"What is that immigrant boy doing here?"[1]
A hush fell over the room.
Anant Kaur tightened his grip on the strap of his bag. He had barely stepped into the tournament hall when the whispers began. His hoodie was soaked from the relentless London rain. His sneakers, worn thin from countless matches, squeaked on the polished floor. His name wasn't on anyone's list of rising stars. And still, he had registered.
With a passport that had finally collected its first international stamp, Anant had made it—alone. No coach, no sponsor, no flashy team jacket. Just the money he scraped together from back-alley tournaments, prize money handed over in cash. When his parents finally said yes, it wasn't with confidence; it was laced with anxiety.
But they still said yes.
The woman at the registration desk had stared at him a moment too long. "You're here for this tournament?" she asked, her skepticism apparent.
"I registered," he replied, his voice steady despite the weight of her gaze.
