DISCLAIMER: This story is a work of fiction and fan-created fantasy. All characters, settings, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictional context for the purpose of fan enjoyment. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.
It was a balmy Sunday afternoon in Mumbai when the buzz began—Kajol, the legendary actress, was rumored to be attending the charity event at Marine Club. Not for acting, not for a speech, but for an armwrestling challenge.
At first, most assumed it was a publicity stunt. After all, Kajol was known for her fiery roles and expressive acting, not feats of brute strength. But those who knew her better—her inner circle, her old school friends—smiled knowingly. They remembered the girl who once snapped a cricket bat in half during a school brawl. The girl who had an iron grip even back then.
The crowd gathered by the dozen. Cameras flashed. Kajol arrived in a short skirt and a design top, no makeup, just that trademark confident smirk.
A table was set up in the center of the courtyard, padded at the elbows, marked with chalk lines. Her first opponent was a fitness influencer—young, muscular, and overconfident.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, chuckling.
Kajol merely nodded. When they gripped hands, the difference in demeanor was stark. He grunted and tensed every muscle. She just stared him down calmly.
“Ready? Go!”
WHAM! His hand hit the table in less than two seconds.
The crowd gasped. Laughter. Applause. Shock.
“Next?” Kajol asked with a grin, flexing her fingers slightly.
The challengers kept coming—an MMA coach, a local wrestler, even a retired bodybuilder who claimed to have never lost an armwrestling match in his life. But each fell just as swiftly. Kajol’s strength wasn’t flashy—it was absolute. Her arm didn’t even shake.
Some tried to accuse her of using trickery, but there was none. Her technique was perfect, her shoulder locked, her wrist control flawless. One man, after being crushed in under a second, muttered, “She’s not human…”
By the end of the event, not a single man had come close to even budging her arm. Kajol stood amidst the defeated like a queen surveying her court. The air was thick with awe.
A little girl walked up to her, wide-eyed, holding out a pen and a napkin.
“Can I be strong like you one day?” she whispered.
Kajol knelt down, smiled, and signed, “Strength isn’t about muscles. It’s about knowing exactly who you are.”
Then she winked, turned back to the table, and shouted, “Who’s next?”
No one stepped forward.
Kajol just laughed—rich, fearless, invincible.
