Jadumani Singh Mandengbam earned the Silver Medal in Men’s 55kg Boxing at the Glasgow 2026 Commonwealth Games.
A tribute to my Uncle Mandengbam Milan.
As I stood on the podium at the Scottish Event Campus with the Commonwealth Games silver medal hanging heavy around my neck, the bright lights of Glasgow blurred into a distant image thousands of miles away.
I didn’t see the crowd, nor did I see the flashes of the press cameras. What I saw were two hands. Rough, heavily calloused hands covered in dry cement dust, bruised from lifting heavy scaffolding bricks under the scorching sun of Manipur. Hands that belonged not to a celebrated sports icon or a high-performance coach, but to my uncle, Mandengbam Milan. ”People look at a medal and see silver or gold. I look at mine and see every drop of sweat my uncle shed so I could wear a pair of gloves.”
In Iroishemba, like many young boys in Manipur, my first love was football—chasing a worn-out ball on muddy grounds. But when the path shifted toward boxing, it wasn’t just my discipline that was tested; it was our family’s survival.
From Instagram courtesy Times Now
Equipment, proper nutrition, travel expenses to local state championships—boxing is a sport demanding resources we did not have. But my uncle made it possible for me to participate and advance.
He works as a daily-wage construction laborer, and every rupee he earned came at the expense of backbreaking physical toil. Yet he never hesitated whenever my training required better shoes, extra eggs for nutrition, or entry fees for a national trial.
He didn’t just support my dream; he starved his own comfort to feed it. When the local construction sites had no work, he took on extra shifts, hauling bricks till his shoulders bled, ensuring I never missed a day at the gym or felt the sting of lack when standing opposite an opponent in the ring.
Graphic courtesy of Instagram at Yogesh.Sagarbgp
When I stepped into the ring for the 55kg final against Australia’s Jye Dixon here in Glasgow, I wasn’t just throwing jabs for myself or even just for India.
In every round, every time my lungs burned for air and my knuckles hit the opponent’s guard, I thought of my uncle’s hands. I thought of the sacrifices made in silence, the times he went to bed exhausted without a word of complaint so that I could wake up early and run my miles.
Though I missed the gold by a narrow margin, this silver medal belongs entirely to him. It is crafted from the sweat of a construction worker who believed a kid from a tiny locality in Manipur could take on the world.
To my uncle Milan: This medal is not mine; it is the physical return on your daily labor. Your hands built the foundation upon which I stand today.
To every youngster back home in Manipur training with broken gear and big dreams, remember this: the strength in your fists doesn’t just come from the gym. It comes from the people who bleed for you behind the scenes.
