Kabaddi: The Romance and the Tragedy

The whistle blows, and it’s his cue. Muscles go from tense to hardened metal in seconds, perspiration oozes out of every pore. The hunt begins, and so does the chant. The raider leaps into enemy territory. His eyes narrow, and the world outside the white line fades into oblivion. He studies their faces, their penetrating eyes and their talon-like hands. They resemble carnivores preying in a pack, as he stalks them with eyes that dare not to blink. He chants in one breath, but is hardly out of it. He circles them, they circle him. The hunter and the hunted swap roles at a furious pace. The stares, the heaves, the sweat, the tension, and the chant. The chant that never stops. The chant that is at once quiet and deadly. Kabaddi, Kabaddi, Kabaddi…

If there ever was a sport conceived for those 5th century reclusive masters of Kung Fu and Wushu and all that stuff that made Bruce Lee famous, it is Kabaddi. A sport that stretches you to the hilt of your reflexes, and makes every muscle-fiber in your body count, Kabaddi requires razor-sharp hand-eye coordination, deep reserves of stamina and pure raw strength. Strength of the body, strength of the mind. Every tackle is a gamble, every voice a roar, every capture is a prize and every escape, salvation.

Kabaddi emerged in the heat and the dust of the subcontinent over 4000 years ago, when it is believed to have been used as a training method for budding hunters and defenders in a community. Today, it has a pretty spot for itself in the British Infantry’s training manual. I don’t know about the aforesaid martial-arts masters I talked about earlier, but Japan surely lapped it up when it was introduced there in 1979. Iran has this sport called by several names in different pockets, all equally pleased with it. Bangladesh and Pakistan are old hands, literally. Even countries like Nepal, Malaysia and South Korea have been afflicted, and youngsters have a go at it if they can’t find a football.

India…well, we know Kabaddi is not a Pathani dessert. We know the rules; we have seen movies from the past century where uber-masculine heroes win the hearts of hapless villagers by taking on the villain’s goons single-handedly in a game of Kabaddi. We read headlines about India winning some international Kabaddi tournament, and wonder who else is even playing. We catch a glimpse of it while we monotonously flip TV channels, never pausing for a closer look.

In the land of the Tendulkars and Nehwals, and certain imports like Manchester United perhaps, names like Ashan Kumar, Balwinder Singh and Naveen Gautam are never recognized. These and many other hard-working individuals have brought glory to their nation, in a sport borne out of its womb. Kabaddi burst into the international scene during the 1936 Berlin Olympics, but has since only been down a slide at the national level. The grassroots exist, but never flourish and grow.

In late 2011, the Indian Men’s team won the Kabaddi World Cup for the fourth consecutive time. Unbeaten and victorious, and taking turns to hold gleaming Cup, everyone got into auto-rickshaws to go home from the airport. No cheques, no victory parade, not even a cab-ride. A few days ago, they had almost been driven out of the hotel they were staying in due to non-payment of bills, so I guess the men couldn’t wait to get home. Wonder what would’ve transpired if there had been a Virat Kohli character in their midst. A couple of homicides, perhaps.

The other day, I saw a bunch of kids laughing and screaming as they were having a round of Kabaddi in the street. Elbows and knees were scratched and bleeding, faces smothered in dirt, and there were a lot of sweaty hugs and hoarse war cries. Teenagers, actually having fun with a heritage, not realizing that they were emulating the ancient battle strategy of Chakravyuh, which ensnared powerful foes in a blooming lotus formation.

As I watched the game progress in the backdrop of growing shadows, I realized no sport ever really dies; it simply goes out of style. Kabaddi is deeply rooted in those indigenous to the country, so much so that at times it is forgotten. Fond memories will have progeny in times to come, and there will always be people to keep the flag flying- individuals who rub their palms in the dirt instead of putting on gloves.

Sons of the soil, paying tribute to the very earth that gives birth to them.

After all, isn’t that what Kabaddi is all about?