Wrestling is popular throughout
India, but the state of Maharashtra
has a particular obsession with the
sport, in particular maati kushti, or
mud-wrestling. Many poor farming
families train at least one son as a
wrestler, and for a lucky few it
provides an escape route from a life
of poverty and caste discrimination.
There are few places women cannot go in
modern India, but a wrestling talim in
rural Maharashtra is one.
"Madam, ladies not allowed," says Amol
Sathe, a small-framed wrestler in his late
20s, as I try to enter the compound where
young men, live, eat and train together.
Women are "a distraction" he explains.
But after some hurried consultations
between Sathe and the owner, an
exception is made for a female reporter,
and I step inside.
Young men in loincloths, preparing to
climb into the fighting pit, look up
startled. Sathe, a local star, quickly
performs his warm-up - 200 press-ups
and 200 squats - then springs into the
mud with the others.
Their bodies all shine with coconut oil and
they smack their thighs and arms making
a loud cracking sound as they ponder their
next move. In a few minutes all are
smeared in the red mud.
It's no ordinary soil, though. It's mixed
with lemon, milk, butter, camphor,
turmeric and "lots of other things" says
Sathe.
"When we are practising in the pit, the
soil energises us and takes away the
impurities in our body."
They are encouraged to be morally pure
too. They must not drink or smoke, or
have sex before marriage. The flaking
walls are adorned with framed photos of
the monkey god - Hanuman - the bachelor
deity worshipped by the wrestlers.
The idea of maati kushti is to get the
opponent's back on to the soil, and it does
not matter how long it takes. Unlike a
conventional wrestling match, divided
into a limited number of three-minute
rounds, a mud-wrestling bout can be over
in a minute, or it may continue for hours.
As it happens, Sathe has used his success
at pinning people to the ground to raise
himself from the bottom rung of India's
caste-bound society.
He is a Dalit, previously known as
"untouchable", the most downtrodden
people in India, and among the poorest.
He now rents an airy modern flat in the
city of Karad, but he grew up in the village
of Masoli.
The family home is a one-storey house
with a corrugated iron roof painted in
faded green. Walking inside is like
entering a furnace. There are no windows
and the metal roof seems to magnify the
power of the sun.
"There is no education in our village,
there is nothing to look forward to,"
explains Sathe's father. He says he didn't
want his children to get locked into a life
of poverty, without any means of escape.
"So I put them into wrestling."
But it wasn't easy for a Dalit to succeed, as
Amol Sathe discovered. "I never thought I
could become a known wrestler," he tells
me, sipping tea. "Wrestlers need good
food and we could hardly afford all that.
"I remember how we were treated. When
I went for bouts, I always had to sit
separately to eat my lunch. I never
experienced the so-called sporting spirit.
People refused to play with me because I
am a Dalit. Wrestling demands touching
another body! How can a Dalit touch an
upper-caste boy?"
Gradually, he gained his opponents'
respect by wrestling harder and better
than the others. He is now a local
celebrity. One of the two rooms in his
parents' house is filled with his gleaming
wrestling awards.
In rural India, crop failure often leads to
debt, and debt has led to an epidemic of
suicide. Wrestling can provide a lifeline
for a family that gets into trouble, which is
why, Sathe says, that every family in his
area sends at least one son to learn the
sport.
Another of Maharashtra's estimated
50,000 young wrestlers is Ravi Gaikwad,
a sturdy thick-set young man from a poor
farming family and an up-and-coming star.
When I reach his talim in a drought-
stricken corner of the state - and once
again succeed in gaining entry - a group of
boys taking a shower under a hosepipe
rush for cover.
About 100 students between the ages 10
and 30 live here, in a simple building with
large halls that turn into dormitories at
night.
The person who runs the centre is a
former wrestler called Namdeo Badre,
who wears his "cauliflower" ear proudly,
as a souvenir of his years in the ring.
"Wrestling is an expensive sport," he says.
"The food alone for one kid costs £100 per
month… a 10-year-old will have pounded
rice with three apples and bananas, two
boiled eggs, half a litre of milk and dry
fruits, and that's just for breakfast."
To pay its bills, this talim, like others,
depends on the donations from wrestling
enthusiasts from the village and
neighbouring areas. They don't charge
fees, because the students are mostly from
poor families, and would not be able to
pay.
Gaikwad is about to appear in a big
regional championship, so I drive to
Maharashtra's sugarcane belt, 200 miles
(320km) south of Mumbai, to watch him
in action.
When I get there, thousands have already
gathered - all men, mostly in traditional
clothes. The place is decorated with
colourful flags and flowers. It's the first
time I have ever seen anything like this
and I'm struck by how reverential the
crowd is.
There is complete silence when the bouts
are on - you might almost wonder
whether the spectators have dropped off
to sleep.
The near-silence is only interrupted by
bursts of loud music, played after every
win.
The tournament starts at 10am and lasts
for 11 hours. Gaikwad wins and receives a
handsome cash prize. After his victory he
stands resplendent in front of the crowd,
bare-bodied, smeared in red soil, with an
orange turban on his head and the trophy
in his hand.
Still, though, the crowd remains silent. I
have to start the celebration myself - "Hip
hip hooray!" Some of the crowd join in,
rather feebly, but it really isn't their style.
The prize money doesn't go to the talim, it
goes to Gaikwad and his family, and it will
make a real difference to them. This is
sport, but it is also social mobility in
action.
India, but the state of Maharashtra
has a particular obsession with the
sport, in particular maati kushti, or
mud-wrestling. Many poor farming
families train at least one son as a
wrestler, and for a lucky few it
provides an escape route from a life
of poverty and caste discrimination.
There are few places women cannot go in
modern India, but a wrestling talim in
rural Maharashtra is one.
"Madam, ladies not allowed," says Amol
Sathe, a small-framed wrestler in his late
20s, as I try to enter the compound where
young men, live, eat and train together.
Women are "a distraction" he explains.
But after some hurried consultations
between Sathe and the owner, an
exception is made for a female reporter,
and I step inside.
Young men in loincloths, preparing to
climb into the fighting pit, look up
startled. Sathe, a local star, quickly
performs his warm-up - 200 press-ups
and 200 squats - then springs into the
mud with the others.
Their bodies all shine with coconut oil and
they smack their thighs and arms making
a loud cracking sound as they ponder their
next move. In a few minutes all are
smeared in the red mud.
It's no ordinary soil, though. It's mixed
with lemon, milk, butter, camphor,
turmeric and "lots of other things" says
Sathe.
"When we are practising in the pit, the
soil energises us and takes away the
impurities in our body."
They are encouraged to be morally pure
too. They must not drink or smoke, or
have sex before marriage. The flaking
walls are adorned with framed photos of
the monkey god - Hanuman - the bachelor
deity worshipped by the wrestlers.
The idea of maati kushti is to get the
opponent's back on to the soil, and it does
not matter how long it takes. Unlike a
conventional wrestling match, divided
into a limited number of three-minute
rounds, a mud-wrestling bout can be over
in a minute, or it may continue for hours.
As it happens, Sathe has used his success
at pinning people to the ground to raise
himself from the bottom rung of India's
caste-bound society.
He is a Dalit, previously known as
"untouchable", the most downtrodden
people in India, and among the poorest.
He now rents an airy modern flat in the
city of Karad, but he grew up in the village
of Masoli.
The family home is a one-storey house
with a corrugated iron roof painted in
faded green. Walking inside is like
entering a furnace. There are no windows
and the metal roof seems to magnify the
power of the sun.
"There is no education in our village,
there is nothing to look forward to,"
explains Sathe's father. He says he didn't
want his children to get locked into a life
of poverty, without any means of escape.
"So I put them into wrestling."
But it wasn't easy for a Dalit to succeed, as
Amol Sathe discovered. "I never thought I
could become a known wrestler," he tells
me, sipping tea. "Wrestlers need good
food and we could hardly afford all that.
"I remember how we were treated. When
I went for bouts, I always had to sit
separately to eat my lunch. I never
experienced the so-called sporting spirit.
People refused to play with me because I
am a Dalit. Wrestling demands touching
another body! How can a Dalit touch an
upper-caste boy?"
Gradually, he gained his opponents'
respect by wrestling harder and better
than the others. He is now a local
celebrity. One of the two rooms in his
parents' house is filled with his gleaming
wrestling awards.
In rural India, crop failure often leads to
debt, and debt has led to an epidemic of
suicide. Wrestling can provide a lifeline
for a family that gets into trouble, which is
why, Sathe says, that every family in his
area sends at least one son to learn the
sport.
Another of Maharashtra's estimated
50,000 young wrestlers is Ravi Gaikwad,
a sturdy thick-set young man from a poor
farming family and an up-and-coming star.
When I reach his talim in a drought-
stricken corner of the state - and once
again succeed in gaining entry - a group of
boys taking a shower under a hosepipe
rush for cover.
About 100 students between the ages 10
and 30 live here, in a simple building with
large halls that turn into dormitories at
night.
The person who runs the centre is a
former wrestler called Namdeo Badre,
who wears his "cauliflower" ear proudly,
as a souvenir of his years in the ring.
"Wrestling is an expensive sport," he says.
"The food alone for one kid costs £100 per
month… a 10-year-old will have pounded
rice with three apples and bananas, two
boiled eggs, half a litre of milk and dry
fruits, and that's just for breakfast."
To pay its bills, this talim, like others,
depends on the donations from wrestling
enthusiasts from the village and
neighbouring areas. They don't charge
fees, because the students are mostly from
poor families, and would not be able to
pay.
Gaikwad is about to appear in a big
regional championship, so I drive to
Maharashtra's sugarcane belt, 200 miles
(320km) south of Mumbai, to watch him
in action.
When I get there, thousands have already
gathered - all men, mostly in traditional
clothes. The place is decorated with
colourful flags and flowers. It's the first
time I have ever seen anything like this
and I'm struck by how reverential the
crowd is.
There is complete silence when the bouts
are on - you might almost wonder
whether the spectators have dropped off
to sleep.
The near-silence is only interrupted by
bursts of loud music, played after every
win.
The tournament starts at 10am and lasts
for 11 hours. Gaikwad wins and receives a
handsome cash prize. After his victory he
stands resplendent in front of the crowd,
bare-bodied, smeared in red soil, with an
orange turban on his head and the trophy
in his hand.
Still, though, the crowd remains silent. I
have to start the celebration myself - "Hip
hip hooray!" Some of the crowd join in,
rather feebly, but it really isn't their style.
The prize money doesn't go to the talim, it
goes to Gaikwad and his family, and it will
make a real difference to them. This is
sport, but it is also social mobility in
action.
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