The 100-Gram Heartbreak: Vinesh Phogat’s Olympic Story

Imagine a world where the difference between glory and defeat is about the weight of a bar of soap. Now, imagine that world is the 2024 Paris Olympics, and the protagonist is none other than Vinesh Phogat, India’s wrestling champion. This isn’t a fictional plot; it’s the story of a woman who had to battle not only her opponents but also the weighing scales, and in a cruel twist of fate, lost to the latter.

She had already conquered World No. 1 Yui Susaki in a nail-biting bout, marking a historic moment as the first Indian woman to reach an Olympic wrestling final. You could almost hear the collective cheer of a billion voices back home, fueled by the hope that a gold medal was definitely coming. But then, like a Shakespearean tragedy, came the twist—Vinesh was disqualified for weighing in 100 grams over the limit on the day of the final.

Let’s put this into perspective. One hundred grams is about the weight of a bar of soap or two eggs. That’s all it took to shatter her Olympic dream. It wasn’t her technique, her stamina, or her courage that faltered—it was a decimal on a scale.

The heartache is unimaginable. Here was a woman who had fought tooth and nail—literally—to stand on that Olympic stage, only to be undone by something as trivial as a few sips of water or a bite of food. 

But there’s more to this story. It’s impossible not to wonder why Vinesh was competing in the 50 kg category when she had previously built a formidable reputation in the 53 kg category. The answer, dearest gentle readers, lies in the tricky politics of sports.

After Antim Malik secured an Olympic quota spot in the 53 kg class by winning a bronze medal at the World Championships in Belgrade, Vinesh had to make a difficult decision. She didn’t compete in Belgrade, as she was leading a protest against the former Wrestling Federation of India chief, Brij Bhushan Sharan Singh, over allegations of sexual harassment.

When the time came for the Asian Olympic qualifiers in Bishkek, Vinesh was left with no choice but to compete in the 50 kg category, and she did secure her spot for Paris. The Wrestling Federation of India (WFI) then announced that there would be no further selection trials for the six Olympic quota-winning wrestlers, meaning Vinesh would have to stick with the 50 kg category. If trials had been held, she might have had the chance to compete with Antim in her preferred 53 kg category, where cutting weight wouldn’t have been such a Herculean task.

After winning the semi-final match at the Paris Olympics, Vinesh didn’t even talk to the media because she was aware that she was above 50 kg at the end of that day due to all the food and fluids she had to consume to keep her energy up between bouts. Her focus was entirely on the daunting task of reducing those 2.7 kgs before the weigh-in the next morning. “Kal baat karungi, aaj weight manage karna hai,” were her words to the media.

What followed was a sleepless night, completely abstaining from food and water, hours of cycling, jogging, and running on the treadmill, all while wearing a sauna suit. When she couldn’t sweat anymore, her team had to cut off her hair. (Rumors even suggest they took out some blood from her body.)

It’s widely known that shedding weight is more challenging for women due to physiological differences, including hormonal fluctuations, water retention, and the menstrual cycle. Perhaps it’s time we rethink the rigid rules around weigh-ins, especially in high-stakes competitions like the Olympics. Maybe there should be allowances, be it a few extra grams or even additional time, to account for the biological realities female athletes face.

Only last year, Vinesh was at the forefront of a protest against the Wrestling Federation of India’s chief over sexual harassment allegations. And none of us cared to know her story back then—until Tuesday afternoon when she was a contender for bringing gold home.

Remember when we were kids, and the Olympics were nothing more than a trivia answer in the next GK test? I was in seventh grade in 2008 when Abhinav Bindra won India’s first individual gold medal. We memorized his name, tucked it away in our notebooks, and moved on. It was just a fact to be recalled at the right time, no different from the capital of some faraway country.

But as you grow older, the athletes competing aren’t just names in a book anymore; they’re people your age, younger, or older, each with a story, each carrying the weight of an entire nation’s hopes. The medals they win—or lose—suddenly become much more than just shiny objects.

In the age of social media, where information moves faster than our emotions can keep up, we saw Vinesh’s world crumble in real time. She appealed to the committee for another chance, but the harsh reality of Olympic rules left no room for second chances. Yesterday, she announced her retirement. We cannot even imagine the helplessness and defeat she must have felt.

As someone who writes, I’ve often found myself grappling with how to express certain stories. Do I rush to capture the raw emotion as it happens, or do I take a step back, let the dust settle, and try to understand what really went down? Because, let’s be honest, I’m not at the Olympics. I’m not a journalist with sources feeding me the latest scoop. I’m just like you, piecing together the facts from the next day’s newspaper, Instagram reels, and various articles online. When our phones buzzed with the shocking notification that she had been disqualified, I was in the middle of making another Paris-related reel but soon gave up because the mood suddenly changed. I no longer felt like talking about the Olympics with enthusiasm when there were articles suggesting it was part of a conspiracy against women of colour, etc.

Too much information and trying to form your own opinions within a limited time frame can be exhausting. It’s hard to come to terms with something like this. We’ve been taught to value winners, and to celebrate only the names etched in gold and bronze. But now, I realize the heartbreak behind those who come so close yet fall short, often due to circumstances beyond their control.

In the end, Vinesh Phogat may have missed out on a medal, but she didn’t lose. The fact that today the whole nation stands with her, when last year this is exactly what she wanted, shows that she has won something far more significant—the hearts of millions. The glory, the heartbreak, the tears of joy, and the tears of despair—they’re all part of the same coin, so to speak.