A SHOT AT HISTORY ABHINAV BINDRA EPUB
A Shot At History My Obsessive Journey To Olympic Gold Wl cc Q CO A SHOT AT My Obsessive Journey U Fellow Shooters on Abhinav Bindra 'If. Abhinav Bindra once shot out of in practice six times in a row and Download and Read Free Online A SHOT AT HISTORY Abhinav Bindra, Rohit A SHOT AT HISTORY by Abhinav Bindra, Rohit Brijnath Free PDF d0wnl0ad, audio. Abhinav Bindra once shot out of in practice six times in a row and walked out of the range unhappy. He is a perfectionist who once soled his shoes with.
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Topics include Sanskrit stories, Ayurveda and health. Tamil stories. Cinema is immensely popular in India, with as many as 1, films produced in various languages every year. Indian cinema produces more films watched by more people than any other country; in , over 3.
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History of India 11th and 12th Class Tamil Nadu board In the north, Shyama Prasad Mukherjee had died after forty-three days in the Srinagar prison. He had been jailed like a common criminal even though the authorities knew that he had coronary troubles.
Despite having informed the doctor that he was allergic to penicillin, the doctor had injected him with precisely that. The country would have spiralled out of control if Nehru had not placed Sheikh Abdullah under arrest. In the south, a man called Potti Sriramulu had died on the fifty-eighth day of a fast unto death in a demand for a Telugu-speaking state.
In the Punjab, someone called Master Tara Singh had begun demanding an independent country called Khalistan. It was not unreasonable to wonder whether the idea and notion of a united India would survive.
Arvind sighed as he walked towards school. It was a bloody waste of time.
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School never made anyone smart, he reasoned. How many millionaires had wasted their time over William Shakespeare or the Battle of Plassey?
At five feet, Arvind was rather tall for his age of eleven. He was an unusually good-looking boy. But then, the looks of a Marwari man rarely mattered. What usually mattered was the thickness of his wallet. Arvind was dressed in his winter uniform: grey worsted trousers, white half-sleeved shirt, regulation school tie, a webbed belt with the school colours, two-button school blazer, white socks and laced black leather shoes.
Students were required to line up for inspection in the morning and would be sent home if anything was out of place. Not because of the distance but because of the frequent stops that he made along the way. The boy took the bag and carefully counted the coins. Pulling out a small notebook from the pocket of his shirt he made a note of the transaction in pencil.
There were fifteen minutes left before school started. He waited for another couple of minutes at the street corner and his patience was rewarded. Another drifter emerged, his breath heavy with cheap hooch. He wordlessly handed over a crumpled ball of newspaper to the boy. Arvind carefully opened the grimy container and looked inside. Twenty-two annas and five pice. It had obviously been a good day for the bum. Which explained the hooch. He pulled out the five pice and handed it back to the man.
Arvind quickly did the sums in his head. You gave me twenty-two annas. Add a premium of 10 per cent and I owe you one rupee, eight annas and one pice. He would meet the other drifters, bums and vagabonds of Loudon Street on his way back in the afternoon.
He sighed contentedly. These days he was growing convinced that business was simply a name given to the art of taking money from others without using force.
When she used his surname it usually meant he was in trouble. English literature was usually the ideal class for catching up on his accounts. It always helped to let people feel that they had been able to have their way. It softened them up for a fall. Which was the last play that Oscar Wilde wrote? There is no drama by that name. Other students in the class were snickering. Arvind had painted himself into a tight corner.
As usual, it would be pure entertainment to observe him extricate himself. Arvind resumed. The boys were headed back home after school. While Arvind was tall and fair, Joydeep was short and dark. They made for an odd couple. So I usually have to find ways of supplementing my income.
Is he a coin-collector? Arvind laughed. Most of the time, Arvind was a royal pain in the ass. Arvind looked at his friend seriously. The weight of an anna coin is around 3. Even my mother has a copper kada among her things. I have tried convincing her to give it to me but she refuses. She says that it has antique value that I will understand only when I grow up. Why do you collect them?
Even if I give the street bums a 10 per cent premium and Mr Bhattacharjee keeps another 10 per cent for himself, I still make a cool 20 per cent off every coin that I trade! Money had been saved over several weeks to make it happen. Ever since the movie had been released Ayub had been wanting to go and see it. Little Arbaaz looked up at his parents as they walked towards Pila House.
The British authorities had closed all the cemeteries in the area in to build gaming clubs and theatres called Play Houses. The name had stuck. They walked through an arched doorway under a hand-painted poster that depicted Pradeep Kumar, Bina Rai and Noor Jehan, the stars of the movie. The film was called Anarkali and had been produced by Filmistan.
The Royal Talkies too had originally staged plays but eventually the stage had given way to a cinema screen. With a seating capacity of , the crowds outside were staggering. A large blackboard displaying show times written in chalk hid most of the booking clerk as Ayub bent down to pay.
There were four screenings that day—at The Sheikh family bought three tickets at the box office at four annas per ticket. They walked in, crossed a lobby floor done up in a monochrome chessboard pattern and avoided the counter groaning under the weight of fried snacks and a soda fountain.
Arbaaz was firmly pulled away from those delights. The family could just about afford the tickets. The Sheikhs sat inside for the next two hours and fifty-five minutes, utterly captivated by the images on the screen.
They laughed when Akbar gave Nadira the name Anarkali when she asked for a pomegranate flower. They cried when Akbar had her imprisoned for dancing intoxicated in his court. They gasped when the conflict between Akbar and Salim reached its climax. His mother always seemed to have a perennial demand of errands for him.
Arbaaz wondered whether Javed and his band of thugs would be waiting for him at the Dongri street corner. The last time that he had passed by, they had caught hold of him by the scruff of his neck and taken turns in using him as a punching-bag. The tall but skinny lad had long limbs and drooping eyes. His hair was jet-black but a touch of henna applied by his mother made it appear brownish.
His fair complexion was blemished by mild eruptions of acne that always embarrassed him. Arbaaz was an easy target. Arbaaz stuck his hands into his coarse and thick twill-weave cotton pants.
It was the same cloth that went into making the dungarees of British workmen. The name that brought on an instant feeling of fear was that of Abdul Dada.
A couple of weeks ago, they had bashed up the local hooch shop-owner because he had refused to give them their usual supply without payment.
On another occasion, they had held the postman at knifepoint and forced him to part with all the money orders that were in his bag.
Arbaaz turned the corner only to find that his worst fears had come true. Javed stood menacingly, leaning against a lamp-post, surrounded by his tribe of yes-men. I wonder how much he has in his pockets. He paused for a moment, surveying an upside-down Arbaaz.
The hulk dumped Arbaaz unceremoniously on the pavement. Whenever you carry less, we shall also take your clothes. A few minutes later, Arbaaz was entirely alone and entirely naked. They had taken his underpants too. Tears rolled down his cheeks but he could not wipe them away. He needed his hands to cover his privates. And then something snapped inside him and Arbaaz would never be the same boy again. Mahatma Gandhi had once said that an eye for an eye would end up making the whole world blind.
It was time for the world to go blind. Arbaaz sat at his desk. In front of him was a 9p postcard issued by the Department of Posts. Also in front of him was an Urdu book. Books were an odd sight in the Sheikh household. Arbaaz had borrowed it from his teacher at school. One had to keep the tone mature yet reverential. Once he was done, he surveyed his work proudly.
He hurried to the post box down the street to drop off the postcard. Having dropped it into the red cylinder, he took a deep breath. The real challenge would be tonight. The house on Sandhurst Road was quiet, with all the residents fast asleep. Arbaaz had been squatting across the railway tracks for over two hours.
He had reviewed the plan several times in his head. He knew that he would be in big trouble if the strategy backfired. He got up and stretched himself. He felt inside his right trouser pocket. It was there. It had meant months of saving to download it. He was reassured when his fingers touched the plastic.
He hesitated for a moment, wondering whether he was doing the right thing.
Then he remembered reaching home naked and being called filthy names by the street urchins who had followed him.
He made up his mind. He nimbly crossed the railway tracks and reached the double-storeyed house. A sign outside the gate read M. Rehman, Advocate. Arbaaz swung open the gate and his heart fluttered as the hinges squeaked in the stillness of the night. Nerving himself, he walked cautiously to the house, avoiding the twigs that lay scattered on the ground. He looked up towards the window that he had been observing all night.
It was wide open. He quickly shinned up the drainpipe, as nimble as a coconut-harvester in Kerala. Devoid of friends, Arbaaz had spent days climbing trees and hiding in them. His lack of strength was balanced by his agility and speed.
Some animals hunt. Others hide. He reached the window and peered inside. He could discern a figure on the bed.
Its open mouth was snoring, expanding and contracting rhythmically to the pattern of the snores. Arbaaz pulled himself over the window ledge and gingerly stepped inside the room. He stood motionless for a minute, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He then walked over to the desk and opened one of the drawers.
The Bombay humidity had swollen the wood and the drawer squeaked. The figure on the bed stopped snoring. Arbaaz froze in fear. He remained frozen for over a minute and almost magically, the snoring resumed.
Arbaaz heaved a sigh of relief as he set about completing his task. The leather belt struck Javed yet again, this time on his thighs. The boy yelled in pain as he attempted to stay on his feet. Our son is now a professional drug-dealer!
Javed lost his balance and fell to the ground. Read it and tell me if I should show mercy to this pathetic specimen that we call our son! As-Salaam-Alaikum Rehman Saheb. I can turn to no one else for help. My son is addicted to the drugs that your boy sells. I have tried my best to help him stop the habit but to no avail. Your son ensures that his customers remain addicted. I cannot go to the police because they will arrest my son first.
I know that you are a respected lawyer and a good man. By the grace of Allah, may I humbly request you to get rid of this scourge?
A Shot At History: My Obsessive Journey to Olympic Gold
I shall be forever in your debt. I have been far too lenient with you. From this day onwards things will change. Atop a tree that bordered the Rehman home, Arbaaz watched events unfold with a quiet smile of satisfaction.
And a few hunt while they hide. Iqbal and Arbaaz looked odd standing next to each other. Arbaaz, on the other hand, was tall and skinny. Iqbal looked at the scrawny lad once again. He was at the local taleemkhana which was not very different from the local Hindu akhada. The only real difference was that there were no idols of Hindu gods on the walls.
Iqbal was the local pehelwan who ran it.
Iqbal pulled out a hen from a cage in the corner of the room and pushed it under the cot. He handed Arbaaz a lathi. Remember that you cannot touch the hen. Simply move the lathi on all four sides of the bed fast enough and you will achieve this. Iqbal laughed.
He took the lathi from Arbaaz and got one of his students to catch the flapping bird and put it back under the cot.
The bird thinks that there is a wall on all four sides of the bed. This is the sort of speed at which I expect you to move the lathi.
And also apply this all over your body when you get here. I am going to teach you all of them. By the time I am done with you, even a simple coin tied in a piece of cloth will become a deadly weapon in your hands.
Your training will last for two hours daily. Here, drink this. At home, I want you to consume dal and mutton. The protein will fill you out. See you tomorrow. The two La Martiniere schools, one for boys and the other for girls, faced each other across Rawdon Street. She was a delightful creature. She was a dusky Bengali beauty with deep eyes and dimples that appeared whenever she smiled, which was often. He had been on one of his coin-collecting rounds when she entered the school gate along with her friend, and he had been unable to take his eyes off her.
He had never experienced anything like that before. Certainly not his parents. And his friend Joydeep was entirely inept in such matters. Too shy to introduce himself and too scared to find out her name from anyone else, Arvind resigned himself to waiting on Rawdon Street to surreptitiously steal glimpses of her.
A few days later he saw her friend walk out from the school gate alone.
It was now or never. His heart was beating wildly as he walked up to her. The girl was heading towards a private car but she stopped for a moment and looked at him enquiringly. He had not anticipated the question. He could feel his pulse quicken as he struggled to offer an explanation. He had said it. And it had come out just fine, initial stammering aside.
The girl smiled. I could give it to you first thing tomorrow evening. Arvind nodded awkwardly. He wondered whether she was thought that he was creepy. Shreya giggled. Sure, give me the note tomorrow after school. We come together in the mornings but she usually has extra classes in the evening so we leave separately. He quickly crossed the street and passed the note to his courier-cum-accomplice.
A Shot At History My Obsessive Journey To Olympic Gold
He had considered using his classroom French to woo Paromita but had decided against it. Too cheesy, he thought. In any case, in that year, , the French had only just vacated Pondicherry, handing it back to India. He settled for the language of chemistry instead. Shreya read the note.
Dear Paromita. My name is Arvind and I was hoping that we could be friends. I think that you are a compound of copper and tellurium. I can best be described as an unstable mixture of carbon, ruthenium, sulphur and hydrogen.
Do you think that our chemistry could work? Arvind, too, was hoping that he would be a winner that day—in a different sense. Are you sure you want me to give this to her? Will it work? Arvind wondered whether Shreya had passed on his note to Paromita. It had been two days. The longest two days of his young and impatient life. Had he made a fool of himself?
Was she laughing at his note? He kicked a pebble on the pavement as he trudged towards the gate. All he wanted to do was to bend down and massage her ankle for her. What did that mean? Sweet like a kid brother? Sweet like a puppy? She quickly turned away in embarrassment. It said: Dearest Arvind. Thanks for calling me a compound of copper and tellurium.
I sympathize with you for your unstable mixture of carbon, ruthenium, sulphur and hydrogen. To me, you are a combination of hydrogen, erbium and oxygen.
He quickly pulled out his chemistry textbook and referred to the periodic table. He laughed ecstatically. Copper and tellurium were represented by the symbols Cu and Te. A compound of copper and tellurium would read as CuTe. Carbon, ruthenium, sulphur and hydrogen had the symbols C, Ru, S and H.
In his note he had told her that he had a CRuSH on her. Hydrogen, erbium and oxygen had the symbols H, Er and O. She was calling him her HErO! The spanking new Indian Institute of Technology at Kharagpur would hold its very first convocation ceremony two years later. They would have been proud of the scientific prowess of a schoolboy and girl. Arbaaz took out a cigarette, lit it and allowed his mind to wander.
The gentle breeze was comforting as it dried the sweat on his muscular back. As his trainer had predicted, Arbaaz had morphed from a scrawny kid into a muscled hunk. His face retained its innocence, though. His short hair, chiselled jawline, aquiline nose and big brown eyes were enough to set feminine hearts aflutter. Arbaaz had no time for love, however. His father, who had been a coolie for many years, had passed away a couple of months ago.
It had been a painful death. So far, in my not-so-old life, sport has been one such friend cum lover- over time seductive, consoling and heartbreaking in nearly equal measure. We also get a glimpse of the sad state of affairs in the Indian sports circle. You watch sports on television and read about it in the news, you celebrate the triumphs and move on. A brilliant read which will take you through a hard journey of winning the gold medal and witnessing the pain, agony and frustration that a sportsperson has to go through for that glistering object.
If viewed rationally, the point has merit, as it is just not money that gives you an Olympic win. He has won seventy-eight international medals in the last fifteen years. It is a triumph born of a tragedy. Sep 21, Dhaval Shah rated it it was amazing. There are no discussion topics on this book yet. Thanks for telling us about the problem. We also get a glimpse of An amazing read for anyone on the quest for excellence.The better I shot, the more people disbelieved my ability.
It's intimidating leaving your comfort zone, but I had my eagerness, and I had my mother, who was worried that I'd go astray. He sat at the head of the meeting chamber.
With respectful regards, Abhinav Bindra Sodhi had, in fact, already spoken to Dhillon. This is what they call unconditional love. I arrived at 8 am and waited for the foreign coach, Dr Laszlo Hammerl. Fame doesn't last, it cannot stand in comparison to the pursuit of excellence. The shoes are hard. Who knows what they say? I was mystified by my own incompetence.
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