The sound of bone on bone cut deep, but a lone voice from the crowd cut deeper.
“Udit bhai, hum tumaare saath hai!” (Udit bhai, we are with you!)
From the seemingly hostile audience of over 2,000, a gesture of solidarity. It seemed implausible. Here I was at the Punjab Sports Festival in Lahore, fighting in the first official Mixed Martial Arts match between an Indian and a Pakistani. The event had been sold as a showdown between the two nations, so I wasn’t expecting much sympathy.
When I walked into the open-air Al Hamra Stadium, I noted that it was packed to capacity. But the crowd seemed oddly subdued, torn between curiosity and patriotic sentiment as their eyes narrowed on me: the man who had come from across the border to fight.
He struck with a hard right hand. I ducked left and issued one of my own, though mine found its mark. And while he grew timid, I grew confident, emboldened by the miracle that my ears conveyed. The seemingly hostile crowd had begun to cheer – for me.
As the last round approached, and I kept control of the fight, audience members seized upon me asking for photographs and offering congratulations for a bout well fought.
At first glance, an athletic exchange of punches, kicks, arm-bars and chokes hardly seems like anything more than a breeding ground for humankind’s darkest inclinations. And yet the fight forced the crowd to see my opponent and me for who we truly were – as individuals. It made them acknowledge us as two competitors striving for victory in order to validate our years of training.
Just a month before the bout, when a Pakistani fight promotion company contacted the Bandra gym at which I train, with an invitation for Indian fighters to join the event, several of my friends jumped at the opportunity. Pakistan Fight Club was offering an all-expenses paid trip to Lahore and the chance to compete in the first India versus Pakistan mixed martial arts bout. PFC had partnered with Pakistan’s Punjab Sports Board to ensure maximum publicity.
But outrage spread when news broke that PFC officials had requested that my head coach send only Hindu fighters to the tournament. Shahzaib Ahmed of the PFC said that Hindu fighters would “create more promotion in (the) media,” and make it “easier for the public to recognise and distinguish between the names (of fighters).” He spoke the language of pragmatism, not vitriol, and that was perhaps what was most troubling.
Nearly 80% of my fellow fighters in Bandra were Muslim. Suddenly, a once-attractive proposal was laced with a strange brand of jingoism. But it was too late to take a moral stand, and cancel. Tickets had been booked, friends in Pakistan had been notified and I’d finally received a visa after a week of struggling at the Pakistan High Commission in Delhi. Overnight, our band of fighters was now whittled down to a single person.
While fighters from Pakistan and Afghanistan came with team officials, visa complications meant that I traveled as a team of one. Some Pakistani friends had come to show their support, but I had resigned myself to the fact that I would walk out alone.
As I struggled to motivate myself for my bout, a voice called out to me.
“Are you Indian? Are you here alone?”
I found a smiling, middle-aged man with movie-star hair beckoning me forward.
“We know you’re alone. That must take a lot of courage, we are so glad you’ve come brother. Don’t worry, we’re with you!”
Before I knew it, he had mustered together a group of more than 30 people, each shouting words of encouragement.
The upsurge of support ceased for a moment, as someone from the crowd asked half-hazardly, “ What is his religion?”
“He is our brother, this is not about religion!” “This is about sportsmanship, we will support any sportsman!”
That night in Lahore, we put aside the baggage of history. A fight meant to pit us against each other ended up bringing us together in ways none of us could have imagined.
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“Udit bhai, hum tumaare saath hai!” (Udit bhai, we are with you!)
From the seemingly hostile audience of over 2,000, a gesture of solidarity. It seemed implausible. Here I was at the Punjab Sports Festival in Lahore, fighting in the first official Mixed Martial Arts match between an Indian and a Pakistani. The event had been sold as a showdown between the two nations, so I wasn’t expecting much sympathy.
When I walked into the open-air Al Hamra Stadium, I noted that it was packed to capacity. But the crowd seemed oddly subdued, torn between curiosity and patriotic sentiment as their eyes narrowed on me: the man who had come from across the border to fight.
He struck with a hard right hand. I ducked left and issued one of my own, though mine found its mark. And while he grew timid, I grew confident, emboldened by the miracle that my ears conveyed. The seemingly hostile crowd had begun to cheer – for me.
As the last round approached, and I kept control of the fight, audience members seized upon me asking for photographs and offering congratulations for a bout well fought.
At first glance, an athletic exchange of punches, kicks, arm-bars and chokes hardly seems like anything more than a breeding ground for humankind’s darkest inclinations. And yet the fight forced the crowd to see my opponent and me for who we truly were – as individuals. It made them acknowledge us as two competitors striving for victory in order to validate our years of training.
Just a month before the bout, when a Pakistani fight promotion company contacted the Bandra gym at which I train, with an invitation for Indian fighters to join the event, several of my friends jumped at the opportunity. Pakistan Fight Club was offering an all-expenses paid trip to Lahore and the chance to compete in the first India versus Pakistan mixed martial arts bout. PFC had partnered with Pakistan’s Punjab Sports Board to ensure maximum publicity.
But outrage spread when news broke that PFC officials had requested that my head coach send only Hindu fighters to the tournament. Shahzaib Ahmed of the PFC said that Hindu fighters would “create more promotion in (the) media,” and make it “easier for the public to recognise and distinguish between the names (of fighters).” He spoke the language of pragmatism, not vitriol, and that was perhaps what was most troubling.
Nearly 80% of my fellow fighters in Bandra were Muslim. Suddenly, a once-attractive proposal was laced with a strange brand of jingoism. But it was too late to take a moral stand, and cancel. Tickets had been booked, friends in Pakistan had been notified and I’d finally received a visa after a week of struggling at the Pakistan High Commission in Delhi. Overnight, our band of fighters was now whittled down to a single person.
While fighters from Pakistan and Afghanistan came with team officials, visa complications meant that I traveled as a team of one. Some Pakistani friends had come to show their support, but I had resigned myself to the fact that I would walk out alone.
As I struggled to motivate myself for my bout, a voice called out to me.
“Are you Indian? Are you here alone?”
I found a smiling, middle-aged man with movie-star hair beckoning me forward.
“We know you’re alone. That must take a lot of courage, we are so glad you’ve come brother. Don’t worry, we’re with you!”
Before I knew it, he had mustered together a group of more than 30 people, each shouting words of encouragement.
The upsurge of support ceased for a moment, as someone from the crowd asked half-hazardly, “ What is his religion?”
“He is our brother, this is not about religion!” “This is about sportsmanship, we will support any sportsman!”
That night in Lahore, we put aside the baggage of history. A fight meant to pit us against each other ended up bringing us together in ways none of us could have imagined.
