The Last Point

 Krishna was known for two things at Nexus Solutions: closing deals and destroying his colleagues on the tennis court.

At the office, he was a machine. His spreadsheets were flawless, his presentations sharp, and his quarterly numbers were the stuff of legend. But it was during the company's annual team-building retreats that Krishna truly came alive. Whether it was cricket, badminton, or a simple game of table tennis in the breakroom, Krishna played to win. Not just to win. He wanted to annihilate.

He kept a mental ledger of every victory. He knew that he had beaten Rajesh in tennis six times in a row. He remembered the exact score of the cricket finals from two years ago (78 runs, his team, versus 45). He never let anyone forget. When his colleague Priya double-faulted on match point, he cheered loudly. When Ananya dropped a catch in the corporate cricket league, he sighed audibly and shook his head.

"Competition sharpens the mind," Krishna would say with a smug grin. "If you're not first, you're wasting time."

His colleagues tolerated him. They admired his skill but dreaded his company. The retreats, which were meant to build camaraderie, had become Krishna's personal stage for domination. People stopped high-fiving him. They stopped inviting him for post-game chai. He was the champion, but he was also alone.


This year's retreat was at a luxury resort in Maracas. The final event was a mixed-doubles tennis tournament. Krishna was paired with Priya, the same Priya whose double-fault he had mocked mercilessly the year before. She didn't look thrilled. Neither did he.

"Just try not to lose it for us," he said flatly as they walked to the court.

Priya stopped walking. She turned to him, her eyes tired but steady.

"Krishna," she said quietly, "do you even remember what happened last year after the game?"

He blinked. "We won."

"We won," she repeated. "And then you went to the bar to celebrate alone while the rest of us went back to the cottages. Do you know what we did? We sat by the bonfire. We told stories. We laughed until our stomachs hurt. Ananya played her guitar. Rajesh, the same Rajesh you beat in tennis, stayed up until 2 AM helping me fix a presentation I was nervous about." She paused. "You weren't there. You were too busy being the winner."

Krishna opened his mouth to retort, but nothing came out. He suddenly realized he didn't know what Priya's laugh sounded like. He didn't know Ananya played guitar. He had no idea Rajesh was kind.


The match began. Krishna played his usual aggressive game consisting of sharp angles, powerful serves, and relentless volleys. But Priya was struggling. She missed an easy return. She served into the net. Krishna felt the old familiar heat rise in his chest. He wanted to yell. He wanted to take over the entire court himself.

But then he looked at Priya's face. She wasn't sloppy but she was nervous. She was afraid of disappointing him. Of disappointing everyone. She was playing not to enjoy the game, but to survive his judgment.


In that moment, something shifted in Krishna. He thought of the text he had read on his phone that morning, a quote that had lingered in his mind like an unwelcome guest: "If the objective is simply winning then the richness of the journey rarely lasts."

He walked over to Priya during the changeover. She wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Hey," he said, softer than she had ever heard him. "Forget the score. Just... play. Have fun. I've got your back."

She looked up, suspicious. "What's the catch?"

"No catch," he said. And for the first time, he meant it.

They lost the match. 6-4, 6-3. The opposing team—Rajesh and Ananya—celebrated with genuine joy. Krishna felt the familiar sting of defeat, but it was muted, distant. What surprised him was what followed.

Priya hugged him. Not a polite, corporate side-hug, but a real one. "Thank you," she whispered. "For not making me feel like garbage."

Rajesh walked over and clapped him on the shoulder. "Good game, Krishna. Want to grab some chai?"


And so Krishna sat by the bonfire that night. He listened as Ananya played her guitar. He laughed at Rajesh's terrible jokes. He watched Priya's face light up as she recounted the match with humor instead of shame. He learned that Ananya had written her first song at twelve, that Rajesh was terrified of dogs, and that Priya had once wanted to be a pastry chef.

He didn't win a trophy that day. But as the fire crackled and his colleagues—his friends—roared with laughter around him, Krishna felt something he hadn't felt in years.

He felt full.

It is not only what we achieve that shapes us, but how wholeheartedly we choose to experience life along the way.

Krishna looked at the tennis court in the distance, now dark and silent. He had conquered it many times. But tonight, he realized, he had finally won something far greater: the richness of the journey itself.

He smiled, leaned back, and for the first time in his life, he was simply present.


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