Nitesh Kumar and the art of starting over
The para-shuttler reflects on consistency, mental strength, and a future on the world stage.
For someone with so many medals, it is surprising how little Nitesh Kumar talks about winning. (Photo credit: Nitesh)
Growing up in Haryana, Nitesh Kumar dreamed of donning the Indian football jersey one day.
He was quick on his feet, sharp on the ball, and driven by a quiet ambition — perhaps inherited from his father, a Navy officer, whose discipline and service left a lasting impression.
But in 2009, during a school trip to Visakhapatnam, everything changed. A train accident ravaged his left leg. His football dreams were derailed and life came to a standstill.
He was just 15.
For months, Nitesh was bedridden. The pitch gave way to hospital corridors, the ball to prosthetics.
But where the body faltered, the mind refused to surrender.
From that railway track in Visakhapatnam to the top of the Paralympic podium in Paris, his story is not one of overcoming adversity, but of choosing purpose again and again, regardless of the circumstance.
On a late Friday morning, Nitesh Kumar sat down with The Bridge for an exclusive conversation, one that unfolded like his game: measured, honest, and powerful.
'Never give up'
"We get thoughts like, “This is the end of the world for us.” But my father kept telling me, “This cannot be the end for you. If you work hard, you should not give up now.” So I have always believed in the saying, “Never give up,” and that things always turn around," Nitesh started, while sporting with a smile.
What remained was a quiet question, even with the support: What now?
The answer, as it often does for those who do not quit, came not immediately, but steadily.
Nitesh poured himself into studies, cleared the fiercely competitive IIT entrance exam, and began training as an engineer at IIT Mandi in 2013.
Sports was not even a thought until a chance encounter with world champion para shuttler Pramod Bhagat changed the course of his life again.
Pramod told him about the SL3 category in para badminton, where athletes with severe lower limb impairments compete on a half-width court. Immediately, something clicked.
"There’s also a saying that luck favors the people who work hard. Everyone goes through difficult phases in life, regardless of their profession or background. But the people who stay strong and don’t give up—they’re the ones who come back, achieve things, and improve their lives, not just professionally but personally too," he says.
Today, Nitesh Kumar is a Paralympic gold medalist, a three-time Asian Para-Badminton champion, and one of India’s most tactically intelligent athletes across any sport.
"So in my case, even if I hadn’t become a Paralympic gold medalist or achieved what I have now, I would still be proud of the way I turned my life around—from that low phase to reaching a point where I’m playing internationally. That itself is something I’ve overcome," he adds.
From there, he’s stepped onto podiums around the world. Paris. Bahrain. Hangzhou. Somewhere along the way, the game stopped being just a sport— it became a way of life.
Not by chasing medals, but by listening deeply: to his own body, to his coach’s voice mid-rally, to the precise silence between one shuttle strike and the next.
“It’s not about what I have to do,” he says, reflecting on his gold medal match at the 2024 Paris Paralympics. “It’s about what I don’t have to do. I’ve lost matches where I had the lead. So I kept telling myself—I’ve done this before. Stay calm. Just be there.”
And he was. Not just present, but entirely in the game. The noise of the crowd dimmed.
The pressure curled up and fell asleep in the corner. He took each point like a breath: slow, measured, fully felt.
That kind of composure does not come from motivation. It comes from transformation.
A windy hall and three golds
At the recently concluded 2025 Asian Para Badminton Championships, Nitesh won not one, but three gold medals—singles, doubles, and mixed. And yet, even he admits it was a surprise.
“I didn’t expect to win all three,” he says with a half-laugh.
“Tarun couldn’t play those two weeks, so I teamed up with Sukant last minute. We’d played a few tournaments before, so that helped. But the hall was very different. Windy. I got comfortable with it quickly. Especially on the side where everyone was losing—I kept winning on that side.”
There is no self-praise in his voice. Just an observation, as though success is something that lives in the margins—in court conditions, in muscle memory, in the unspectacular hours of practice. And those hours are long. He trains for three events, often switching styles and modes in a single day.
“That part was difficult at first,” he admits, “but now I train in a way that mirrors that. My schedule’s not the same every day. So my body’s used to adapting.”
It is not just the body. It is the mind, as well. Because on the court, there are moments when everything gets tight, when the brain wants to go faster than the shuttle.
That is when he turns to the Gayatri Mantra. “When things get complicated in my head,” he says, “I chant. Not always while playing, but sometimes before. It brings me back.”
And before he steps on court, like many others, he bows to it. It is a simple gesture. But also sacred. You do not enter battle without honouring the arena.
What matters the most?
For someone with so many medals, it is surprising how little he talks about winning.
The thrill of victory, the weight of the medal—yes, they are real. But they are no longer the only point.
“Earlier, I used to think about the celebration before even finishing the match,” he says. “But after Paris, something changed. Now I think more about implementation. Like—am I doing what I practiced? Am I controlling the game the way I trained to?”
So in a way, victory has been redefined. It is no longer about podiums. It is about alignment. The self matches the effort. The effort matches the intent.
That, however, does not undermine the value of a gold medal. “When the national flag goes to the top—that is the best part,” he says.
And perhaps that is the balance: the quiet pride in the process, and the uncontainable surge when the anthem plays.
Despite the success in singles, Nitesh smiles more when talking about doubles. “I’ve always enjoyed playing doubles,” he says. “I like finding spaces between two players. And I like that I don’t have to take every shuttle myself."
That is not humility. It is an understanding of the beauty of partnership. Badminton, in its solo form, is about control. In doubles, it becomes a conversation, where trust is as important as technique.
“Even when I started 10, 11 years ago,” he says, “my early medals were in doubles. After COVID, I began focusing on singles more. But doubles—mixed or men’s—it still feels like home.”
Recognition, or the lack thereof
It is impossible to ignore: the quiet corner that Paralympians are often kept in. Fewer cameras. Smaller headlines. Applause that feels half a beat late.
“The treatment has gotten better over the last two Paralympic cycles,” Nitesh says carefully.
“We’re appreciated more now. But yes, sometimes you see an athlete and think—they deserve more. A bigger award. But for me, I don’t think much about that. If not this year, maybe next year. Eventually, everyone gets what they deserve.”
It is not a resignation. It is perspective. And maybe that is the real medal—one that the world cannot hang around your neck.
If one day the records fade, the medals are locked away, and the country forgets to retweet a victory, what would he want remembered?
Not the gold.
Not the awards.
Not even the comeback.
“I’d want to be remembered as someone consistent. Someone who was a dedicated and focused athlete along with my achievements."
It is a quiet legacy. But the most enduring ones often are.
The journey isn’t over. He’s headed next to the British and Irish International in July. Then some time off. Then Indonesia in October. Then the World Championships in Bahrain, February 2026.
But in the midst of all that, he is trying something new in training—he will not say what—but it is working. And he wants more time to refine it.
He also wants to remind the world of a skill often overlooked. “Shot selection,” he says. “At critical times, knowing what works for you, and what doesn’t. That, and being mentally positive. You can have speed and skills, but if you don’t use them right, they’re useless.”
And maybe that is the truth of his story, too. It is not that he was gifted anything. It is that he showed up, again and again, and used everything he had, at the right time.
Even when the world had written him off.
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