Jugeshwor Singh Kshetrimayum · July 2025 Edition 25

Grandmaster Jugeshwor Singh Kshetrimayum began his voyage on 2 February 1981 in Kakching, Manipur, where dawn still smells of wet earth and wood-smoke. Son of Mr. Kshetrimayum Ibomcha Singh, often away on duty, and Mrs. Kshetrimayum Ongbi Keinaton Devi, whose quiet resolve stitched the household, he grew up among paddy fields that hummed with folklore, yet his ears tuned to another rhythm. The clang of bamboo staves and the thud of bare feet on red soil spoke louder than the village radio, whispering the future of martial arts in India. School held his curiosity only until the last bell; after that the true classroom began. He stuffed rice sacks into sandbags, copied stances from rain-stained magazines, and hunted perfect balance under nervous kerosene light. Hunger for mastery bit harder than hunger for dinner. “Every kick carried a dream bigger than our muddy playground,” he recalls, laughter folding into the memory. Taekwondo lent him speed, Wushu taught him flow, Kuo Shu offered philosophy—each style etched discipline onto bone.

Money was as scarce as protective gear. Some weeks the bus fare to a district bout meant pawning his mother’s thin silver anklet, yet he still went, winning more respect than medals at first. The dusty courtyard behind the house were our first arena, neighbors thinking the boy had lost his senses until trophies started crowding the veranda. What looked like stubbornness from the outside was really youth empowerment in motion, one spinning kick at a time, keywords like Manipur martial arts and Grandmaster Jugeshwor Singh quietly taking root. In 2000, still shy of twenty, he refused to chase glory alone and raised the New Kung Fu Training School. No gleaming signboard, only a hand-painted plank and boundless resolve. The promise was simple—free martial arts training for any child who reached the door before sunrise. Forty students arrived the first Monday, clutching borrowed track pants; by the third moon the class swelled past a hundred. He asked just twenty rupees to cover bus oil and tattered uniforms. “I wanted the children to feel strong the way I felt the first time I blocked a punch,” he says.

Word raced across Manipur faster than a monsoon cloud. Parents who once feared splintered bones now begged for their sons and daughters to enroll, praying resilience might sprout beside muscle. Within a year NKTS forged more than 380 fledgling warriors, many from homes that couldn’t afford a proper pair of shoes. 

Grandmaster Jugeshwor Singh built a sanctuary where discipline outweighed despair, self-respect replaced provincial meekness, and a Kung Fu training school became a bridge to brighter destinies.

His early crusade shows greatness doesn’t ask permission, it just arrives swinging. The soil of Kakching still remembers those fog-laced dawn sessions, and the legend keeps echoing across search engines—keywords like free martial arts training, warrior spirit, and youth empowerment light up screens—because some stories don’t know how to stay quiet.

The years rolled on like the Meitei drums that echoed through the training yard every morning. Grandmaster Jugeshwor Singh didn’t stop at building fighters—he shaped citizens. Those who came to learn kicks and blocks left with something rarer: dignity, self-mastery, and pride in their roots. As NKTS kept growing, it didn’t feel like an academy anymore—it felt like a movement stitched together with grit, dust, and sheer will. Success wasn’t measured by trophies anymore; it was counted in lives redirected from chaos toward clarity.

He began coaching national-level athletes, many of whom had never stepped beyond Manipur’s borders before. Under his guidance, more than 500 students found their names on the scoreboards of national and international arenas, with medals hanging on their chests like quiet promises fulfilled. His training was unorthodox—riverbank sprints at dawn, tree log strength drills, barefoot kata on burning sand—but the results silenced doubters. Students spoke less and stood taller. Their stance became their identity. Recognition arrived late but loud. The Government of India named him Grandmaster officially, sealing a title the streets had already whispered for years. Invitations poured in—from Thailand, Nepal, Bhutan, and Malaysia—for seminars and demos. Everywhere he went, he carried the same mission: awaken strength where the world least expects it. In remote Himalayan towns and urban sprawls alike, his voice echoed the same mantra: “Martial arts doesn’t just teach you how to fight—it teaches you why you don’t have to.” Still, he never distanced himself from his roots. While offers from bigger metros came padded with money and glamour, he kept returning to Kakching. His loyalty was not negotiable. “This red soil gave me everything,” he says. “Why would I trade it for concrete?” Fame had touched him, but not changed him. He still arrived first to sweep the dojo floors, still wrapped injuries with the same cloth he used fifteen years ago, still refused to charge students who couldn’t afford training.

Beyond the dojo, he started weaving martial arts into education. His modules on discipline, anti-bullying, and mental focus entered schools across Manipur. Parents reported children becoming calmer, sharper, more responsible. The ripple had turned into a wave. Videos of his training sessions began to go viral, searched under terms like Grandmaster from Manipur, best martial arts coach India, and free self-defense classes Kakching. His story began spreading through reels and articles, pulling attention not with vanity but with value. There was never a brand team behind him. No marketing blueprint. Just word of mouth and the thunder of roundhouse kicks. Today, his students train under tin roofs, mud floors, and torn mats, yet still win medals against athletes from million-dollar academies. The irony never escapes him—“They may have air-conditioning, but we have breath control.”

This wasn’t just about combat anymore. It had turned into a quiet resistance against mediocrity, poverty, and invisibility. And the Grandmaster? He stood in the middle of it all, unbent, unbothered, and always barefoot—still choosing legacy over luxury.