Earning its macabre nickname, the “bloody court”, the basketball court at the alma mater of Indian Police Service (IPS) officers—the National Police Academy, Hyderabad—was notorious. By the fag end of training for my batch, the 73rd Regular Recruits, it had become a place where fractures were a rite of passage and pain a constant companion. I escaped unscathed, limbs intact, thanks partly to divine luck and largely to my disinterest in the game.But the illusion that I was immune to harm soon broke, on a different field. One evening, during a high-octane practice for the Battle Obstacle Assault Course, I landed wrong. The twist was sharp, the pain insistent. I brushed it aside as a sprain. But the X-ray and MRI told another story—multiple fractures and a torn ligament.What followed was a private journey through the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and reluctant acceptance. Each morning, I’d wake up hoping my broken foot had somehow healed overnight, like Kintsugi, the Japanese art of repairing pottery with gold, leaving cracks more beautiful than before.The timing was cruel. I had been a strong contender for Best All-Round Probationer, with a chance to lead the passing-out parade. Suddenly, that dream hung by a thread.Painkillers replaced breakfast, physiotherapy my morning PT. Yet the fire inside refused to die. I managed the shorter outdoor exams, the adrenaline surge masking pain inside jungle boots. But the looming 16 km timed run and 40 km weighted route march were different beasts—tests of endurance that my failing foot seemed incapable of withstanding.Word of my condition reached the outdoor training faculty. The officer in charge, concerned but firm, advised me to defer the run to the next phase. A lump rose in my throat. I was inches away from something I had dreamt of. Fighting back tears, I said quietly, “Sir, an ankle won’t decide my destiny.”Story continues below this adWhat followed defied wisdom, medical advice, even common sense. Not only did I complete the 40-km march with my squad, I ran the 16 km. My left leg, in compensation, took on more than it should, leading to a severe muscle spasm. I pushed through, not on strength but on resolve, and with the unwavering support of my friend and fellow probationer from the Kerala cadre, Nadeem. He was my crutch, my strength, and in those last kilometres, my will when mine faltered.When we crossed the finish line, drenched in sweat and pain, the Golden Brick was awarded to me for excellent timing. It was a quiet vindication.Reckless and dangerous, with lasting consequencesLooking back, I do not recommend what I did. It was reckless, perhaps dangerous, with lasting consequences. The aftermath was worse, a hip fracture on the opposite side, deliberately diagnosed only after I had led the parade. I had refused a scan earlier, not from bravado but from fear: the truth could stop me.So I marched on D Day. Every step screamed with pain, but louder was the thrill of seeing my parents and my better-half in the stands. That final step was not just ceremonial. It was spiritual, the culmination of every suppressed wince, every silent tear, every moment I whispered: you can do this.Story continues below this adIt proved the human mind, anchored in purpose, can drive the body further than it dares to believe. Through it all, American President F D Roosevelt’s words became my prayer and war cry. He had said, “It is not the critic who counts… The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly… who errs, who comes short again and again… but who does actually strive to do the deeds… who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly.”(The writer is a Punjab-cadre IPS officer)