It’s August 2021. Ravi Dahiya has just returned from Tokyo Olympics with a silver medal. Chhatrasal Stadium, his training ground, has rolled out a red carpet, a DJ belts out Haryanvi pop, an elaborate buffet is laid out, and 200-odd trainees and coaches have let their guard down. Ravi is invited to a makeshift stage where he raises his medal to a thunderous applause.

Among the wonderstruck kids watching the scene unfold is a scrawny teenager, already a two-time Cadet World Championships bronze medallist and the 2019 Asian Cadet champion. Unlike the hollering lot, Aman Sehrawat looks at Ravi and his medal with a quiet, unrequited yearning. Ravi’s medal is passed around, an unsaid tradition at Chhatrasal where Sushil Kumar’s and Yogeshwar Dutt’s medals had inspired a generation of dreamers. It finally makes its way to Aman, who refuses to hold it.

“It is not mine. I’ll hold an Olympic medal only after I have earned it,” he is known to have said.

In Paris’ Champ-de-Mars arena on Friday, Aman finally earned the medal he had silently coveted. The three years since that turbocharged evening in Chhatrasal have seen him smoothly transition into the senior division, sneak up on an injury-ravaged Ravi, and eventually pip him to Paris.

Coaches in Chhatrasal believe Aman is the one to take freestyle wrestling forward in India, being the only male from the country to make the Olympics this year. The 65kg division, in which Bajrang Punia brought home a bronze from Tokyo, went unrepresented in Paris as did Deepak Punia’s 86kg class.

“When I started, I knew nothing about the Olympics. It was just the love for sport that drove me,” he told HT before leaving for Paris.

The desire to win an Olympic medal took shape after Sushil Kumar noticed him in the training hall and was impressed with his work rate. Sushil became Aman’s first and only hero. The only Indian wrestler to win two Olympic medals tracked Aman’s progress closely and even advised the youngster to be more proactive on the mat.

“There are very few people he speaks to, let alone share his thoughts. He is very reticent but a very confident wrestler who’ll only get stronger,” says his coach Lalit Kumar.

Hailing from Birohar village in Haryana’s Jhajjar district, wrestling was a natural choice for young Aman. It helped that his eldest uncle was a small-time wrestler in his youth. Aged 9, Aman started visiting Dadhai Ashram in the neigbourhood where an in-house ascetic introduced him to mud wrestling.

Then, tragedy struck. Kamlesh, Aman’s asthma-ridden mother who was struggling with her mental health, hung herself in late 2013.

Hoping to take Aman’s mind off the sadness and to give wings to his wrestling aspirations, his father Somveer, a mechanic, took him to Chhatrasal.

“I found a family here,” says Aman. “I came here so early in life that I barely have any recollection of the years I spent in my village.”

In May 2014, Aman injured his knee in Chhatrasal and decided to head home to rest. Hundred metres from his home, located in the centre of an 18-acre land patch with no motorable roads, he noticed an unusual commotion. Aman reached home to his father’s corpse.

“Somveer died of a heart attack. It just broke Aman. He would weep all day and even gave up food. So, we sent him back to the stadium. You can say he was reborn in Chhatrasal,” Sudhir, his uncle, says.

Aman occupied himself with training, punishing his body to its extremes in each session until he gradually came to terms with the loss. He has no hobbies, few friends, and fewer indulgences. The only cheat meal he digs in is a KFC burger, he doesn’t recall the last movie he watched, has no favourite songs, is not interested in gadgets.

“I have wrestled all my life. I have been to so many countries but never saw anything apart from the training hall or the competition mat,” he says. “I have heard a lot about Kedarnath shrine, maybe I’ll visit it someday.”

Less than 50 metres from his dank room under one of Chhatrasal’s stands is the first-floor office of Ravi, who is also the Assistant Director at Delhi’s Education department. From a similar cramped basement hovel, Ravi has made his way to the plush house on Chhatrasal’s periphery. Nothing, apart from their weight category, is comparable.

“We are neither friends nor rivals. We keep our distance. It’s not too wise to be friends with someone who you are always looking to beat,” says Aman.

Ravi is as nonchalant. “I wish him the best but we are not close.”

On a comeback trail after missing the Olympics, Ravi will continue to meet Aman on the mat until one of them moves to the heavier division. It’ll be a first for Chhatrasal to have two Olympic medallists in the same weight class. In a sport where competitors are known to concede bouts out of “respect” for their superstar rivals, Aman wants to be an outlier.

“I believe I can beat anyone. Why else will I be competing?”