The Day I “Flew” from Boka Pahadi

 It was an ordinary evening in mid-March, the kind that feels full of possibilities. Our school exams were finally over, and freedom was in the air. We were restless — hungry for a little adventure. That’s when I suggested, “Let’s go to Boka Pahadi!”

(The name roughly translates to Moron Hill, though we never really cared about what it meant.)

So off we went — Harsh, Nitesh, Rohit, Ravi, and me — toward the rocky outskirts of Jharia. Boka Pahadi was a local favorite, a small hill that served as a picnic spot for families, and an open playground for brave kids like us.

When we reached the top, the world below seemed calm, almost sleepy. The coal fields stretched far and wide, and the evening wind brushed against our faces as we explored the slopes, tossing pebbles and dreaming up silly games.

Then someone — I don’t remember who — said, “Let’s race downhill and see who reaches first!”
It sounded like the perfect idea at the time.

Rohit went first. He was cautious, moving slowly, balancing himself on the loose stones. Then Nitesh took his turn and did much better. Ravi followed, finishing under a minute. And then came Harsh — quick as lightning — reaching the bottom in just 25 seconds.

That was it. The bar was set.

Now all eyes turned to me.
Inside, I felt the pressure build. You see, I always considered myself better suited for these rugged paths — I had grown up around these hills and roads, unlike my “township” friends. My pride wouldn’t let me come second.

So, driven by that silent fire of competition, I started my descent — fast, maybe a bit too fast. The slope was steep and slippery, scattered with tiny stones that rolled under my feet like marbles. And then, out of nowhere, a large rock appeared in my path. Instinctively, I jumped.

And in that moment… I was flying.

For a few terrifying seconds, my feet were no longer touching the ground. My friends, watching from above, thought I was showing off — they were cheering wildly, laughing, thinking I was roaring down like a champion. But I wasn’t. I was in free fall, flailing in panic, my heart hammering in my chest.

In that microsecond of chaos, one thought struck me — “This is it. I’m going to break every bone. What will I even tell my parents?”

But destiny was kind.
I hit the ground, rolled over a few times —it was like my imaginary brief para-jumping “training” coming to rescue, perhaps — and somehow, miraculously, I survived. A few scratches, a bruised knee, and a big black spot under my cheekbone — that was all.

For months, I hid that mark from my parents. When teachers asked at school, I’d shrug and say, “I fell off my bicycle.”
Even today, whenever we talk about that day, we laugh until our stomachs ache.

But that wild tumble taught me something important — about limits, about pride, and about the fine line between courage and recklessness. Over the years, I’ve learned to channel that same competitive spirit into better things. The fire still burns — but now, it lights the path instead of setting it ablaze.