A Fight Beyond Medals

Phones now rule the mat, but one woman in Kashmir still bows to the slow discipline of Judo.

- Kabra Altaf

There are places the world forgets. Corners where dust gathers on ambition, and the soft sounds of effort go unheard. For me, that place has always been the mat.

I first stepped onto it as a girl with hope and excitement, dreaming of being called a sportsperson, something my parents taught me to be: someone who is strong, unafraid, who fights for what is right. I didn't know what a Judoka was then. I just knew this was my calling.

The mat was not grand. It did not glow. It was just around 14 or 12 blue mats in Srinagar, softened by years of falling feet and honest struggle. But to me, it was the beginning of something sacred.

Judo arrived in my life without noise, without announcements. It came like the slow filling of a cup: steady, patient, certain.

I was 11, or 12 I guess, traveling alone for almost an hour to reach the stadium. No one in my family had ever done this. My parents later bought me a small button phone, which I wasn't allowed to use during training. I'd keep it off, always. Even now, no matter how old I get, I silence my phone before stepping onto the mat. The respect for that space remains unchanged.

I remember waiting sometimes for my Abu to pick me up after practice, and on some days, the sudden shock of a curfew. Once, I called from a traffic police booth near the Chinar tree and said, "I'm waiting here." That memory is stitched into the fabric of my journey.