The Olympic stadium loomed majestically against the backdrop of a clear, blue sky. Athletes milled around, coaches barked last-minute instructions, and the hum of anticipation was almost tangible in the air. Rohan should have been here with his mind solely on his training, absorbed by the excitement and the challenge ahead. But his thoughts were a thousand miles away.
It had happened suddenly, a phone call from his brother Rahul the night before that shattered the sense of calm and focus he had finally achieved. Rohan could still hear the tremor in his brother's voice, the urgency of his words:
"Bhaiya, Papa's in the hospital. He collapsed earlier today. It's serious."
The words had sent a jolt through Rohan, his heart plummeting as the room spun around him. He had barely registered the rest of Rahul's explanation—the doctors, the tests, the possible complications. All he could think about was his father, the man who had stood by him through every high and low of his career, who had pushed him to chase his dreams even when it seemed impossible.
"Is he—" Rohan's voice had caught in his throat, panic and confusion swirling in his mind. "Is he going to be okay?"
"They don't know yet," Rahul had said, his voice thick with fear. "He's stable, but they're still running tests. Mom is with him, and I'm at the hospital. But it's… Bhaiya, it's bad. You should know."
The words reverberated in Rohan's mind now, his thoughts clouded with worry and guilt. What was he doing here, preparing for a race, while his father was lying in a hospital bed back home?
He stood on the track, staring blankly ahead as athletes around him prepared for the day's warm-up session. The Olympics, the race of his life, had been everything he'd worked for, everything he'd dreamed of. But now, it felt distant, almost meaningless in the face of his father's illness. How could he concentrate on running when his family needed him?
"Rohan."
Ms. Mehra's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and precise as always. She stood beside him, her gaze fixed on his face, her expression uncharacteristically soft.
"Rohan," she repeated, more gently this time. "I know you're struggling. I just got off the phone with your family. Your father's condition is stable for now."
Rohan swallowed hard, his throat dry. He had barely slept the night before, tossing and turning as worry gnawed at him. He'd gone back and forth a thousand times, debating whether to stay in Tokyo or book the first flight back to India.
"But he's not out of danger, is he?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"No," Ms. Mehra admitted quietly. "But he's in good hands. Your family is there with him, and they're doing everything they can."
The words did little to ease the tight knot of fear in Rohan's chest. He had always leaned on his father's quiet strength, his unwavering support, and now, when his father needed him most, he felt helpless and torn. He wanted to be there, by his father's side, holding his hand, telling him to keep fighting. But he was here, preparing for a race that suddenly felt insignificant.
"I don't know what to do, Ms. Mehra," Rohan said, his voice barely a whisper. "I feel like I should be there. But I can't leave—I've worked for this my entire life."
Ms. Mehra's eyes softened. "It's an impossible choice, Rohan. No one would blame you if you decided to go back. But before you make any decisions, you need to think about what your father would want. You know him better than anyone. What would he say if he were here right now?"
Rohan closed his eyes, a thousand memories flooding his mind. His father, standing at the edge of the track during one of his first races, clapping and cheering louder than anyone else. His father, waking up at dawn to drive him to training sessions. His father, holding his hand after the injury, telling him he would run again, that he was destined for great things.
"He'd tell me to run," Rohan murmured, his throat tight with emotion. "He'd tell me to stay focused, to give it everything I have."
"That's right," Ms. Mehra said softly. "Your father has always believed in you. He's the reason you're here. And I know he would want you to give it your all."
Rohan swallowed, nodding slowly. He knew she was right. His father would never want him to abandon his dream, not when he was on the verge of achieving it. But knowing that didn't make the pain any easier to bear.
"What if—what if something happens while I'm here?" Rohan whispered, the fear clawing at his chest. "What if I never get to see him again?"
Ms. Mehra hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "Rohan, there are no guarantees in life. But your father would want you to keep pushing forward, no matter what. You need to decide what's right for you, but I think you already know what he would want."
Rohan stood there for a long moment, torn between duty to his family and the culmination of his life's work. The track, the race, the Olympics—it all blurred together, overshadowed by the image of his father lying in a hospital bed. But then he thought of his father's smile, the way he always pushed Rohan to be the best version of himself, to chase his dreams no matter the cost.
"Okay," Rohan said finally, his voice trembling but resolute. "I'll stay. I'll race."
Ms. Mehra nodded, respect and understanding in her gaze. "Good. And I promise you, if anything changes, you'll be the first to know. Your family will keep you updated, and I'll make sure you can get back to them if you need to."
Rohan nodded slowly, feeling the weight of his decision settle over him. It was the hardest choice he had ever made, but he knew it was the right one. His father had spent his entire life supporting him, believing in him. The least Rohan could do was honor that by giving his best performance here, for him.
"Thank you," Rohan whispered.
---
The next few days were a blur of emotions as Rohan tried to balance his training with the constant anxiety about his father's condition. He spoke to his family every morning and every night, his heart clenching every time the phone rang, dreading what news might come through.
His mother's voice was always steady, but Rohan could hear the strain behind her words. She tried to be strong for him, telling him to focus on his race, but he knew how much she was hurting. Rahul was quieter than usual, giving brief updates and promising to let Rohan know if there was any change.
"He's fighting, Bhaiya," Rahul had said one night, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "But the doctors say it's touch and go. We just have to wait and hope."
The uncertainty gnawed at Rohan, eating away at his focus and leaving him feeling helpless and distracted. He went through the motions of training, pushing himself physically, but his mind was elsewhere. Every stride, every lap was tainted by the fear of what might happen if he let his guard down, if he wasn't there when his father needed him.
But every time he felt himself falter, he remembered his father's voice in his head: *"Keep going, beta. Don't stop."* Those were the words his father had said to him when he was a child, running his first race, and they were the words that had carried him through his entire career.
Rohan pushed on, determined to stay focused, to honor his father's belief in him. He trained harder, running longer and faster, channeling all his fear and pain into every step. But it was a fragile balance, and he knew it. One wrong step, one bad piece of news, and it could all come crashing down.
---
The night before the first race, Rohan sat alone in his room, staring at his phone. The screen was filled with messages—texts from friends and teammates wishing him luck, updates from the media, and a long string of calls from family. But one message stood out.
It was from his father.
It had been sent before his father had collapsed, a short, simple text that Rohan hadn't noticed until now:
*"Beta, no matter what happens, I'm so proud of you. Go make us all proud. Run like the wind."*
Rohan read the words over and over, his vision blurring with unshed tears. He could almost hear his father's voice, could see the smile that had always been there, unwavering and proud. His father believed in him—had always believed in him, even when Rohan doubted himself.
Taking a deep breath, Rohan closed his eyes and let the pain and fear wash over him. He didn't try to fight it. Instead, he let it flow through him, accepting it for what it was: a reminder of how much his family meant to him, of how much he wanted to make them proud.
When he opened his eyes again, something had shifted. The fear was still there, the pain still sharp, but it was no longer overwhelming. It was a part of him, a part of his journey, and he would carry it with him as he stepped onto the track tomorrow.