Darren's blog

People outside this world ask me the same question every time and I believe most fighters or wrestlers here must had received same question:

“Why do you still do this?”

Why the bruises, the soreness, the late nights, the long drives, all the chaos that comes with fighting and wrestling?

I get why they’re confused.

I’ve had my share of injuries such as broken bones over the years, and most recently fractured ribs. And the stupid part? I wasn’t even fully healed when I stepped into an MMA fight again. I felt every movement, every strike, every twist… but I still showed up. Something in me pulls me back no matter how beat up I get.

And the truth is, I don’t return because I enjoy pain.

I return because something inside feels incomplete when I’m away from all this.

There’s a kind of honesty in fighting that I don’t find anywhere else. In most parts of life, people hide things like feelings, intentions, insecurities. But when you're in a fight, none of that survives. Whatever you are in that moment comes out. Your confidence, your fear, your control, your panic, your strengths, your gaps… everything shows. It’s uncomfortable sometimes, but it’s real. And that kind of realness is rare.

What keeps me hooked isn’t “winning.” Winning feels good for a moment and then fades. What sticks with me is progress. Those quiet victories especially when something finally clicks, when a move lands without effort, when I stay calm in a position that used to drown me. When I face someone who used to dominate me and suddenly realize I’m right there with them. That kind of growth hits deeper than any scoreboard. It’s the kind of improvement you feel, not announce.

Another thing I’ve learned: fighting forces me to be fully present. Outside the mats, my mind is all over the place ; work, stress, responsibilities. But the moment a match begins, everything goes silent. No overthinking, no noise, no distractions. Just instinct, breath, and reaction. It’s the closest thing to meditation I’ve ever had, even if it doesn’t look like it from the outside.

And then there’s the people. You can fight someone hard enough to leave marks on each other, and somehow that builds respect instead of resentment. Some of the closest connections I’ve made came from matches where barely a word was spoken. There’s a bond that forms when two people push each other with intention, not hostility.

Even the pain has meaning here. Most pain in life feels pointless — stress, accidents, the random stuff that just happens. But fight pain has a story behind it. Broken bones, bruised ribs, the soreness that hits the next morning… it’s all proof that you showed up. That you tested yourself. That you didn’t back down. It’s not pain for the sake of suffering but it’s pain with a purpose.

So why do I keep coming back?

It’s not ego.

It’s not dominance.

It’s not to play “the bigger guy” or “the better guy.”

I come back because this is one of the few things in my life that feels real from start to finish. It challenges me, centers me, strips away the bullshit, and gives me something honest - whether I win, lose, or get banged up along the way.

If you’ve ever stepped into a fight, truly stepped into it, you already understand exactly what I mean. And if you haven’t… there’s no perfect way to explain it. You either feel it, or you don’t.

But for those of us who do - that’s why we keep coming back.

In combat sports, everyone talks about weight classes but not everyone talks about why fighters actually prefer certain matchups. For many of us, it’s not about fear, ego, or feeling “more” or “less” than someone else. It’s about the fight itself: the challenge, the intensity, and the satisfaction that comes from a truly competitive bout.

Respecting Personal Limits and Capabilities

Every fighter knows what they’re capable of. And that goes both ways—what they can absorb, and what they might unintentionally dish out. For me, avoiding significantly smaller opponents isn’t about looking down on them; it’s because the dynamic changes in ways that make the fight feel less balanced.

When the size difference is noticeable, the power exchange just isn’t the same. You end up thinking more about holding back than actually fighting. There’s always that worry of going too far without meaning to. And honestly, when you know the other person can’t quite return the same level of intensity, the competitive edge fades. It doesn’t bring the same satisfaction as facing someone who can match your pace and push you right back.

Chasing Competitive Satisfaction

A big part of why we fight is the feeling, the adrenaline, the back-and-forth, the moments where both fighters have to adjust, react, and dig deep. That’s hard to find when the matchup is physically uneven.

Most fighters I know crave opponents who can make them work, who force them to think, adapt, and bring their best. When both fighters are on equal footing, the fight becomes a true test rather than a situation where one person has to constantly manage their power.

The Psychology Behind Opponent Selection

Choosing opponents outside your weight class isn’t always about proving something. Sometimes it’s simply about finding someone who fits your style, your intensity, and your goals.

A well-matched fight feels like a conversation where both sides “speak” at the same volume. When the size gap is big, that conversation becomes one-sided, and for fighters who take pride in the craft, that can feel incomplete.

Conclusion

At the end of the day, picking opponents is personal. Some fighters thrive on testing themselves against bigger guys. Others enjoy technical matchups regardless of size. And some, like me, prefer the kind of fight where both sides can go all out without worrying about holding back or accidentally hurting someone smaller.

Weight classes exist for a reason but the real story lies in each fighter’s individual philosophy about what makes a fight truly worth stepping into.

Late afternoon, hours later.

Sky thick with storm clouds.

The train slowed again, brakes screeching under a slate-grey sky. It was Ayan’s stop.

He rose. His body ached in every joint. His lip was split, jaw tight, knuckles raw. Veer looked up, bruised just as badly.

Their eyes locked.

The stare wasn’t a question.

It was a statement.

“One each.”

“Not over.”

Ayan stepped off the train. He didn’t speak. He didn’t gesture. He just began walking.

Not toward town. Not toward people.

Toward the freight yard behind the station,  an abandoned stretch of rusted tracks and open ground.

Veer followed.

Of course he did.

The sky broke open.

Heavy, cold rain hammered down, soaking them instantly. Shirts clung to skin, every bruise flared awake. Mud churned under their boots.

They stopped in an open clearing of wet concrete and dirt.

Ayan’s voice came low, steady:

“This time, nobody pulls us apart.”

Veer nodded once. No bravado. No smirk.

Just readiness.

They collided like two storms.

Ayan’s shoulder slammed into Veer’s chest, Veer gripped Ayan’s shirt and dragged him close.  fists swinging, elbows jamming, forearms crashing into ribs and jaw. Rain made everything slippery making their footing unstable, strikes heavy but imperfect.

Veer’s punch caught Ayan across the cheek, skin split open under the impact. Blood flowed down Ayan’s face, thin red streaks washed by rain. Ayan grabbed Veer’s hair and drove his forehead into Veer’s nose. A sharp crack. Veer’s vision flashed white, blood spurting from his nostril in a heavy rush.

They went down again wrestling in mud, hands slipping, breaths ragged. Ayan struck Veer’s eyebrow where it's opened a gash. Blood mixed with rain, dripping into Veer’s eye, blurring his sight. Veer didn’t stop, he threw a wild hook blindly, the punch connecting with Ayan’s jaw so hard it sent a spray of mud and spit out of his mouth.

They rolled, bodies slick, muscles screaming.

Veer got on top first  dropping three punches, not clean, but desperate. Ayan blocked the last, twisted his hips, and toppled Veer sideways.

They crawled back to standing, swaying, soaked,shaking.

Both bleeding.

Both exhausted.

Both refusing to fall.

Ayan tried to rush again but his boot slid in mud, just a fraction but just enough.

Veer stepped in and threw a short, brutal punch to Ayan’s jaw. 

Ayan’s body went slack for a split second enough to decide everything.

Veer followed with one final blow but not strong, barely controlled yet perfectly timed.

Ayan collapsed to the mud.

He pushed once,twice  then stopped.

Not defeated.

Just done.

Veer stood above him, chest heaving, rain hammering his skin.

No victory in his expression.

Only unfinished fire.

Ayan looked up, blood streaking down his face, breathing like each inhale was a battle.

The hatred didn’t fade.

It burned 

hotter.

They didn’t speak.

Because what they shared wasn’t over.

It had only begun.

Sometime after 2:00 a.m., the train eased into an unplanned halt. No station announcement, no bustle, no vendors but just a long mechanical sigh as the wheels settled. Outside, the world was coated in cold fog, thick enough to blur the platform lights into pale halos. The temperature had dropped sharply; the air carried a wet chill that slipped beneath fabric and pressed directly against skin.

Inside the coupe, Veer stirred first.

His body remembered the fight before his mind did. Ribs stiff, jaw aching, shoulders bruised deep. The compartment felt too warm, too close, as though the very walls were holding the memory of fists and sweat.

He pushed himself upright with a slow breath, swung his legs down, and stood.

He needed cold air.

The corridor was empty as he walked, quiet except for the soft hum of the train’s resting machinery. Outside, the platform waited still, fog-wrapped, and almost unreal in its silence. The cold hit him instantly, a clean shock along his spine. He breathed it in as though it might wash something out of him.

He lit a cigarette and leaned against the railing. Smoke curled upward, disappearing into pale mist.

The coupe door slid open again.

Footsteps.

Ayan stepped out.

No coat. Sleeves pushed up. Bruised, but steady. His breath emerged in thin white streams in front of him. He saw Veer—in the same moment Veer saw him—and the pause that followed was heavy, but not with surprise.

Just recognition.

Ayan came to stand beside him, not too close, not distant either. They stared out at the same empty stretch of platform, the sharp cold cutting through their clothes.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Ayan murmured.

Veer exhaled smoke. “Could you?”

A faint, humorless huff left Ayan.

“No.”

The fog drifted around them, quiet as snowfall.

“You still hurting?” Ayan asked.

Veer finally turned to look at him fully. “Enough to remember. You?”

Ayan’s eyes held firm. “Not enough to stop.”

The air shifted.

Not suddenly.

Not explosively.

But with the slow, unmistakable pull of gravity drawing two objects back into collision.

Veer flicked the cigarette away, ember vanishing into fog.

“So we finish it?” he asked.

Ayan didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

“You think we’re done?”

The cold wind moved between them.

Their blood ran hot despite it.

They stepped closer, until their bodies nearly touched, their breaths mixing in the icy air.

“You have anything left?” Ayan asked, voice rough and low.

Veer’s reply was immediate.

“I’ll take whatever you have.”

The space between them collapsed.

Ayan shoved Veer hard, sending him stumbling back across the damp concrete. Veer caught his footing just in time to see the punch coming, a heavy right hook meant to break through, not test.

It landed.

Veer’s jaw snapped sideways; pain flared. He answered with a hook of his own, sharp and precise, cracking against Ayan’s cheekbone. Both men felt it. Both men steadied.

The fog swirled as they clashed, footsteps echoing across empty cement.

Ayan drove Veer back toward a steel pillar, shoulder lowered, weight behind every movement. Veer grunted as his back met cold metal, the shock running down his spine. Ayan followed with two body strikes deep, punishing shots that thudded into muscle.

Veer didn’t fold.

He struck back with instinct and grit. His knee drove up into Ayan’s thigh, throwing off his stance, and his forearm scraped hard across Ayan’s jaw, snapping his head aside. With the tiniest gap created, he shoved Ayan backward to reclaim space, lungs burning in the cold.

They circled now, breath ragged, limbs heavy but still dangerous.

Ayan lunged again, a wide, furious swing. Veer ducked it and countered with a tight uppercut that forced Ayan back but Ayan absorbed it, stepped through it, and wrapped both arms around Veer’s torso, driving him bodily into the carriage wall.

The impact boomed through the empty platform.

Veer’s teeth clenched against the pain. Ayan’s weight pressed against him, pinning him there. A short, brutal flurry followed close-quarters strikes, shoulder, fist, knee, elbow like less technique, more survival.

Veer pushed back with what remained in him, palms flat against Ayan’s chest, refusing to fold. His breaths were sharp, uneven. His legs tremored from exertion.

Ayan landed two more heavy blows to Veer’s side  so hard they rattled his breath. Veer responded by hooking Ayan’s leg and dragging him down. They hit the ground hard  rolling, punching, choking, mud and blood mixing across the concrete.

But the train horn blasted long and urgent.

The signal had switched.

Time was up.

They broke apart, panting, faces bloodied, bodies aching.

Ayan wiped blood from his eyebrow, spit red onto the ground, and stared.

Veer stared right back.

No satisfaction.

No closure.

Only a deeper, hotter hate.

They had one win each now.

And that felt unbearably incomplete and they got back on the train in silence.

Side by side.

Not rivals.

Not strangers.

Enemies.

The First-Tier AC coupe was a chamber of refrigerated air sealed against the thick, humid night. Outside, the suburbs of Mumbai spread into long ribbons of flickering streetlights, blurred signage, and shuttered stalls. The train glided through them like a bullet through smoke, carrying its passengers toward quieter, darker country.

Inside the compartment, Ayan had taken the Lower berth.

He was a broad-shouldered man, frame thick with weight training and the aggressive rigidness of someone who did not back down from confrontation. His hair was still slicked from a meeting; his tie loosened, his jacket discarded in a careless heap. The tension written across his posture was real. An unresolved business betrayal, a deal collapsing, pressure building behind his eyes. Tonight, anger was the only thing holding him together.

The berth he occupied did not belong to him. His ticket was for the Upper Berth.

But Ayan’s belief was simple:

The world was divided into takers and those who let themselves be taken from.

He had already chosen which one he would be.

The door slid open. The Ticket Conductor stepped in, followed by Veer. Veer was no less physically capable than Ayan. Leaner, perhaps, but built with the balanced tension of a man who knew how to spend his strength efficiently. His gaze moved once across Ayan. Brief, assessing then settled on the berth.

 “Tickets, please,” the conductor said, routine and tired. Veer handed his over. “Veer. Lower berth.” Ayan did not get up. He handed his ticket without shifting his position. 

 The conductor glanced. “Mr. Ayan, you are assigned to the Upper. Mr. Veer has the Lower.” Ayan spoke without looking up. “He will take the upper. I’m already settled.” 

 The conductor shrugged, uninterested, uninvested. “As long as both tickets are valid and you remain in this coupe, it’s your arrangement.” He stepped out. The door slid shut. The latch clicked.

The compartment was sealed.

Veer stepped closer. Not threateningly but just enough to make it clear he wasn’t going to accept the situation by accident.

“You’re in my berth,” he said simply.

Ayan finally turned his head toward him. The smile he gave was not friendly.

“I don’t climb.”

Veer’s voice stayed calm. “And I won't give up what I’ve paid for.”

“That’s cute,” Ayan said.

There was a moment - thin, cold, suspended where either man could have deescalated. Neither did.

Veer reached back and quietly slid the deadbolt into place. A firm metallic thunk sealed them in.

Ayan sat up slowly, deliberate, shoulders rolling as though loosening before a match.

“So that’s how it is,” he said.

Veer didn’t answer. Instead, he moved to the wall and released the latches holding both the upper and lower berths. The padded platforms folded up, locking into place. The compartment transformed into no beds, no pretense of rest,just a tight, enclosed arena.

Ayan stood.

For a few seconds, neither moved. They simply watched each other - weight shifting slightly, measuring reach, footing, temperament.

Then Ayan struck.

He came in heavy, leading with his weight. His punch was fast for someone his size but Veer blocked, but the impact still pushed him backward. Veer countered a low sharp kick to the thigh, enough to bruise deep muscle. Ayan grunted, barely acknowledging it.

The train curved. Their balance adjusted instinctively.

Ayan drove Veer against the padded wall, forearm under his collarbone.

“Just climb up,” Ayan murmured. Not a suggestion. A declaration.

Veer twisted sharply, breaking the hold, and struck two clean shots to the ribs. Ayan’s breath hitched, but he didn’t retreat. He answered with a knee that knocked the air clean from Veer’s lungs.

They locked up chest to chest, arms tangled, the fight shrinking to leverage, pressure, breath, sweat. There was no elegance here. No style. Just determination and anatomy.

Ayan tried to throw Veer down. Veer hooked a foot, tried to sweep but failed. So he changed strategy and pulled, forcing both bodies off balance. They crashed to the floor together, rolling hard, fists and elbows in tight, punishing arcs.

Ayan got on top first.

He struck once - twice - three times. Raw, heavy blows.

Veer blocked the fourth, barely.

His vision blurred. His chest burned.

He could feel himself slipping.

Then the train hit a rough joint in the track.

The whole world jolted.

Ayan’s next punch went just wide only by inches but it was enough.

Veer surged upward, driving his forehead into Ayan’s nose.

A sharp, wet crack.

Blood flooded instantly.

Ayan reeled.

Veer scrambled to his feet, breathing ragged, body screaming, but still moving. He struck not cleanly, not beautifully but with what remained of him ; 

He throw a hook followed by shove, strike to the jaw and a desperate knee right to Ayan guts. A final, heavy right hand to end it.

Ayan’s body sagged ,not unconscious but just finished.

He sank to the floor, breathing hard, eyes open but unable to rise.

The compartment went still again.

Veer stood in the quiet, chest heaving, ribs throbbing, sweat cooling fast in the air-conditioned chill. He didn’t celebrate. He didn’t look triumphant.

He was simply the one still standing.

Slowly yet painfully he lowered the Lower berth back into place.

He sat, leaned back and closed his eyes.

Ayan remained on the floor, bloody but breathing steadily, recovering in silence.

No apology, No conversation, No victory was claimed.

The train sped forward through the night.

Both men knew this would not be the last time they fought each other.