Till 40 Immortal
Till forty, I felt immortal. Not in any dramatic, heroic way — just in the quiet assumption that the body would always answer. Evenings meant badminton. The shuttle would hang under the lights for a split second, and I would rise to meet it without thinking. The crack of the smash ran through the wrist into the spine like a current. Lungs burned, but it was a clean burn. Sweat was proof that I was fully alive. It never felt extraordinary. That was the privilege — it felt normal.
Back pain began as a whisper. A stiffness after play. A small negotiation before bending. I ignored it, the way one ignores minor political noise in a stable country. Then one day the jump did not come. Another day, the recovery took longer. Someone said, “Better to stop for a while.” That is how immortality ends — not with a fall, but with advice. There was no farewell match, no final smash. Just a quiet absence from the court while the lights continued to shine for others.
Deflation is physical. It sits in the chest like air let out of a tire. Alcohol replaced adrenaline without announcement. Memory replayed rallies more vividly than reality ever had. I missed the voltage more than the sport — the feeling that the body was a willing accomplice. Retirement deepened that thinning of current. The phone rang less. Urgency dissolved. Days stretched out without edges. Golf tried to fill the space — a slower arc, a dignified swing — but that too eventually bowed out. Another goodbye.
Disease entered the conversation without asking permission. Operations. Scars. Caution. The vocabulary of limitation grew. Love did not disappear, but it became humdrum, as if everything were running on a depleted lithium battery. Still functioning, but dimmer. You begin to look for charging points — a walk instead of a run, a page instead of a rally, breath counted instead of assumed.
Till forty, immortality is not arrogance; it is ignorance. You believe recovery is guaranteed. You believe strength is permanent. You believe there will always be another game. After forty, awareness replaces illusion. You measure effort. You calculate cost. You respect the spine.
I do not mourn the racket itself. I mourn the man who could leap without calculating the landing. Yet something remains. The voltage changes form. Speed becomes reflection. Impact becomes depth. The court disappears, but the game does not.