Nasaza

XLV

A match of badminton with Sanskriti turned into a full-blown, intense competition between us, as usual. There was a mutual understanding between us: we both played to win, and there was no room for mercy.

Sweat trickled down my forehead as I gripped the racket tighter, trying to score a point.

And also trying to not accidentally throw the racquet at her head, again. It was just the two of us in the arena, and my chances of survival were low if she whipped out that blade again.

As if reading my thoughts, a sly smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She seemed to sense my hesitation, and the thought of her taking advantage of it made me grit my teeth in frustration.

I couldn't afford to show any weakness in front of her. So I pushed the thought aside and focused on the game. It was time to bring my A-game.

A-game, in this case, meant Aadesh-game.

My arm muscles tensed as I swung the racket with determination, each shot aimed to score.

She didn't hesitate to return the serve with equal intensity. The clash of our rackets echoed through the arena, a symphony of calculated moves and strategic plays.

The game was a back-and-forth affair. I took pleasure in the way her expression remained stoic, even as I scored point after point. But I knew not to get too cocky. Sanskriti had a habit of pulling tricks out of her sleeve when you least expected it.

Our game continued, the tension between us palpable. We both knew this was more than just a game; it was a battle of wills, a test of who could break the other first.

That was her specialty, making her opponent run from one side of the court to another because she just had to hit her shots opposite to where the player was standing.

And she was doing it with deadly accuracy. Her eyes followed my every move, analyzing my position on the court. Each shot she aimed in a direction that forced me to run to the other side, my legs screaming in protest as I sprinted to return the serve.

I knew her strategy all too well. It was a game of stamina as much as a game of skill. She was trying to wear me out, make me tired and sloppy with exhaustion.

I gritted my teeth, refusing to give in to fatigue. I had to push through, find a way to outmaneuver her. I couldn't let her win, not this time.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart and clear my mind. I needed to stay focused, to anticipate her moves and counter them with my own strategy.

Realizing my advantage in height, I began to utilize high shots strategically. I sent the shuttlecock soaring high into the air, forcing her to stretch up on her toes to return it.

She stumbled momentarily, surprised by the unexpected change in my strategy. I could see the frustration flicker through her eyes, but she quickly regained her composure and adjusted her shots accordingly.

While she managed to return some of my high shots, she was clearly struggling to match my reach. I could see cracks in her usually iron-clad composure, and I couldn't help but feel a surge of satisfaction.

With each successful high shot, I could swear I saw her getting more and more annoyed. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. And I relished every second of it.

Our game had transformed into a dance of sorts, with her jumping to reach my high shots and me darting across the court to cover the space. Our breathing was labored, sweat trickling down our faces, but neither of us backed down.

The game was taking its toll on both of us, physical exhaustion setting in. Even though our moves were becoming slower and more taxing by the minute, we both pushed through, determined to emerge victorious.