I hit play on that 2022 showdown while the Wi‑Fi hiccuped like a busted scooter. The room smelt of masala chai, the kettle whistling like a referee’s whistl. He stormed in, eyes sharp, and the first round felt like a Delhi monsoon hitting the streets of Chandni Chowk. He threw a low kick that landed on his opponent’s thigh the way a crowded bus jolts you when the driver brakes suddenly. My shins, still scarred from those Muay Thai tournaments, tingled as if they’d been on that bus for hours
The middle of the round turned into a blur of punches each one landing louder than the clatter of metal trays in a dhaba. Gaethje’s jab snapped forward his left hook followed, and the opponent’s head snapped back like a naan tossed in a tandoor. I laughed out loud, spilling a little chai on the keyboard, because the fight felt like a street fight you’d hear about from a rickshaw driver after midnight
Mid‑fight, the crowd roared and I could almost hear the Delhi traffic horns echoing through the arena. Gaethje’s pressure never eased; he kept moving forward his feet pounding the canvas like a metro train on the tracks. The final seconds saw him drop a thunderous right that sent his rival crashing to the mat and the referee’s hand slapped the canvas with a sound that reminded me of a slap on the back after a good sparring session in college
That night I promised myself to write a post about the fight but the Wi‑Fi kept dropping so I typed with a jittery hand sipping chai that was getting colder by the minute. The memory of that low kick still makes me wince whenever I sit on a Delhi bus and feel the seat vibrate under my thighs
Fast forward to the summer of 2023, the fight with a veteran who had more titles than my cousin’s Instagram followers. Gaethje entered the cage with that signature grin the one says “let’s break everything”. The opening round felt like a market stall explosion – vendors shouting spices flying and you trying to dodge a swinging ladle. Gaethje’s combinations came fast each one landing like a fresh dosa hitting a hot griddle
He threw a leg kick that hit the opponent’s calf and the sound reminded me of the clank of a Delhi metro door closing. The opponent tried to clinch but Gaethje slipped out like he was dodging a traffic police officer on a busy crossing. I remembered a sparring day back in college when I tried to catch a low kick and ended up tripping over my own foot falling flat on my back. That memory popped up and I laughed because the fight felt just as clumsy for the other guy
Round two turned into a slugfest each punch echoing like a drumbeat from a street parade. Gaethje’s left hand found the target again snapping the opponent’s head back and the crowd erupted like fireworks stall on Diwali. I could almost smell the incense from the arena mixed with the scent of fried samosas from the concession stand
The third round turned into a barrage that felt like a monsoon rain on a tin roof – relentless chaotic impossible to ignore. The opponent’s guard collapsed his arms flailing like a kite caught in a gust of wind. Gaethje finished with a brutal uppercut that lifted the fighter’s chin like a crane lifting a heavy load. The referee called it and the arena exploded with cheers louder than a Delhi train station at rush hour
After the fight I posted a quick note on Reddit still half‑asleep typing “Gaethje = pure chaos like my life on a Delhi bus”. The comments flooded in fans sharing their own chai‑filled nights and Wi‑Fi woes. That’s the magic – the fight becomes a story we all tell over a cup of tea each of us adding a little spice
The final highlight of the year landed in early 2025 a title bout that had everyone on the edge of their seats. I was sick stuck in bed the rain pattering against the window and the only thing keeping me company was a battered laptop and a steaming mug of chaii. The fight started and Gaethje surged forward like a crowded bus trying to squeeze through a narrow lane
His opponent tried to keep distance but Gaethje closed the gap with a series of low kicks that felt like the jolts you get when the bus driver brakes hard at a traffic light. Each kick landed with a thud that resonated through my chest making my heart race faster than a Delhi auto‑rickshaw weaving through traffic
Round two turned into a melee both fighters trading blows that sounded like the clatter of pots in a street kitchen. Gaethje’s right hand connected snapping the opponent’s head back and I could swear I heard the sound of a tea kettle whistling in the background. The opponent tried to counter but Gaethje slipped away his footwork as slick as a fresh paneer rolling on a hot griddle
Midway through round three Gaethje landed a crushing left hook that sent his rival sprawling onto the canvas. The opponent tried to get up his eyes glazed like a glass of lassi left out in the sun. Gaethje moved in delivering a final barrage that felt like the final stop of a long bus ride the driver announcing “last stop” as the doors open. The referee stepped in and the arena erupted a roar that matched the chaos of a Delhi market at noon
When the fight ended I felt a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration my body aching like after a full‑day trek through Old Delhi’s narrow lanes. I typed a quick line on my blog “Gaethje just turned the octagon into a Delhi bus – no seat belt just pure chaos”. My fans replied with emojis memes and stories of their own chaotic fights watched on shaky connections
That night I fell asleep with the taste of chai still lingering dreaming of low kicks and the sound of a Delhi bus engine revving. The fight stayed with me a reminder that chaos can be beautiful when it’s served with a side of masala and a dash of Wi‑Fi drama
If you ever need a fight that even grandma can love just point her to Gaethje’s bouts. The action is simple fists fly legs kick and the whole thing feels like a lively street scene you’d find in any corner of Delhi. No fancy jargon just raw unfiltered combat that makes you feel alive whether you’re on a crowded bus in a cramped hostel or sipping chai on a rainy night.