Finding talent, learning to listen: How NIDJAM 2022 shaped the journey of young athletes in Bihar

When Bihar was entrusted with the responsibility of hosting the 2022 National Inter District Junior Athletics Meet (NIDJAM) the State responded without hesitation. Organised by the Athletics Federation of India, it was reportedly the largest grassroots talent scouting event in the world for any individual sport, bringing together athletes from nearly 600 districts across the country, with approximately 13 athletes per district from the grassroots level.

The decision to host was taken swiftly, almost instinctively. However, as preparations unfolded, the magnitude of the exercise became increasingly evident. The scale of coordination required for accommodation, catering and transportation for nearly 8,000 athletes, along with accompanying parents, coaches and technical officials, was immense. The dates had been finalised, the budget approved by the Cabinet, and preparations were formally underway.

The event, conducted successfully in a manner befitting its scale, went on to brand Bihar in a positive and powerful way. Every athlete, parent, coach and official who participated left as an informal ambassador of the State. As a former athlete myself, and someone deeply connected to athletics, I spent much of the event moving across venues, watching each competition closely. Many of the children competed barefoot; many wore simple PT shoes; and only a few had access to proper spikes.

The philosophy of NIDJAM was unique. The AFI’s talent scouting system was focused not on performance in that particular event, but on identifying underlying potential. The scouts were constantly moving, engaging with children, observing and selecting. I would often watch them from a distance, fascinated by their process. The scouts would approach a child, speak briefly with them, observe their movement, posture and natural athletic instinct, and then move on.

I have learnt that identifying talent is only the beginning. We must also listen, earn their trust and give them the freedom to make their own choices — Raveendran Sankaran | Photo Credit: R.V. MOORTHY

Curiosity led me to overhear some of those conversations. Nishi, Rajatraj, Prashant, Divyansh, Piyush Raj, Kushi and Virender caught the scouts’ attention. On AFI’s recommendation, they were placed under the close observation of a coach. After about a month, the coach discussed his assessment with me. He was convinced that Nishi, Virender and Piyush should train for combined events, and the other four for sprints and horizontal jumps. My task was to convince the youngsters. Each already had a favourite event. Sprints and javelin were particularly popular; Neeraj Chopra’s Tokyo gold had clearly left its mark.

With this in mind, I called the seven athletes to my office.

They entered my chamber with the cautious expressions young athletes reserve for a summons from a senior official. Before I had said a word, their faces seemed to ask: ‘What is sir going to tell us?’

“Congratulations to all of you,” I began. “You have been identified as promising athletes for Bihar.”

Their shoulders relaxed a little. A few smiles appeared, cautiously, before being brought back under control. Apparently, happiness also needed to observe office etiquette.

I had some small sporting souvenirs with me, which I handed out as a token of recognition. I wanted them to feel that they had been invited because we saw something valuable in them. We started with their lives outside sport. I asked about their families, their studies, what their parents did and the circumstances in which they trained. Gradually, the replies became longer. The room began to feel less like an office in which they might be examined and more like a place where they could speak.

Then I asked two questions.

“Why are you in sport?”

“Because I like it, sir.”

The wording varied slightly, but the answer was the same.

“And what do you want to achieve?”

“The Olympics, sir.”

All seven. No hesitation this time.

“Do you know how many years of hard work that might take?”

“Ten to twelve years, sir.”

They were remarkably unanimous. I had expected to spend some time explaining that an Olympic ambition required patience. They appeared to have arrived with the patience already budgeted.

“How do you know?”

They spoke about Neeraj Chopra — what they had read, what they had watched and what they had heard about his journey. Some associated his early recognition with NIDJAM.

Listening to them, I felt grateful for what one athlete’s Olympic gold had done. Here were young athletes who could see a connection between their own beginnings and the greatest stage in sport. Neeraj had given their ambition a face, a name and a story they could remember.

He had also saved me a considerable amount of introductory lecturing.

“What else do you know about him?”

The answers came more readily now. They spoke of his dedication to the javelin, of sacrifices and long periods in training camp. One mentioned avoiding social functions; another spoke about limiting mobile-phone use. These were the details of his life that had stayed with them: the image of an athlete willing to organise everything around his goal.

So far, I thought, this was going rather well.

“And what about his relationship with his coaches? Have you heard anything about that?”

There was a pause. This part of the story had received less attention.

I spoke about the role a coach could play in recognising ability and helping an athlete develop it. Then I brought the conversation closer to home.

“The scouting committee was looking at more than your performance at NIDJAM,” I explained. “They were looking at your potential — what you might be capable of with the right training, perhaps in a different event.”

The room grew still.

“They have recommended that some of you change events.”

The relief with which the meeting had begun disappeared. They were listening very carefully now.

There seemed little point in prolonging the suspense.

“Nishi, Piyush and Virender — the recommendation is that you move to combined events.”

Nishi was identified as a promising athlete at NIDJAM 2022 in Bihar. Initially reluctant to switch from javelin to combined events, she returned to the heptathlon after a year, going on to win junior National gold and establish herself among India’s leading women heptathletes. | Photo Credit: Special arrangement

For the other four, the recommendations were in sprints and horizontal jumps.

I watched their faces as they absorbed this. A moment earlier, we had all been comfortably in agreement about the Olympics. Agreement became more difficult when we reached the route by which they might get there.

The first objections arrived without words: a shift in a chair, a glance at a teammate, eyes lowered to the floor.

Piyush agreed immediately.

“Sir, whatever you say, I will do. I trust you. You will only want what is good for me.”

I had not known him before NIDJAM. I had watched him run the 400 metres barefoot, and now here he was, willing to place his sporting future in my hands. His trust moved me. It also made me conscious of how carefully we needed to proceed.

Nishi and Virender were less convinced.

“Sir, give us one year,” they said. “We will train properly and show you what we can do in our own event.”

Both were javelin throwers.

They had more to offer than an objection.

“Send us to Bengaluru or Madhya Pradesh, sir. There are good javelin coaches there. Let us train under them.”

They had thought about this. They had places in mind, coaches they wanted to reach and a plan they were prepared to argue for.

I had called them in hoping to explain where we wanted them to go. They had begun explaining where they wanted to go — and why.

The real conversation was finally beginning.

This was a new challenge for me: the work of a mentor. These youngsters wanted to think for themselves and have a say in decisions affecting their lives. An instruction, however well-intended, could meet resistance if it was simply imposed. My wife, Malar, and I had experienced something similar while bringing up our two daughters. The lessons they had taught us about when to speak and when to listen were about to prove useful in my office.

There was another difficulty. I was asking them to commit years of training to several disciplines: ten in the decathlon and seven in the heptathlon. To youngsters drawn to the excitement of a sprint final, a spectacular jump or a soaring javelin, that was a considerable change of direction.

As a combined-events athlete, I have experienced the peculiar feeling of being both part of the team and slightly outside its field of vision. So I understand how a young athlete feels when their sprinter friends receive the cheers, the attention and the admiring looks, while they quietly work through an entire catalogue of athletic activities.

Persuasion itself has changed since my days as a young athlete. Our generation generally treated the coach as the final authority. The guru had spoken; the discussion was over — assuming a discussion had been permitted to begin.

If the coach decided that you were a combined-events athlete, you became one. Asking “Why?” was not usually considered the first step towards a productive exchange of ideas. Today’s athletes ask questions. Why this event? Why this training session? Why does the athlete I follow online train differently?

I do not blame them. In fact, I welcome it.

I had seven young athletes in front of me, but their responses had left me with a question of my own.

Should I accept the two javelin throwers’ request, or put my foot down and insist that they follow the committee’s recommendation?

Everyone in that room understood the weight of my position. I offered them snacks and coffee. They needed a little refreshment; I needed a little time.

Whenever I am in a dilemma involving young athletes, I try to return to my own days as a sportsman. It helps me look beyond the administrator’s desk and remember what it feels like to sit on the other side. That afternoon, my memory took me straight back to basketball.

I had been a keen basketball player, deeply attached to the game. It was my father who had introduced me to it. Then, just as I was beginning to play well, he abruptly moved me into athletics, the field he knew best.

There had been no discussion. I was not asked what I wanted. One sporting life stopped and another was chosen for me.

As a teenager, I could not understand why I was being pulled away from something I loved. I resented the decision. Initially, that resentment turned against athletics itself. I did not always complete the prescribed workouts, and I did not give training everything I had. It was my own small, stubborn way of protesting a decision in which I had been given no voice.

With time, I came to recognise that athletics suited my physique and abilities. I also understood more of my father’s thinking. He had introduced basketball and other games to develop my balance, coordination, tactical awareness and explosive strength. He had also hoped they would help me grow taller. What had seemed to me a sudden change had been part of a larger plan in his mind.

Understanding his intentions did not erase the hurt of being excluded from the decision. Even today, that memory can trouble me. I could appreciate his vision and still wish he had spoken to me before acting on it.

Now, I was the adult with a plan. The youngsters in front of me were the ones being asked to leave an event they loved.

Yet I had to be honest with myself: I remained strongly convinced that the scouts were right. I believed Nishi and Virender had the qualities to do well in combined events, and I wanted them to see what I could see.

I brought out the data I had. I explained the competitive field, the possibilities at National level and, eventually, the prospects at Asian level. I tried to show them why combined events could offer a promising route. I was doing everything I could to make that route attractive.

Nothing changed their minds. Finally, I accepted their decision. As they had requested, I arranged for them to train with their preferred coaches in Bengaluru and Madhya Pradesh. Piyush and the others followed the recommendations we had made.

The years that followed gave each of these decisions a different outcome.

Identified at NIDJAM 2022, Piyush Raj embraced the challenge of combined events and went on to set a National Under-20 decathlon record, surpassing a mark set by his mentor, Raveendran Sankaran, 30 years earlier. He later won a medal at the Asian Under-20 Athletics Championships and qualified for the World Under-20 Championships. | Photo Credit: Special arrangement

Piyush went on to set a National Record in the U-20 decathlon. For me, the achievement carried a particularly personal joy: he had surpassed a record I had set 30 years earlier. He did it in my own district, on the very track where I had spent so many hours training.

His progress continued. He won a medal at the Asian U-20 Athletics Championships and qualified for the World U-20 Championships. Along the way, he developed into a 400-metre specialist. These achievements grew out of four years of training and development. His journey also reminded me that an athlete’s best event can become clearer with experience; an early recommendation need not define an entire career.

The sprinters and jumpers also did well, winning medals at National Championships and bringing credit to Bihar. The talent identified at NIDJAM was beginning to show what sustained training could produce.

Virender’s journey was more disappointing. He did not make the breakthrough we had hoped for in the crowded field of Indian javelin throwing. That was painful to see. Yet a young athlete’s unrealised promise should make us examine the pathway and the support around him, rather than dismiss his future. We had believed he possessed talent; that belief deserved more care than a final verdict of failure.

Nishi’s story took another turn. After a full year of pursuing the javelin, she returned to me. She had reconsidered her choice and was ready to try the heptathlon.

It takes courage to come back and say that a decision has not worked as one had hoped. I respected her for doing so. There was no value in making her feel smaller for having changed her mind. What mattered was that she now understood the choice and was willing to commit herself to it.

We arranged for her to train under a specialist coach. Over the next four years, she improved her score substantially, won a junior National gold medal and established herself among the country’s leading women heptathletes. She still has time to develop. If her progress continues and the necessary support remains in place, I hope we will one day watch her win an Asian Games medal.

Looking back, I do not see these outcomes as a competition between my judgement and theirs. Piyush’s success does not mean unquestioning obedience is always best. Nishi’s return does not mean young athletes should be denied the right to disagree. Their different journeys show how much patient work lies between identifying potential and helping it grow.

I think of Kahlil Gibran’s words in The Prophet, in the passage “On Children”: “You may give them your love but not your thoughts, For they have their own thoughts.” My father’s experience with me, and my experience with these youngsters, have helped me understand the difficulty of living by that thought. We may see possibilities that a child cannot yet see. We still have to make room for the person who will do the training and live with the choice.

That is why NIDJAM remains a watershed moment for Bihar athletics in my mind. Hosting the meet was an achievement, but its deeper value emerged afterwards: in the talent the scouts recognised, the coaching that followed and the opportunities those children could finally pursue.

Whenever I picture Piyush competing on the track where I once trained, I feel that connection most strongly. The track is familiar; the future belongs to someone else. Our responsibility is to prepare it well for those who come after us — and to listen when they tell us how they hope to run.

Raveendran Sankaran is the Director General of the Bihar State Sports Authority (BSSA).

Published on Oct 29, 2026

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