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  Part- 338:

  Sourov yahe tape even tighter around his knee, wing slightly from the added pressure. He gnced around the locker room, cheg to make sure no one else was listening. “No one o know,” he muttered. “Not yet.”

  Zia sighed, exasperation creeping into his tone. “I get it—you want to help the team. But what good are you to us if you tear something and ’t even stand?”

  Sourov leaned back against the bench, exhaustion aermination warring in his expression. “It doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “This… this isn’t just a touro me, Zia. I *have* to win this.”

  Zia frowned, puzzled by the iy in his friend’s voice. “Why, man? You’ve already proven you’re one of the best among heavyweights ye. What’s driving you so hard?”

  Sourov hesitated, his gaze distant. After a moment, he sighed deeply and began to speak, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s not just about me. It’s about my family… and my faith.”

  Sourov’s life had never been easy. He was born into a traditional Bengali Hindu family, where every achievement—academic, athletic, or otherwise—was a refle not just on the individual but oire family. His father was a temple priest, and his mother taught Sanskrit at a local schoion and cultural heritage were woven into the very fabric of Sourov’s upbringing. From a young age, he learhe values of discipline, perseverance, and responsibility through the rituals they followed.

  But growing up as a Hindu in a petitive enviro wasn’t always easy. There were moments when Sourov felt isoted like he had to work twice as hard to be noticed and taken seriously. Some people doubted his abilities, others questioned his choices, and a few subtly hihat Judo was a waste of time. “Why not foore practical things?” they would say. “Something that will secure your future?”

  But Sourov didn’t care about practicality. Judo was his passion—his calling. To him, it was more than just a sport; it was a way of life. The philosophy of Judo—*maximum efficy, minimum effort*—resonated deeply with the teags he had grown up with. Both taught the importance of bance, respect, and humility.

  However, the road to mastery was anything but smooth. Sourov’s family was never wealthy, and aff Judo lesso making sacrifices. His parents cut ers wherever they could, skipping small luxuries just to pay for his tours and uniforms. Sourov carried the weight of their hopes and dreams with every throw and grapple. If he could win this national championship, it wouldn’t just be his victory—it would be a way to honor the sacrifices his family had made for him.

  But there was more to it than just that. Sourov’s grandfather, an old man with a deep love for sports, had once dreamed of representing Bangdesh iling but never had the ce. Life had gotten in the way, as it often does, and the dream remained unfulfilled. Sourov saw this tour as his ce to carry that torch forward—to do what his grandfather couldn’t.

  “Winning this championship,” Sourov whispered, his voice tight with emotion, “it’s not just about me. It’s about everyone who’s believed in me—my parents, my grandfather, everyone who sacrificed something so I could get here.”