Kabaddi's Real Ground: The Players and Unfinished Stories Left Behind by PKL's Glare

A scene from a mud court in Sonipat often returns to me with the first light of morning. A seventeen-year-old girl, wearing three-year-old broken shoes, stood holding a battered kabaddi tied with rope. Her coach told me, 'Sir, this girl finished second at the state level last year, but she doesn't even have her own shoes.' That was the moment I understood that kabaddi's real story doesn't live in the stadium lights but in these dark corners. The Pro Kabaddi League (PKL) has given the sport a new identity, but its glare has suppressed many voices that are still searching for their place on the mud.

In 2026, when I was moved from the hockey desk to be embedded with Telugu Titans, I realised for the first time that kabaddi is not just a sport but a way of life. What I saw sitting in the tunnel of the Gachibowli Indoor Stadium was completely different from the stories in the press box. The smell of sweat, the sharp odour of liniment, and the held breath before every raid—all told me that what happens on the field is far deeper than the scoreboard. That season I built my own database of 2,100 raids and found that Rahul Chaudhari's famous dubki was not as effective at crossing the bonus line as it was made out to be. In fact, his away raid success rate dropped to 31%. This number breaks the narrative we are shown on TV.

PKL gave kabaddi a new economic model—crore auctions, franchises, and TV ratings. But this change also raised many questions. When I went to the Haryana-Punjab belt in 2026, I was stunned by the financial condition of the players there. Players with railway and police jobs had salaries stalled for months, and many did not quit their jobs even after playing in PKL because they knew the league career doesn't last long. This is the truth that doesn't show in the league's glossy pictures.

The biggest irony is that while PKL gave the sport national recognition, it left behind those players who are outside the league. Women's kabaddi is still waiting for a franchise league. Rural tournaments in states outside Haryana and Punjab—like Odisha, Tamil Nadu, or Karnataka—don't get the media space they deserve. In 2026, during the Tokyo Olympics, I did a long investigation into whether including kabaddi in the Olympics would grow the sport or just remain a formality. Talking to International Kabaddi Federation (IKF) officials revealed that they have neither a concrete roadmap nor any plan to invest at the grassroots. This is the same neglect that hollowed out hockey at one time.

Data-wise, PKL's raid success rate has seen a decline in recent seasons. Between 2026 and 2026, the league's average raid success rate fell from 42% to 38%, while tackle points increased. This directly means defence has strengthened, but raiders are under more pressure. This trend shows teams are now adopting more analytics-based strategy, but is this enhancing the beauty of the game? For me, this question is important because kabaddi's real beauty lies in its spontaneity, not in calculation at every step.

Another aspect that often goes unnoticed is players' mental health. Playing in the PKL bio-bubble, I saw how difficult it is to raid in an empty stadium. Dabang Delhi's Naveen Kumar once told me, 'Sir, when there are no spectators, even the sound of the cant feels strange.' This is an aspect we don't talk about openly. Players get tired not just physically but mentally, and the league's pressure breaks them further.

Is this PKL model sustainable? When I look at the league's economic data, I find that some franchises are still struggling for profit. Revenue from ticket sales and sponsorship barely covers players' salaries and travel expenses. The question then arises: will this model last long? And if not, are we returning to the same uncertainty that existed before 2026?

My biggest concern is that kabaddi coverage has now shrunk to just PKL. When I was in the Haryana-Punjab belt, I saw that rural tournaments draw thousands of spectators, but no newspaper or news channel sends anyone to cover them. This is the same neglect that happened with hockey—unless there's a big tournament, the sport doesn't get a mention. And this is not just the media's fault; it's the fault of a system that values only what glitters.

When India's gold streak ended in Jakarta 2026, I was there. After the 18-27 semi-final loss to Iran, I sat with a senior defender in the hotel. He just let himself talk for two hours, and I didn't interrupt. Later I organised a players' roundtable, which no federation representative attended. That day I understood that the defeat was not just technical—it was a defeat of strategy, of selection, and above all, of the complacency that makes us think gold is our birthright. Since then I have named Iran as co-favourite in every preview.

Now the question is: what next? PKL's next season is coming with a new auction, and once again crores will be bid. But will we talk about the players who go unsold? Will we hear the stories of women players who are still struggling for their shoes on mud courts? Will our gaze stay fixed on the scoreboard, or will we also feel the stir happening outside the field?

For me, kabaddi's real victory will come when we listen to the voices that are still silent. When a village girl gets the shoes of her dreams, when a railway employee player doesn't have to wait for his salary, and when our coverage stops chasing only TV ratings. Until then, this league is incomplete—shining, but incomplete.