Kolhapur: Where akharas and pehelwans wrestle with a promising future
Maharashtra’s wrestling stronghold, which has raised generations of champions, is now attracting a new generation of enthusiasts
It’s July, and Kolhapur is soaked — the rain is lashing against rooftops and red mud is slick underfoot. I’m ducking through a narrow doorway into a courtyard, where, caked in earth, bronze-toned men in langots are squaring off. It’s my first glimpse of a taleem. I wouldn’t have found myself in this muddy sanctum if not for a passing conversation with Chaitanya Vernekar at Sayaji, the hotel where I was staying. While talking about fitness routines, he mentioned stumbling upon the Indian club — a deceptively simple wooden tool used in traditional akharas. “It works every single muscle in the body,” he’d said. That moment of curiosity spiralled into an exploration of Kolhapur’s wrestling pits.
From this soil emerged Khashaba Dadasaheb Jadhav, India’s first individual Olympic medalist, who was backed by Kolhapur’s Maharaja Shahaji II. Born on 15th January 1925 in Goleshwar, Maharashtra, Jadhav represented a newly independent India at the 1948 London Olympics. The 22-year-old placed sixth, an extraordinary feat considering he’d never wrestled on mats before. Four years later, in Helsinki, he moved up to bantamweight (57 kg) and won bronze, becoming independent India’s first individual Olympic medalist, a feat unmatched until Sushil Kumar’s bronze in 2008. Jadhav’s Olympic journey was anything but easy. In Helsinki, after a punishing 15-minute bout against Japan’s Shohachi Ishii, he was denied the required recovery time before facing the USSR’s Rashid Mammadbeyov. He lost.
Many believe better scheduling might have changed the colour of India’s medal. Following his years in sports, Jadhav entered the Maharashtra Police force in 1955 and retired in 1983. India acknowledged his contribution late, bestowing the Arjuna Award on him posthumously in 2000. A stadium in New Delhi, built for the 2010 Commonwealth Games, now bears his name. But the heartbeat of this legacy pulses strongest in Kolhapur, where wrestling isn’t just a sport; it’s identity. During the reign of Rajarshi Chhatrapati Shahu Maharaj (1894–1922), wrestling became a social leveller. Shahu, who saw kushti as a path to equality, one that transcended caste and class, commissioned the construction of Khasbaug — a Roman-style sunken arena that seats 30,000–40,000 spectators and still hosts major events like Maharashtra Kesari.
Inside Motibag Taleem, one of Kolhapur’s oldest surviving akharas, wrestlers begin their day before sunrise with a prayer to Hanuman. “The mud pit — a mix of clay, originally ghee (now replaced by coconut oil), turmeric, lemon juice, and buttermilk — is as ritualistic as it is practical. The mud is replaced every six months,” notes local coach, Jasbir Singh. “Training is intense, two hours in the morning and two hours in the evening; surya namaskars, sapate, baithaks, rope climbing, jor then grappling till dusk. We also play basketball sometimes.” Young boys — many from farming families — train with near-religious discipline. Here, taleem isn’t just physical conditioning, it’s spiritual, cultural, character-shaping. But the reality is harsh. Feeding a wrestler can cost upto ₹25,000 a month. Pahalwans in training spend nearly ₹25,000 a month to support themselves — despite droughts and rising inflation. Singh says, “Wrestler sons and daughters are the pride of our country. You can’t measure that in rupees. These people serve in the army, the railways, and in the Maharashtra and Punjab police.”
Sushil Kumar’s bronze in Beijing (2008) and silver in London (2012) reignited national interest in wrestling. Yogeshwar Dutt and Sakshi Malik carried it forward. “Dangal didn’t hurt either,” coach Ajay Singh notes with a smile. And now, quietly, powerfully, Kolhapur’s daughters are stepping into the pit. Something once unthinkable is taking place, girls training alongside boys. Spaces once closed to women now reverberate with their grit. As Jasbir puts it, “Gender discrimination gets knocked out. They are all pehelwans.” The shift began with icons like Sakshi Malik, who won bronze at the 2016 Rio Olympics. “Till 48 hours before the medal, my akhara didn’t even have coolers,” she recalls. “I used the prize money to buy them.” The ripples were felt in Kolhapur, where girls began pushing through barriers, literal and social.
At the Shahupuri and Gangavesh taleems, girls now undergo the same routines as boys, same baithaks, same mud, same dreams. A 2023 photo series captured this defiance — equal sweat, equal ground. The financial toll remains steep. Gurus charge modest fees, but dietary needs — milk, almonds, eggs, gurbandi badam from Afghanistan, ghee, and mutton — can cost up to ₹25,000 a month. Families are making impossible choices. Anita Malik, who sold her cattle to send daughters Savita (a wrestler) and Poonam (a runner) for training said, “A lot of families give up. We are proud. They have hopes of sustenance.” For many, it’s a stark trade, marry daughters off early, or let them fight for something better in the ring.
Coaches like Dada Lavate see it clearly. “Girls know they have limited years to prove their worth, so they give it their all,” he said. Centuries of conditioning create a hunger, a focus that often eclipses the boys. Madiya “Pehelwan”, an 89-year-old guru at Shankar Akhara, remembered when girls weren’t allowed inside. “Now? Anyone willing to toil is welcome.” Results are following. In 2016, three Kolhapur school girls won two golds and a silver at the National School Games. The 2023 Women’s Maharashtra Kesari, hosted in Kolhapur, saw 400 female wrestlers compete across 10 weight classes. The winners took home cash, bikes, even four-wheelers. Reshma Mane of Vedange became Maharashtra’s first female picked for the Pro Wrestling League after bagging multiple national golds and an Asian Youth bronze.
But obstacles remain. In Delhi, centres have 40 to 50 female wrestlers and just one mat. Many train in crumbling halls without bathrooms. Others dodge snakes falling from thatched roofs. Yet, they persist. Maharashtra’s only residential women’s akhara, Jog Maharaj Vyayamshala in Alandi, is a hope. Launched in 2007 with state backing, it now trains Olympic hopefuls. Coach Dinesh Gund, who selected 36 girls from 150 applicants vowed, “I will train the best for the upcoming Olympics.” The implications are larger than sporting victory. Opening akharas to girls chips away at caste and gender hierarchies. Once deemed ‘impure,’ their entry is a feminist revolution in motion.
“Girls learn faster than boys,” says Jasbir Singh. “Their upbringing trains them to be reserved. But they outperform.” Still, the road is far from smooth. The pandemic shuttered taleems in Kolhapur, affecting nearly 200 wrestlers. Scandals further rocked the Wrestling Federation of India, which was only reinstated on 10th March 2025 after a prolonged suspension.
Today, Kolhapur’s reputation as a wrestling stronghold is drawing not just aspiring pehelwans but also attention from across the country. The domino effect is visible beyond the akharas — in the areas of hospitality and tourism. “We often host athletes, coaches, and even film crews exploring the wrestling culture here,” says Mukesh Kumar Rakshit, General Manager at Sayaji Hotels. “Kolhapur’s legacy isn’t just preserved in its mud pits — it lives in its people, its stories, and the pride every local feels when a wrestler brings home a medal.”
But, there’s the technical gap. Village kushti builds stamina and strength, but Olympic mats demand speed, precision, and technique. Bridging that divide takes funding, international exposure, and mat access — luxuries most Kolhapur wrestlers can’t afford. Some taleems have adapted by installing mats. Coaches study international footage. A few now get support from politicians eager to score cultural brownie points. “Careers are emerging. Thanks to government quotas and sports schemes, athletes now land police jobs, coaching roles, and scholarships. Still, these victories are exceptions, not norms. The red mud demands more,” says Singh.
Back in the old town square, as evening shadows stretch out, I take a last look at the marble plaque under Jadhav’s triumphant statue that lists Kolhapur’s wrestling champions — many forgotten by the country but still remembered by this city. Only a handful of the old taleems remain; Gangavesh, Shahupuri, Motibag, New Motibag. But there are 60 smaller akharas, many informal and privately run, which each train around 70 athletes, all of whom are driven by discipline and the faith that greatness can rise again from this red earth.
Veidehi Gite is an independent journalist.
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