the Olympics.

The competition began. I fought the fiercest opponents from all over the world. We were not leading in the charts but we were not in an un-respectful position either. We ranked second from the bottom in the list. Slowly and gradually, I pulled it to a respectful position. There was one final challenge ahead, though.

The bell rang. My opponent, a Japanese Taekwondo champ, struck me with more power than I did. I somehow leveled him in the scores but this was the first time it reckoned that coincidence exists. That there could also be a person on this planet who must have kicked his mother’s belly pouch with the same power like I did. How wrong was I to think it was just me? But I had a chance to prove myself right. I closed my eyes, combined all my forces, imagined everything that I could lose if I don’t win this, and kicked him on his face like I once did in the inter-state competition.

Silence spread instantly in the stadium. My coach and my team cheered outside the ring, paused in their positions. After some five odd counts, I realized that I had missed that kick in the air and in return received a heavy one from him. I recollected myself and this time with my eyes open, with all my vigor and strength, aimed at his face and kicked him as hard as I could.

An awkward silence ran through the stadium again. After nine counts, I, Kishan Kumar Kailash, was declared the Olympic Gold winner of Karate and the first karate winner in the history of Olympics and India.

That day, I learnt two lessons – one, that the most important decisions in life are taken with eyes open. And the other, that after cricket, fighting of any form, can become the most liked sport of India.

Unexpectedly, the Stupid Head, the Undeserving Legs and the Kicking Kumar became the Karate Kumar of the world, and just like that, Judo, Taekwondo, and Jujitsu became an art not only of Japan but also of India.

I became the first choice of all advertisements. Within no time, I was seen everywhere, in between the news, in the news, in between the debate hours, in the debate hours and throughout many hours in the day. I was considered for a documentary, a novel and a movie at the same time.

Karate soon achieved a special place in India especially in the eyes of Indian mothers. They no longer saw it as a fight to prove whose clothes are whiter than the other but as a means to make one's career from it. Kids enrolled in karate like never before. I was awarded the Padma Shri for my contribution in sports the same year when Mr. Bachchan was awarded the Padma Vibhushan for his contribution in the field of arts.

One day, just after sunrise, I received a call. To my surprise, it was from Mr. Bachchan, who congratulated me for my achievements so far. He requested me to meet him for lunch the next day at his house. I was overjoyed. This was the moment that I was waiting for, that very moment when I could tell him the relevance of his existence in my life.

Dreams come true, even after thirty years, I thought. Next day, I met Mr. Bachchan. Just before I began to acknowledge him, he began acknowledging me. He admired the way I brought a native sport to life in a country obsessed by cricket. Here, I should pause and admit, I was filled with emotions and tears, not on my achievements but for hearing about myself from the baritone-voiced superstar of the millennium who was sitting just fifty centimeters away from me.  I thanked him for being there and, as promised once to myself, I began, “I kicked the belly pouch at that same second when …” We started with our lunch.