Punjabi Fitness Culture — Kabaddi, Wrestling and the Desi Akhada Tradition

The city has its charm, no doubt. The buzzing streets, the coffee shops that smell of roasted beans, the endless stream of new faces. But sometimes, especially on a quiet Sunday morning when the air still holds a hint of dew, my mind drifts back. Back to my pind, to the dusty fields, the sound of an old transistor radio playing Punjabi folk songs, and the raw, earthy smell of the akhada.

I grew up in a small village called Bahini in Ludhiana district. We didn’t have fancy gyms or protein shakes back then. Our idea of ‘fitness’ was working in the fields, running barefoot after cattle, or gathering with the men at the local akhada after a long day. That was our punjabi fitness. It wasn’t just about looking good; it was about strength, endurance, and a certain kind of pride that seeped into your bones.

The Roar of the Crowd: Kabaddi in Punjab

I still remember the annual village melas. These weren’t just fairs; they were an explosion of sound, colour, and energy. And at the heart of it all? Kabaddi. The sheer electricity of a live kabaddi Punjab match is something you have to experience to understand. It’s not like watching it on TV, all neat and packaged. Oh no. This was raw.

Imagine this: two teams, all muscles and sweat, facing off in a dusty arena. The sun beating down, the air thick with anticipation. The raider, eyes sharp, takes a deep breath and lunges into the opponent’s half, chanting “Kabaddi! Kabaddi! Kabaddi!” The way he moves, a blend of a panther’s stealth and a bull’s power, trying to tag a defender and make it back. The defenders, arms locked, forming a human wall, ready to tackle him down with a force that shakes the ground. It was brutal. It was beautiful. And every single person in the crowd, from the smallest child to the oldest elder, was screaming, cheering, living every tackle, every escape.

My Chacha Ji used to play for our village team. He wasn’t the tallest, but he was built like a tractor – low to the ground, incredibly strong, and impossible to move once he locked on. I remember one match, against the neighbouring village of Gill, where he held a raider for what felt like an eternity, his face red with effort, until the whistle blew. The roar that erupted was deafening. It still gives me goosebumps thinking about it. These weren’t just games; they were battles of honour, a showcase of local heroes. And honestly, it built a certain kind of community bond that I miss in the city sometimes. That shared adrenaline, that collective pride in our boys.

Mud, Sweat, and Discipline: The Desi Akhada

But before Kabaddi, before any of the organized sports, there was the akhada. The desi akhada, as we called it. This was the true cradle of desi fitness Punjab. It wasn’t just a place to train; it was a school, a temple, a way of life.

The moment you stepped into an akhada, your senses were hit. The smell of freshly tilled earth, mixed with mustard oil and the sweat of men working hard. The ground, usually a mix of red soil and a little sand, was lovingly prepared by the pehlwans themselves. They’d water it, plough it, and then massage it with their bare feet until it became this soft, forgiving cushion – perfect for wrestling, perfect for falling. It was sacred ground, really.

The Ustad, the guru, was the undisputed authority. He wasn’t just teaching wrestling moves; he was teaching discipline, respect, humility. I remember my grandfather, Babaji, who was a respected Ustad in his younger days, telling me stories. He’d say, “Beta, in the akhada, you learn to fight, yes. But more importantly, you learn to control yourself. To control your anger, your ego, your fear.” That’s the real lesson.

The training itself was brutal. No fancy machines, just pure, unadulterated bodyweight strength and traditional implements. There were the gadas, heavy wooden clubs that you’d swing around your head, building shoulder and core strength. The ‘mugdar’ for developing grip and forearm power. The ‘surahi’, a heavy stone pot, used for presses and squats. And then the wrestling itself – countless bouts, drills, practicing holds and throws. You’d end up covered in mud, exhausted, but feeling a strength deep within that no gym could ever replicate. My friends in the city sometimes ask me why I still prefer a good, heavy goundh workout to barbells. I tell them, it’s not just the muscle; it’s the connection to something ancient, something that grounds you.

The Art of Strength: Punjabi Wrestling

The pehlwani, or punjabi wrestling, practiced in these akhadas is an art form. It’s not just brute force, although that’s certainly a part of it. It’s about technique, timing, leverage, and reading your opponent. A true pehlwan respects his opponent. There’s no malice, just a desire to prove strength and skill.

The diet of a pehlwan was legendary. It was all about natural, wholesome food designed for immense strength and recovery. Forget protein powders. We had glass after glass of fresh milk, often warm from the buffalo, sometimes with a dollop of fresh cream and crushed almonds. Then there was ghee, generous amounts of it, drizzled over everything from dal to makki di roti. Bajra roti with white butter? Absolutely. Sprouted chickpeas, almonds soaked overnight, fresh fruits and vegetables from the farm. My nani used to make a special ‘pinni’ (a sweet laddoo made from whole wheat flour, ghee, jaggery, and dry fruits) for the boys, especially in winter. It was packed with calories and nutrients. Most people outside the state have no idea this kind of traditional, natural diet even exists to power athletes. Personally, I think this kind of simple, potent food contributes way more to lasting strength than any manufactured supplement.

Which brings me to the mentality. Pehlwans were often quiet, humble men. Their strength wasn’t for showing off; it was for their sport, for their discipline, for their community. It was a lifestyle of rigorous self-control, early mornings, clean living, and an almost spiritual devotion to physical perfection. Look — you don’t find that kind of dedication everywhere.

Our Heroes: The Punjabi Athletes

It’s no wonder that Punjab has produced so many incredible punjabi athletes across various disciplines. The foundation laid by these traditional fitness cultures is immense. Whether it’s the powerful build of a Kabaddi player, the sheer strength of a wrestler, or even the endurance of a hockey player, you can often trace it back to those early lessons in the akhada or the competitive spirit of the village sports.

The thing is, it’s not just about winning medals. It’s about building character. It’s about understanding what true effort means. It’s about respecting your body and the tradition that built it. Even today, when I see a young boy in my village swinging a goundh or grappling in the mud, I see a continuation of centuries of wisdom. I see raw potential, unburdened by commercialism, just pure dedication to strength.

I left Bahini for Chandigarh when I was 22, seeking opportunities. The city has given me a lot, including this platform to share my thoughts. But every time I visit home, the first place I head is often the local akhada, just to breathe in that familiar scent, to watch the young boys train, to feel that connection again. It’s a part of me, a part of who we are as Punjabis.

Do you remember growing up around any traditional sports or fitness practices? Share your stories in the comments!