10.0
Silence
10.5
It's over.
Let's attempt an illustration of this thing that Abhinav Bindra does. He shoots a pellet from a rifle at a target that's 10 metres away. Okay Indian people, that is nearly 33 feet. Think of the bus your kid goes to school in every day. Stand at one end, by the driver, and draw a circle at the other. Then make another little, tiny circle within it. How tiny, you ask? Try, 0.5mm. Yeah, that's bullseye.
In his shoot-off against Serhiy Kulish of Ukraine to decide who would leave these Olympic Games with at least a medal, Bindra shot a pellet over that distance. And hit bullseye. And still lost.
Duh?
You see, there is such a thing as an imperfect 10 in this thing that Bindra does. You can shoot good tens, great tens, and spectacular tens. Kulish shot a great one to torpedo Bindra's good one. He would go on to win silver on the day. In that moment, Bindra would allow a tiny grimace pass across his usually impassive face. It's done you know, all those hours and hours of lonely practices, all those brutal training sessions, all those yoga and mental strengthening sessions. He unbuttons his coat and walks back penguin like, waddling in a seemingly uncomfortable costume to join four other men who will return home empty-handed.
10 versus 10.5. A little pellet shot across a school bus. One hits the 0.5mm circle perfectly. The other hits it better than perfectly. Those aren't fine margins. They aren't even margins. Yet they decide victor from vanquished. Delirious from crestfallen. Medallist from participant. Bindra draws a parallel later with the lottery, droning in his signature monotone: "I have never won the lottery."
It is a bumpy sort of day for Bindra. He is a perfectionist by design. He plots every little step with care and is a stickler for routine. Earlier in the year he comes to Rio to get a feel for the range where the Olympic competition would be held. He returns home to Chandigarh and redesigns his range in the same colour scheme and the same lighting patterns. No one around him thinks it's silly. "Abhinav", those who know him say, "oh, he is like that."
So he arrives at the range on this day, his last as a professional shooter, for one last roundabout. Nice and slow, like he likes it. Except he sits on a table and it comes crashing down. Bindra falls on his backside and worse, breaks his sight -- a device that is placed on top of the gun to help shooters take aim. This one was designed especially for the Olympics but now it is shattered. Bindra has no choice but to use a spare one. "It was okay," was all he would say later, shrugging off the forced imperfection that scuppered his build-up.
The competition is designed to find eight from a field of 58 to fight for the medals. Bindra has been here before. At four previous Olympics he has made two finals and one of those memorably ended with a gold medal back in Beijing 2008. But he's missed out too. In Sydney in 2000 as a tyro and in London in 2012 as defending champion. Roller coasters are in the DNA of this sport and Bindra takes us along on one from the moment we enter the arena.
The combatants get 60 shots apiece in the qualifying stage. Ten each in a series. Each shot can fetch a maximum score of 10.9. Knowledgeable observers murmur a cumulative score of around 625 should get you into the medal round. So Bindra sets off, with colleague Gagan Narang not too far away. He starts with 104.3 in his first series. Solid. Second: 104.4. Good. Third: 105.9. Wow. Fourth: 103.8. Okay. Fifth: 102.1. Whoa, trouble. The scoreboard above us is drunk. A white line separates the top eight from the other 50. Now Bindra is above it. Now below. Back up. Down again. Collective blood pressure readings of the assembled Indians in the arena are through the roof.
Final series. Bindra sticks to practised routine. Aim. Breathe. Shoot. Look sideways. Look down. Purse lips. Rub cheek gently by the side of the rifle. He wears big, black headphones to keep the noise out, not the plugs Narang prefers. By this time Narang is almost out anyway, having squandered a strong start. Bindra lines them up and the scores start to show up on a little screen in a funny font in front of us. The higher tens get whoops of applause. Officials are nervily edging on their seats. Journalists are tweeting nonsense. Fellow Indian shooters in the stands are furiously doing the maths. Bindra is being, well Bindra. No fist pumps when he fires up a high 10. No self-chastising if it isn't. It is an unnerving, seemingly unsustainable calm.
105.2.
The drunk scoreboard is at it again. "Is he in, is he in?" I deliriously ask the manager of the Indian team, Ronak Pandit. He nods in straight lines, "The maths would suggest so." Finally, the scoreboard is sober and there is confirmation. Bindra is in seventh place and above that dreaded white line. He shoots a total of 625.7 to earn that cherished Q at the end of his name. Q = Qualified.
There're high-fives and high-decibel "yays" but the shooter of the pellets that delivers this moment is unmoved. "Shooting," he says in interviews before the Olympics, "is a sport of stillness. And human beings aren't designed to be still."
Are you kidding me?
The final is in an hour and a half and in another hall -- a grander stage fit for the occasion. The eight men in battle enjoy more space away from each other, though they'd barely notice if you bunch them up. The announcer of the final is tasked with injecting excitement into the room and hollers out the rules of play. Indians are streaming into the arena, thirsting to bask in the afterglow of a medal. Bindra is in Lane C, straight in my eyeline.
Seated beside me is Rohit Brijnath who co-authored Bindra's unputdownable autobiography, A Shot at History - My Obsessive Journey to Olympic Gold. Brijnath is fun to chat with most times but he commands himself to silence for the duration of this final. He has never seen Bindra shoot at an Olympics before. This is a gut-churning, finger numbing experience. The complexion of the competition is altered now. They go eight shots each before the lowest among them gets eliminated.
"Human beings aren't designed to be still."
No s%&* Sherlock.
Off we go. Bindra starts with a 10. 9.7. 10.2. 9.7. 10.1. 10.4. 10.1.10.7
A stumbly start makes way for a dash up the leaderboard. He is safe from immediate eviction. Ukrainian Oleh Tsarkov is the first to go. Croatia's Petar Gorsa is next. Belarusian Illia Charheika follows. Five men standing, three medals to be won. Bindra shoots a sequence of 10.4. 10.8. 10.7. 10.7.10.1. Gentle reminder, he is aiming a 0.5mm circle, nearly 33 feet away. I am besides myself now, eyes darting wondrously from the big screen in front to the computer screen in front as tiny boxes get populated. Bindra is in silver position now as the enthusiastic announcer repeatedly tells us, "We are seeing some great shooting here."
"Stay still dude, stay still."
Another shooter, Hungarian Peter Sidi, has exited. Four men, three medals. Bindra the only one among them to have won a gold in this event at a previous Olympics.
9.7. 10.5. 9.9. 10.2.
We have completed shot 16 and the inbuilt calculator in the official scoring system says "SO". It stands for shoot-off. Bindra versus Kulish. The Ukranian is 23 years old and looks even younger. He started shooting at the age of 10. He is up against a legend of his sport. One shot. Medal or no medal. Podium or bust.
Bindra goes first - 10.
Kulish - 10.5.
We are done. I tweet: fourth - no medal :(
Like a balloon that bobbles aimlessly on being punctured, Indians are walking out of the arena disconsolate. For me, this has been a collar-grabbing, soul-uplifting experience. I go in pursuit of Bindra to seek out quotes for the standard reportage. When I find him on his way to a mandatory dope test, I eagerly seek answers about not just the day he has just completed but the big picture of his legacy and accomplishments. Brijnath, who spent months cajoling him to surrender his deepest thoughts, hangs back. He knows Bindra is hurting and will not reveal himself right now. He is right. Bindra is impish but curt at the interaction. "I thought I shot well," he says. "It is easy to say I could have won a medal but it didn't happen. Let's accept it and move on."
Time in professional sport is finite, perishable commodity. Abhinav Bindra began this Rio day having decided his time is up. He fell on his bum, he lifted himself, he dusted it off and he fought and fought and fought. To the last moment. On his way out of the arena, Bindra's coach Heinz Reinkemeier found the perfect explanation of this moment for us headline hunters.
"If you play this game," he smiled, "you have to be ready not to come first, but fourth"