I’m bad at counting people. Either ways, I go by the ear. I could hear them screaming, a crowd of thirty or so, but there’s no way for me to tell. A healthy mix of men and women - it’s not every day that the opposite sex show up for a table tennis competition unless their boyfriends competed - but there were enough feline shrieks around to arrive at that assumption.

The finals. Nine points apiece. I was leading all throughout, but I didn’t middle my last backhand loop. A very light brush in the end, and I could hear the firm contact it made with Karan’s Gergely, decked in a pair of Srivers. I also heard the fatal sound of celluloid striking timber a foot away from me. Too far, and I’d given. We were now equal, and while I knew he was more skilled, it was Karan’s serve, and as a result, his only chance.

I figured I was whispering to myself, more out of comfort than inspiration. ‘Neutralize this serve, and you’re through’

Through the crowd and its hysteria, the commentator - a certain John Cummins whose mouth works overtime like a Korean at an engineering lab - is screaming his head off. Excited, the lad is, and I realized why - the crowd is almost entirely behind the opponent I’m up against. At twenty-four, Karan is halfway there, a nice blend of raw talent, sharpened with maturity and experience from over a decade into the game. He’s one of those frontline attack players that considers a defensive rally to be pure blasphemy. It does seem he’s gifted with a powerful wrist, because he doesn’t really scrape the ball that well on impact, but still manages to get a lot of heavy spin.

The crowd was still screaming, and I thought I’d have trouble taking the next serve until the umpire asked them to maintain silence. Almost as if someone turned the volume knob down, the crowd’s noise slowly faded into silence. Meanwhile, a drop of sweat formed at the side of the forehead, and before I could react, it quietly left me. I needed to keep up my energy, but right now I had only one thing on my mind. The serve.

It wasn’t a killer serve, a little backhand chop just short. I managed to flick it to his weaker backhand, and as a big loop followed I was forced to offer a dead bat to defend. Karan kept looping, but it was neither lethal nor placed well enough to trouble me, until he surprised me with a huge top-spinner to my backhand. I was caught on an awkward position, and in trying to negate the spin, picked a wrong angle to defend. The ball never made it to the other side.

Point nine. The crowd went crazy.

This was it. This was the serve I had to block. It’s nearly impossible to take Karan down in a long rally - he gets his topspins so effortlessly - and I had mentally decided I would attack the service. Premeditated. No merit, no respect. Just understand the trajectory and bang. Very, er, Sehwaglike.

While this raced through my mind, the crowd were all hush again, anticipating a big Karan serve. It came, it was one of those lethally quick ones, the sound of celluloid screaming through the air like a warrior about to plant the finishing blow. I got myself into position and pulled out my best backhand half-jerk. Never made contact, I missed, but during that half-second of half-fatality, I was all ears.

The ball never landed. Karan’s serve was long. A fault. Deuce. I never thought the crowd could go quieter, but it did, save for a few gasps of surprise.

I knew my sister would be there. Shefali was the only one on this planet who insisted that I could be a true champion. If years on the table gave me skill and talent, an hour of pep-talk with Shefali gave me the optimism and courage to go for my shots. And, most important of all, believe that I could really win. And here I was on the threshold. I found I was whispering to myself, yet again.

‘No rally. Third ball attack. Third ball attack. Third ball attack.’

Coach always suggested that, when confronted against a tougher opposition, play to your strengths and his weaknesses. My strength, of course, was the big killer serve I hadn’t yet unleashed. Karan’s weakness was his backhand. Not exactly rocket science, and without thinking twice, I crashed a quick service across the table. It was a lovely angle - Karan might have even stretched a bit to make the return, but it was an easy lob and his forehand was wide open. I waited for the ball to bounce, and when it was chest-high, I put my head down and swung my shoulders all the way.

I didn’t need the officiator’s acknowledgment. That smash went nowhere near Karan, and it pleased me in a sadistic manner. Championship point to me, and John had found his tongue again.

I had to close my eyes then, although that didn’t make any difference, really. Had extended my palm and the ball was already there, waiting to be lobbed for the serve, but I was plotting the next serve. I obviously wouldn’t repeat the killer one, too predictable. I spoke half of the plan to myself, and half in my mind, but it was all clear. A moderate attack. Won’t prolong the rally, but a moderate attack. I had to be careful, but not overcautious. Easy as it seems now, with the adrenaline pumping in the finals I was confused. My mind went blank, and I could only remember what a perfect batsman once famously said.

‘Forget about the match situation. Or the crowd. Or the opponent. Bring your mind to that mental state of purity, and play every ball to its merit. Take it as it comes.’

Quietly mumbling a word of gratitude for the Wall for his timely advice, I served. It wasn’t the best but I couldn’t risk missing a serve at this stage. Karan attacked - he must have had Australian blood in him, only an Aussie would counter-attack in its potential final moments - and I had to push myself back and block. Karan had gone wild - he pulled smash after smash, but focused more on power than placement. I managed to return them with ease, until Karan - driven by either skill of fatigue - dropped one short. I had to lunge forward and managed to tap the ball away to his backhand, barely making it. His backhand counter wasn’t the best and here was an easy volley across the line. I curled the shot so that it spun away from his forehand. It landed on the far end of the table, and I unintentionally struck it with more power than I intended. Turned out to be a smash.

Karan couldn’t reach it. My point. My game. My match. My championship. I won. The King. Emperor.

The runner-up couldn’t believe it, his acknowledgment - a not-so-firm shake - was more out of regret and shock disappointment than sportsmanship. I looked up, as I often do, searching for something or someone I hardly believed in. I ran my fingers through the Mark Vs, they felt smooth, very human. Like flesh. The flesh of a winner.

Shefali came running up and hugged me like only a sister can. I was overwhelmed by her affection, and drowned in my pride. I heard the crowd moving out, slowly but surely, before Shefali broke the silence.

‘I knew you could do it bro’

‘More than I did’

I was smiling now. But it was a bit too silent. Something was missing, rather someone was silent. Ah, the commentator. ‘Where’s John?’

She laughed. ‘He has your ball in his mouth’.

He was coughing and panting, before finally the sound of a bouncing sphere of plastic arrived. John was mouthing all kinds of curses at me.

‘Remind me to ask him how it tastes, will you?’.

She giggled, and though I didn’t want to leave the arena yet, she tugged at me. ‘Come on, let’s go Mr. Champ. You have a trophy to collect’.

True. I smiled, and put the goggles on, picking up the walking stick. With my sister at my side, I slowly felt my way up the stairs. I couldn’t believe it. I had won, the trophy’s mine, I had taken him down with all his five senses intact.

Until this day, I had never forgiven God for denying me the power of sight. But I realized - like He so often does - quietly blesses you with parallel power. I don’t know how or when, but he sharpened my ears to perfection, blessed me with an ability that isn’t entirely normal.

And sometimes, it’s better. Sometimes, Earsight helps you see what the eyes cant.