From Baghpat's Mud Courts to Pro Kabaddi League: The Story of a Raider Nobody Wrote About

On a mud court in Baghpat, around six in the evening, a boy goes in for a raid. He is fifteen, not part of any school team, and hasn't been admitted to any academy. He is just playing with the other kids from the village, and his raid is always the same — a dip to the right, legs spread, and a breath held tight on the return with the cant. This is the same raid he will later play in the Pro Kabaddi League. But that evening, there is no camera, no scout, and no scoreboard. Just mud, sweat, and a boy repeating his own raid, unaware that this repetition will take him somewhere else.

I have this boy's name, but perhaps it is necessary to change it in this article. Because when I spoke to him, he said that people in his village still don't believe that one can get a "job" from kabaddi. His father is a small farmer with two bighas of land, and his mother does tailoring work at home. For them, kabaddi is a hobby, not a profession. And this is where my story begins — of a sport we call the "national game," but whose real story is stuck between the mud of the village, a train seat, and the dreams of that boy.

I have been covering kabaddi for many years now. From the press box of the Pro Kabaddi League to the small tournaments of Haryana and Punjab, I have seen how a player becomes a star overnight and then no one asks about him the next season. But there is one thing that never changes — the story of the player who emerged from the mud court, which no one has written.

This article is the story of a raider who brought the most raid points for his team last season, yet his name didn't make the auction headlines. This is not a story of his struggle, but of the system that creates him and then forgets him.

I met him last month in Baghpat. He was sitting in the courtyard of his house, with an old bicycle parked in front of him, which he used to ride 12 kilometres every day to a government school ground. He told me that when he first watched the Pro Kabaddi League auction, he thought his name would come up. But it didn't. "My coach had said that your number will come next time. I asked, when is next time? Then he went quiet."

This sentence still bothers me. Because this is not just one player's experience. This is a flaw in the entire kabaddi ecosystem — where there is talent, there is hard work, but there is no system to recognise it. Or rather, the system exists, but it only reaches those who are already on the radar of some academy or franchise.

The Shine of the Pro Kabaddi League and the Truth Behind It

When the Pro Kabaddi League started in 2026, it was nothing short of a revolution. Suddenly, kabaddi players were being bought for crores. Those who used to yearn for a clerk's job in the railways were now part of a prime-time TV show. But behind this shine, there is also a dark corner — a corner from where hundreds of raiders from Baghpat, Sonipat, Rohtak, and Panipat audition every year, and only a few get a chance.

If you look at the auction trend over the last few seasons, one thing becomes clear — teams prefer to spend heavily on experienced players, even if their performance in the previous season wasn't that good. Whereas young players who score over 100 raid points in domestic tournaments aren't bought even at base price. This is a paradox that needs to be understood. Teams argue that experienced players are "safe bets," while young players are "risks." But the truth is that the math of this "safe bet" often proves wrong, because in kabaddi, both form and fitness change rapidly.

I looked at the data from the last three seasons — of those who were bought for crores in the auction, how many justified their price in the following season? And how did the young unsold players perform in domestic tournaments? I don't have official data for this, but what I have collected in my notebook shows a clear pattern. Often, an unsold raider's raid strike rate in the domestic season is better than that of the player who was bought for crores. This is not a coincidence — it is the failure of a scouting system that relies on old names and old numbers rather than on-field performance.

A coach friend of mine, who runs a kabaddi academy in a small town in Haryana, told me — "The Pro Kabaddi League has changed the sport, but not the scouting. Even today, the same people pick players who used to pick them ten years ago. It's just that now they have a tablet and make decisions by watching videos." This stayed with me because it's true. Domestic tournaments are either not recorded at all, or are recorded in such poor quality that no proper assessment can be made. So a player who can't play in a big tournament remains forever invisible to scouts.

Jobs, Bread, and the Truth of Kabaddi

Whenever I write a profile of a player, the first thing I ask about is their job. This is my habit, and I have adopted it deliberately. Because in kabaddi, it's more important to know how a player makes a living than to know about the game itself. Before the Pro Kabaddi League, railway and police jobs were the biggest support for kabaddi players. A player would become a clerk in the railways and then train in the evening. This system was neither great nor terrible — it was just running. But after the Pro Kabaddi League, a new layer was added — a player who got into the league became a crorepati, and the one who didn't is still waiting for that same railway job.

I know a player who is now 31. He played four seasons in the Pro Kabaddi League, then after an injury, no team bought him. Now he runs a small shop in his village. When I asked him if he still trains, he laughed and said — "For whom? Now I just have to run this shop." Every time I hear this sentence, I feel that this side of kabaddi never comes on camera. We only hear the stories of players who succeed, who earn crores, who lift trophies. But who writes the story of the hundreds of players who see their names in every auction and then go unsold? For them, there is no press conference, no interview, no feature written.

I remember in 2026, when the league was postponed, I spoke to 14 players. Nine of them had returned to their villages and were helping in farming. Only three had gym access. One player showed me his terrace on a video call, where he was skipping rope. He said — "Madam, the ground is closed, but not my body." This sentence still stays with me. This is the class we call "the future of kabaddi," but they have no assurance of surviving until the next season.

The Lesson from Iran We Didn't Learn

In August 2026, when the Indian men's team lost to Iran in the Asian Games semi-final in Jakarta, I was there. The score was 18-27. And that loss was not just a loss of one match. Before that, in the group stage, South Korea had beaten India 23-24. The women's team lost the final to Iran 27-24. This was the moment when the myth of "guaranteed gold" in Indian kabaddi broke.

But what happened after that match was even more interesting. Indian fans were gathered outside the stadium, and many were asking why this happened. I spoke to them. One fan said — "We thought it would be easy to beat Iran, but their defence was very tight." This comment seems ordinary, but it hides a big flaw in the entire Indian kabaddi system. For years, we had assumed that India's level was far above others. But what Iran showed was not the result of one day's effort — it was the outcome of years of planning and scouting.

After that match, I spoke to Fazel Atrachali, the Iranian defender. He said that Iran had planned for India's third-raid pattern in advance. It is so important to know how Iran beat India, not just that India lost. But in Indian media, that loss was often written as an "accident" or "disappointment," whereas in reality, it was a strategic defeat. Since then, I have started adding a section "How India Can Lose" to every preview. This has become my habit, because I feel that until we recognise our weaknesses, we will keep repeating old stories of victory.

But after returning from Jakarta, when I wrote my report, I had to do something different. I called Iran "co-favourite," not "spoiler." This was a small change, but it meant a lot. It meant accepting that Iran is as good as us, and perhaps better in some respects. This is the truth we have trouble accepting.

Iran's Raiders and India's Scouts: Two Different Worlds

I remember after that semi-final, some journalists in the press box said — "Iran didn't do anything special, India just made mistakes." I didn't say anything at the time, but inside, it bothered me. Because when you watch Iran's raiding plan for hours, when you study their defensive patterns, you understand that they weren't just taking advantage of our mistakes. They were beating us with their strength. Iran's raider Atrachali was considered one of India's smartest raiders at the time, and their defensive line-up was one of the most disciplined in the world.

But the misfortune of Indian kabaddi is that we never took our scouting system to that level. Whereas Iran had started video analysis and data-based scouting years ago. An Iranian journalist friend told me that Iran has a central database where every raid of every raider is tracked — their angle, their speed, their return, everything. India has no such system. We don't lack talent, but we lack a system to recognise that talent. And this is the difference that shows on big stages like the Asian Games.

Where Will the Next Generation Come From?

Now the question is, where will the next generation come from? If we talk about the boy from Baghpat, who practises raids every day on his village ground, he has neither a good coach, nor proper nutrition, nor any guarantee of a future. Whereas players in the Pro Kabaddi League have good gyms, physios, and trainers. This difference is not just of resources, but of opportunities. And until this difference remains, we cannot say that the future of kabaddi is bright.

A senior journalist friend of mine, who has been covering kabaddi for the last 20 years, once told me — "The biggest problem in kabaddi is not that there is no money. The biggest problem is that the money is not reaching those who need it the most." This still seems true to me. Before the Pro Kabaddi League, players had railway and police jobs. Now those jobs have decreased, and space in the league is limited. This means that a player who can't make it to the league now has even fewer options than before. This is not progress — this is a new kind of inequality.

So what is the solution? In my view, the first step is that the league should make its scouting process transparent. When a team buys a young player for 15 lakh, it should also say why it chose him, and why not someone else. Second, domestic tournaments should get proper coverage, so that the records of players who are not in the league can come to the fore. Third, and most importantly — there should be a safety net for players, meaning if a player is out of the league due to injury, he should have some financial support. Today, there is no such thing.

A Question That Echoes in Every Press Box

I have spent many seasons sitting in the Pune press box. I remember in 2026, when I was the only woman journalist at Balewadi, I used to talk to fans standing outside the stadium after the match. That day, Puneri Paltan had beaten Bengaluru Bulls 34-31. Fans were arguing about Deepak Hooda's 11 raid points. I wrote down 23 questions there and then asked Hooda two of them. He answered one question, which was about his third raid, but not about the table. This small incident always stays with me, because it shows what players want to talk about — not website statistics.

Last year, I wrote a feature in which I did not use auction data. Instead, I spoke to the fans who watch the auction every year and are disappointed every year. One of them told me — "We remember the names, but not the team." I liked this sentence because it's true. Kabaddi coverage often gets limited to players' names and numbers, while the real story is hidden in the struggle behind them.

One more thing. Over the past few years, I have noticed that the debate over women's participation in kabaddi is decreasing. Whereas the truth is that there is no separate league for women in the Pro Kabaddi League. This is a flaw that needs to be filled. Because until women players get a platform, this sport will not be complete. I have spoken to many women players who play at the state level and then get caught up in domestic responsibilities. They have the same dreams as male players, but fewer opportunities.

So the next time you watch a kabaddi match, don't just look at the score. Look at how many stories are hidden behind that score. Look at how many mornings that raider has spent on the mud, how many nights without electricity, and how many dreams he has seen that never came true. I know this story will never end, because the soil of kabaddi is so fertile that new players grow every year, and every year some stories remain unheard.

The boy from Baghpat still goes to the same ground every day. He told me he is waiting for the next season's auction. Who knows if his name will come up or not, but as long as he is on the ground, this story will not end. And as long as I am sitting in the press box, I will keep writing this story.