By Mansi Choksi

  He’s 5ft, 7 inches, weighs 60 kg and is a national level wrestling gold medalist. But Sagar Barde has a pallor that seems particularly striking in this South Mumbai octagon. His boxers are hitched up half way through his knobby spine, his grubby pink knee caps are one size too large and an auspicious black thread flops around his ankle. His opponent, Nadeem Farooqi, a Jui Jitsu expert from the city with much more flesh on his stomach, has the crowd’s attention when he shakes off his muscles in a clumsy dance. A Caucasian woman in denim shorts tick-tocks across the ring holding a sign saying Bout One and Barde awkwardly steps aside to let her pass. The host, who is wearing a hideous velvet jacket and a beach hat without a hint of irony, bellows the fighters’ names in an attempted American accent. And the smell of Barde’s own sweat rises over the smell of expensive perfume as Farooqi teases his reluctant southpaw stance with a low kick. In the pretty crowd that speaks English anddrinks whiskey, I’m standing next to a man in a timeworn silk shirt and square moustache who is determined to lose his voice shouting Barde’s name between the choicest Marathi expletives. He travelled 105 miles from Bhagur, a village in the Western Indian state of Maharashtra, to be here. It is worth the trip because this is a match that is not only between Barde and Farooqi, but also between Old India and New India.

     Barde is a rice farmer who lives in an akhara, a monastery-style wrestling school in rural Bhagur. Five years ago, when he set foot inside its earthen wrestling arena, he promised to turn his back to the trappings of a social life, sex, alcohol and meat. He would submit himself to the orders of his teacher, follow a rigorous diet and training schedule, and strive towards the spiritual goal of a unified mind, body and soul. He would devote himself to Indian wrestling, a fusion of the Persian form introduced to South Asia by the Mughals and an indigenous Hindu form that dates back to the eleventh century AD. Over decades, dwindling interest in rural wrestling and almost no help from the Indian government (which may as well be imagined in a blue cricket jersey) have made akharas an ancient subculture threatened by extinction. However, India’s new interest in Mixed Martial Arts brought on by a handful promotion companies—Super Fight League, Full Contact Championship—and bolstered bythe Ultimate Fight Championship announcing its partnership with an Indian television channel, has inspired discussions about whether rural akharas can be revived and sustained. The discourse has been one that is heavy with a sense of social purpose. “I want to create respect for fighters,” Prashant Kumar, the sinewy managing director of Full Contact Championship, told me. “Ace fighters from rural areas, gold medalists and national champions end up taking up odd jobs or become school teachers to make a living because there is no growth,” he said. Kumar is certain that Indian audiences will warm up to MMA, perhaps even beat cricket and football in numbers, because “it’s human nature to watch people fight.” “If a scuffle breaks out on the road, a crowd will gather in seconds. Indians love a good fight,” he explained. But Barde doesn’t really care. He wants to beat the guy from the biggest city in his state and go home to his akhara so that he can train harder and earn a starched khakhipolice uniform one day. “If you are a policeman, you get respect,” Barde told me in Hindi, wearing a hoodie and leaning against an ambulance that ominously waited outside the fight venue in Mumbai. “Look, all this is good. Coming to the city, fighting in front of these rich people but in two years, I will join the force because that’s where the respect is.”

     According to Joseph S Alter, a professor of anthropology at the University of Pittsburgh, Indian wrestling made morality a central feature but it was not intended to be a spectacle. “Wrestling bouts are dramatic, but they are not self-conscious performances. The contests are not “rigged,” nor do the contestants adopt burlesque roles as cult figures. Unlike the Western professional wrestler who epitomizes a particular moral virtue, the Indian wrestler embodies a whole ideology. As such he is an ideal figure rather than a simple caricature, a culture hero and not a scaramouche,” he wrote in his book The Wrestler’s Body: Identity and Ideology in North India. Vishal Balkawde, a national gold medalist in judo and wrestling from Nashik in Western India, went by the name ‘Cyclone’ until he realized it was cheesy. “I want to leave it to my fans,” Balkawde told me, straight-faced. He was sitting at the edge of a plastic chair, near a cloud of sawdust rising from workers building theoctagon at a rundown film studio in Mumbai. Balkwade, who entered professional MMA in 2003, is Full Contact Championship’s unbeaten fighter. He belongs to a family that owns a rice mill, a private bank, a construction business and an akhara devoted to reinventing itself by introducing MMA. Between running multiple businesses, practicing Muay Thai and Jui Jitsu, and raising a sixteen-month-old daughter, Balkawde supervises the training of rural fighters like Barde. “Wrestling is in the roots of Indian soil,” he said. “When my father started this akhara in 1983, it was a 100 square foot space…today we have 150 fighters between 25 kilos and 110 kilos, many of them from villages that have no electricity or clean water.” Most of the school’s alumni, he said, have gone on to join the Indian police, army and navy. Balkawde, who has wound up with broken ribs and thumbs, a torn knee ligament, dislocated shoulders and a crooked neck, talks to his rural fighters about the power of conqueringpain. “Each injury makes you stronger,” he tells him. “Masculinity is something that some people show with money, some show with authority and some show with strength. We are in the last category and we have to be ready for combat at any time.” His wrestlers are up against MMA specialists like Saurabh Rao, a 22-year-old studying business administration at Delhi University. Rao, 6 feet tall in a t-shirt that is rolled up to reveal the cuts of his biceps, likes to draw a blank expression at whatever is said to him. After a few tries, he agreed to speak to me. “I like MMA because it takes my body to a whole new level and makes me feel powerful,” he said. But not powerful enough to confront his parents who would like him to have a white-collar job. “My father doesn’t like my taking part in these fights so I told him I’m going on a vacation and ended up here,” he said.  The last time he tore a ligament, he blamed it on a bike accident. The time he sprained his foot, he said he slipped.“When a big opportunity like UFC comes, I’ll convince them,” he said.

    Back in the octagon, it’s Bout Three: Barde vs Farooqi. A cameraman is crawling outside the ring, mobile cameras have been whipped out and small talk is on a hold. Barde has grabbed Farooqi’s leg, screwed his body sideward and mounted him. He is now striking his opponent’s chest, as if counting three between each blow. This is unexpected because Farooqi has a reputation of making his opponents tap out and this is Barde’s first MMA fight. The man in the silk shirt from rural Bhagur standing next to me is now very excited. “Sagar, fight na,” he shouted. “For our village,” he added in Marathi. And the referee pulled Barde’s hand up, declaring him winner.

Published in ; August 21, 2013.