Kabaddi's Second Decade: From Mud Courts to Broadcast Studios

Kabaddi is one of the few Indian sports that has changed both its economics and its public image within a single decade. Prime-time television slots, a franchise league, seven-figure contracts and regular social media trending — all of this is new for a sport that, not so long ago, was identified with village fairs and school grounds. But there is another side to the shift: the gap between the league's gloss and the sport's institutional structure keeps widening. The question is no longer whether kabaddi is popular, but how long that popularity will remain confined to a season. The traditional form of kabaddi is centuries old, and its regional names — hu tu tu, sanchi, kabaddi — are still heard across Indian states. Its journey as an organised sport begins with the 2026 Asian Games in Delhi, where it was a demonstration sport, and then the 2026 Beijing Asian Games, where it became a medal event. For nearly three decades afterwards the Indian men's team was almost unbeatable on the continent. That dominance was proof of the sport's depth, and also its biggest weakness: where there is no contest, how does spectator interest sustain itself? The Pro Kabaddi League, launched in 2026, was designed to fill that gap. Eight franchises started in the first season; the number has since grown to twelve. The league did not merely repackage the sport for television — it modernised its laws, introducing a thirty-second raid clock, the do-or-die raid and the super tackle, all of which turned the closing minutes of matches into genuine drama. The result is that kabaddi became one of the first Indian sports in which a domestic league shaped the international calendar rather than the other way round. Economically, the change is clearest in the lives of players. Once, a kabaddi player's main income was a state government job or a departmental team's salary; today a small but real professional market exists, built on league contracts, brand associations and fitness content. Families in small towns across Haryana, Uttar Pradesh, Maharashtra and Tamil Nadu have changed how they view the sport — an underrated but durable social shift. On the field, the character of the game has changed too. The raider was once the centre of the match and the defence a supporting act; now tight contests are decided by defensive units. The corner defender's role has become a specialism, the third defender's positioning is coached separately, and every raid is studied through video analysis to map an opponent's habits. Several franchises now treat an analyst and a physiotherapist as compulsory staff — a practice imported from cricket and increasingly adapted to kabaddi's own demands. At the individual level, a handful of names have rewritten the sport's vocabulary. Pardeep Narwal's dubki and unpredictable ankle holds proved that kabaddi could produce genuine theatre; Naveen Kumar defined a model of consistent output in which risk is low and return is high. Before them, players such as Anup Kumar and Ajay Thakur drew audiences in the league's early years, when kabaddi was still building a television identity. This generational transfer is not accidental — the league created a stage where experience and youth collide every season. The arrival of Iranian players is the most interesting chapter of this transformation. Defenders such as Fazel Atrachali built an alternative school in front of India's raiding tradition — a defensive style rooted in physical strength, ankle grip and patience. Players like Mohammadreza Shadloui showed that a foreign athlete could become the face of a domestic league. The reverse flow has begun as well: Indian coaches and analysts now work with teams in Iran and Southeast Asia, which means knowledge is being exported too. At national-team level this exchange has shown up on the mat. At the 2026 Asian Games in Jakarta, Iran's men's team won gold and broke India's long monopoly. In the long run that shock benefited the sport, because it proved kabaddi is not one country's game but a genuinely competitive international one. India reclaimed the title at the 2026 Asian Games in Hangzhou, but every major tournament now has at least three realistic contenders. Women's kabaddi is the fastest-growing and weakest link in this picture. Women's kabaddi became a medal event at the 2026 Guangzhou Asian Games, where India won gold, and the Indian women's team won gold again in Hangzhou in 2026. Domestically, however, there is no permanent league for women. Short events and exhibition matches have appeared in some seasons, but a regular calendar has never been established. As a result, players who win international medals still depend on government jobs or state-level facilities for a livelihood. The league's financial base also raises questions. The franchise model rests primarily on corporate sponsorship and broadcast revenue; ticket sales are a comparatively small share. The pandemic years shook that structure, some team ownerships changed hands and player contracts grew shorter. A healthy league needs diversified revenue and long-term contractual security for players. As things stand, one injury or one poor season can alter a player's entire economic position. This connects directly to the sport's infrastructure. India's kabaddi surfaces remain split in two — the synthetic mat halls of big cities where league preparation happens, and the mud courts of villages where the sport's base is built. The journey from mud to mat is not a technical challenge for a player but an economic one. Similarly, certified coaches are distributed very unevenly across states, and school-level tournaments have no universal calendar. The injury burden has grown as well. Ligament and ankle injuries are common in mat kabaddi because a raider's body repeatedly falls at unnatural angles. Medical teams at league level have improved, but rehabilitation facilities are not uniform across franchises. A player injured mid-season often loses value by the next auction cycle — a systemic risk rather than individual misfortune. International expansion presents a mixed picture. Through World Cups and Asian championships the sport has reached South Korea, Japan, Kenya, Poland and Britain, but in most of these places it rests on the efforts of diaspora communities and local federations rather than a global audience base. Looking ahead to the 2026 Asian Games and future multi-sport events, kabaddi needs a stronger international federation, a transparent ranking system and technical support for member nations. The demand for Olympic inclusion is not a slogan; it is a long-term administrative project. The summary is this: kabaddi's first decade belonged to the league; its second should belong to the system. Four things will determine where the sport stands twenty years from now — first, a mat and a certified coach in every district; second, a permanent domestic league for women; third, a clear policy on injury protection and players' contractual rights; and fourth, a public data repository that lets journalists, researchers and fans speak the same language. None of these raises television ratings, but without them the ratings will one day stop growing. The mud court is what makes the sport big; the studio is equally necessary — running both together is the real challenge.