In the Discipline of Sport, I Found Myself

Rohit Limbu

A Feature Story by Victor Gurung, Media and Technical Lead Consultant

“Dreams aren’t just meant to be dreamt. They’re meant to be lived. And sometimes, the path to that dream begins with sweat, tears, and a treadmill in a forgotten corner.”

I wasn’t expecting to find a story when I landed in Gelephu last month. I was merely passing through, wrapping up a sports event tour, when I found myself inside a local gym to stretch off a long day. There he was—dripping with sweat, gritting his teeth through reps, his voice echoing across the modest room.

“Don’t lose hope… you have a dream to achieve… you must do it!”

His name was Rohit Limbu. A teenager from Samtse, but currently residing in Gelephu, speaking not to anyone but himself. Yet every murmur was filled with fire. I was captivated—not just by the physical intensity, but the emotional weight behind those words. After the session, I approached him—still catching his breath, towel around his neck. I offered him coffee, curious to understand the story behind those defiant murmurs. He smiled quietly and said: It’s hard to explain. But if you’re really interested, I’ll tell you everything.

Rohit grew up in Thimphu under difficult circumstances. Due to circumstances beyond his control, Rohit grew up without the constant presence of both parents—a reality that turned what could have been a joyful childhood into a quiet, solitary journey.

He remembers the silence of the house the most. His father, a hardworking man, did everything he could. Each morning, he would cook and keep aside a share of food for Rohit before heading off to work. Rohit would go to school, come back home, eat in silence, do his best to smile, and repeat the same routine day after day. There were no siblings to talk to, no one to ask him how his day went. The phrase “How are you?” was something he didn’t hear for years. And while his father tried to provide everything material, emotionally, Rohit felt like an island lost in fog.

“I used to carry a smile, but I was always lost in thoughts. My father tried his best—he’d cook food for me in the morning, leave it packed, and go off to work. When I came back from school, the house was quiet. I was alone. The question—How are you?—became a luxury I hardly heard.”

School became a blur of backlogs and missed opportunities. There was no one at home to help him with homework, to clarify doubts, or even to encourage him to try again. Slowly, he began to hide his struggles behind his smile. The weight of silence became heavier than any book he had to carry to school. By the time he reached Class 8, he had fallen too far behind to catch up. He dropped out. And that’s when everything spiraled.

“I wasn’t studying. I wasn’t playing. I was just… loitering,” Rohit says. “I didn’t touch alcohol or drugs, but I wasn’t far from it either. I was on the edge—without even knowing it.”

Academically, he struggled. Not because of ability, but the absence of guidance, support, and conversation. Homework became a mountain, questions remained unanswered, and slowly, school became a space of silent suffering.

“By the time I reached Class 8, I couldn’t keep up. I fell behind. I dropped out.”

He turned to food—not for hunger, but for comfort. Meals became emotional crutches. His weight ballooned to 120 kilograms. “I wasn’t eating for my stomach,” he says, “I was feeding an emptiness inside me.”

But fate had other plans. One day, a well-wisher uncle saw the spark in him that Rohit himself had forgotten. “You’re not doing anything with your life,” he told him kindly. “Why don’t you try sports? You can still dream, and you can chase that dream.”

That uncle introduced him to a cricket coach—Kumar Subba, a respected mentor and disciplinarian based in Gelephu. That introduction would change everything.

The first time Rohit met Coach Kumar, he still remembers the words that pierced through his fog of self-doubt:
“Would you like to change your life? Forget the past. You’re going to make a new one.”

It felt like a challenge. A lifeline. Rohit accepted.

Coach Kumar offered more than just cricket. He offered a home, a routine, a structure. Morning jogs. Gym in the afternoon. Cricket practice in the evening. Reading. Early dinner. Early sleep. No distractions. Just focus. Just discipline.

The journey wasn’t easy. “I almost ran away many times,” Rohit laughs. “The food was too healthy. No spices, no oil. I’d skip meals just because I couldn’t eat them. But somewhere deep down, I knew this was the path to the life I wanted.”

That uncle introduced him to a cricket coach—Kumar Subba, a respected mentor and disciplinarian based in Gelephu. That introduction would change everything.

It felt like a challenge. A lifeline. Rohit accepted. Coach Kumar offered more than just cricket. He offered a home, a routine, a structure. Morning jogs. Gym in the afternoon. Cricket practice in the evening. Reading. Early dinner. Early sleep. No distractions. Just focus. Just discipline.

A year into training, a moment came that still haunts him—in a good way. It was raining hard one night in Gelephu. Thunder rolled across the sky, and there was a power cut. They were sitting at home, eating dinner by candlelight, when Coach Kumar looked up and asked gently, “Rohit, what is your dream? I’ve never asked you.” Rohit froze. It felt like the world stood still.

“I laughed and said, ‘Coach, my dream is to just stay with you.’ That’s how much I owed him. But I didn’t answer properly that night.”

The question kept him awake. What was his dream? The next morning, in the gym—sweat pouring down his face, hands shaking from lifting weights—he looked at his coach and said, “Coach, I want to answer your question. I want to lose weight. I want to play cricket for Bhutan. I want to represent my country. I want to join Gyalsung, the Bhutan National Service.”

Coach Kumar didn’t laugh. He didn’t dismiss him. Instead, he teared up and gave Rohit the hug of a lifetime. That was the moment everything shifted.

Today, Rohit has lost 32 kilograms. He recently completed his Gyalsung National Service, played for Sarpang and Gelephu Cricket Clubs, and is on the radar for the Bhutan U23 National Team selection.

“I haven’t missed a single training day in the last year,” Rohit says with pride.
“My diet is strict. My life is structured. And every drop of sweat now tastes like purpose.”

He doesn’t just play cricket—he lives it. His love for the game has given him more than a sport. It’s given him identity. Dignity. Direction.

Rohit isn’t stopping at personal milestones. He dreams of coaching youth in Gelephu one day—guiding others like him who are teetering on the edge of being forgotten.

“If I didn’t find sport, I don’t know where I’d be. Maybe lost. Maybe broken. Maybe worse. Today, I have respect. I have goals. I have a family in the form of teammates and my coach.”

In the discipline of sport, I found myself. It didn’t happen overnight, and it didn’t come easy. But in every drop of sweat, every aching muscle, and every moment I chose to stay instead of walk away—I slowly built a version of myself I could be proud of. Choosing sport wasn’t just about staying fit or chasing a dream. It was about rewriting a life that once felt lost, about choosing discipline over despair, purpose over pain. Sport gave me direction when I had none, and belief when I had stopped believing. Today, I stand not as someone who had it easy, but as someone who chose to keep going.

And for every young person out there struggling in silence—know this: the moment you choose to fight for yourself, everything begins to change.