From Akhada To Octagon: Why India Must Revive Its Indigenous Martial Arts

On a Saturday night in Guwahati, my go-to sports bar was packed with young men in jerseys, their eyes fixed on the different screens showing highlights of the English Premier League, the recent India tour of England and the Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC). Surprisingly, the UFC screen had attracted the most fans.

The crowd roared as an Irishman landed a brutal left hook, sending his opponent crumbling to the floor. For them, Conor McGregor is a household name, Jon Jones a demigod of the fight game and Israel Adesanya a global icon. The UFC has become a ritual for India's urban youth, a weekly surge of blood, sweat and spectacle.

Yet, a thousand miles away in Kerala, another kind of fight unfolded in the dim light of a kalari pit. Two practitioners, bare-chested and focused, circled each other with wooden sticks, moving with feline grace. Their master, a grizzled veteran of Kalaripayattu, one of the world's oldest martial systems, watched silently. The techniques they practised were once used by warriors of the Chera and Zamorin dynasties, refined over centuries of battlefield necessity.

The paradox is striking. In a country that birthed Kalaripayattu, Silambam, Gatka, Thang-Ta and Mardani Khel, Indian youth look westward for their fighting heroes. India, with its rich martial heritage, is a consumer of the combat-sports boom rather than a producer of it.

The question, then, is obvious. Can India channel the UFC craze into a revival of its own martial traditions? Can the akhadas and kalaris compete with the cages of Las Vegas and Madison Square Garden as living, breathing fighting systems fit for a global stage?

Ancient Traditions, Modern Gaps

Long before mixed martial arts became a billion-dollar industry, India's warriors were already developing systems of combat that blended grappling, striking, weaponry and philosophy.

In the lush southern coasts of Kerala, Kalaripayattu was created not only as a battlefield discipline but also as a complete physical-spiritual system. Fighters trained with spears, swords, shields and later even with bare hands. The kalari pit became a crucible for discipline as much as for fighting.

In Tamil Nadu, Silambam emerged as a refined art of staff fighting, once used by ancient Tamil kings and militias, and carried to Southeast Asia through trade routes. Even today, echoes of Silambam survive in Malaysia and Singapore among Tamil diaspora communities.

In Punjab, the Sikh warriors codified Gatka, a martial art deeply tied to their faith. The whirling swords, sticks and shields were never only weapons. They were embodiments of spiritual duty, meant to defend the weak and uphold justice.

Across north India, particularly in Haryana, wrestling akhadas thrived, producing men of legendary strength and discipline. In the west, the Marathas refined Mardani Khel, a vigorous art of sticks and blades practised on horseback.

In the Northeast, Manipur developed Thang-Ta, a martial system of swords and spears that became part of the state's cultural fabric. Sarit Sarak, or hand-to-hand combat, was used when a fighter lost their weapon. In Nagaland, Aki Kiti, or kick fighting, evolved as a semi-contact combat sport characterised by kicking and blocking using only the soles of the feet.

For centuries, these arts were nurtured under royal patronage and community pride. They were woven into daily life, passed down from guru to disciple, parent to child.

The colonial encounter changed everything.

Alarmed by the role of traditional warriors in uprisings, especially after the Revolt of 1857, the British suppressed indigenous martial practices. Weapons were confiscated, akhadas closed, and local armies disbanded. Physical culture was redirected into activities considered safe, such as cricket or gymnastics.

Nungthel, a woman Thang-Ta fighter, remarked, "In my father's time, practising with swords was almost seen as rebellion. The British feared us, so our art was driven underground. Today, we perform it in festivals, but why should it remain just a performance?"?"

By the late 19th century, many Indian martial arts survived only in ritualised or concealed forms. Kalaripayattu became entwined with temple rituals and healing practices rather than open combat. Gatka was displayed at religious festivals. Kushti endured in rural akhadas but lost royal patronage. Thang-Ta, once feared by colonial officers, retreated into folk performances.

The gap widened further in the 20th century. Independence did not bring revival. Modern India embraced imported sports such as football, hockey and eventually cricket as its national passions. Meanwhile, Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan and later the UFC brought global recognition to foreign martial arts, leaving India's indigenous systems dismissed as mere folk culture.

A Kalari master explained, "For a long time, people came to us only for tourist shows. They wanted to see flips, sword fights, or rituals. Nobody thought of Kalari as a fighting system anymore."

Today, the irony is stark. Whilst karate and taekwondo are taught in Indian schools, most Indian children have never heard of Silambam or Thang-Ta.

The martial spirit that once shaped India's civilisational memory has been pushed to the margins, preserved in fragments rather than acknowledged as a living, adaptive tradition.

The UFC Phenomenon

If Indian martial traditions retreated into the margins, something else filled the vacuum: the global rise of mixed martial arts (MMA).

In the early 2000s, Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC) fights circulated in India through pirated DVDs and early morning satellite channels. By the 2010s, YouTube and social media made every knockout, every submission and every fighter's persona instantly accessible. Today, UFC highlights trend on Instagram reels, and fight podcasts and breakdowns have loyal Indian audiences.

Globally, this has sparked new debates on masculinity, with young men turning to combat sports and speaking about the importance of self-defence.

In India too, urban youth once drawn to cricket or football now find themselves captivated by names like Conor McGregor and Jon Jones. The cage, with its brutal clarity, has become a stage of aspiration. For young Indians, UFC represents ambition, global stardom and the thrill of combat reduced to its essence.

This is not merely fandom. The popularity of MMA has driven a new gym culture across Tier-1 and Tier-2 cities. In Delhi, Bengaluru and Mumbai, boutique gyms offer Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, Muay Thai and wrestling-based MMA training.

UFC Gyms have opened even in Tier-2 cities such as Guwahati, where I live, and attract young fitness enthusiasts. Local tournaments, often semi-professional, draw hundreds of participants. Social media influencers showcase MMA drills, building communities around fight training.

India's own fighters are beginning to enter the stage as well. Names like Bharat Khandare and Anshul Jubli, the latter nicknamed the King of Lions, have already stepped into the UFC cage. Jubli's debut victory in 2023 made him a cult figure among fight fans, proof that Indians can compete at the highest level. Varun Sanyal has become a two-time national champion and is working towards building an Indian MMA ecosystem.

Yet, despite the enthusiasm, the Indian MMA scene is still imported. Gyms are dominated by Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu and Muay Thai, with little recognition of indigenous techniques. Indian fans admire foreign fighters, while Indian martial systems remain overlooked.

The paradox is clear. India has the audience, the passion and the potential fighters, but not a homegrown martial identity in this booming market.

This raises a crucial question. Why cannot Indian martial arts be reimagined for the cage, just as karate, judo and Muay Thai were once adapted into MMA?

Indian Martial Arts as Combat Sport

Walk into any MMA gym in Mumbai or Gurugram, and you will find young Indians drilling Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu ground holds or Muay Thai clinches. Ask them about Kalaripayattu or Silambam, and most respond with indifference. They have heard of them only in passing, if at all. Yet these very arts contain combat-tested techniques that could enrich, and even redefine, the global fighting scene.

Kalaripayattu has dynamic kicks, locks and weapon transitions that could rival Muay Thai for striking versatility.

Kushti grappling, refined for centuries in Indian akhadas, is a natural fit for wrestling-dominant MMA styles.

Silambam stick work, adapted for padded or shortened weapons, could bring India into the fast-growing niche of stick-fighting tournaments.

Gatka and Thang-Ta, with their swordplay, may never enter MMA cages directly, but they could inspire separate combat-sport leagues, just as fencing and kendo developed their own followings.

What India lacks is a unifying platform.

Other nations have achieved this. Japan globalised judo and karate, embedding them into Olympic sport. Thailand turned Muay Thai into both a tourist attraction and a feeder sport for MMA champions. Brazil exported capoeira and built an empire around jiu-jitsu, making it the backbone of UFC fighting.

India could do the same. A Pro Martial Arts League, modelled on the success of Pro Kabaddi, could showcase regional martial traditions in a competitive format. Imagine a Kalari fighter from Kerala facing a Kushti grappler from Haryana under hybrid rules, or Silambam athletes competing in fast-paced stick-fighting tournaments broadcast on primetime television.

One of my coaches when I trained for university games, who was a national wrestling champion, used to say, "I grew up in the akhada, rolling in the mud every morning before sunrise. Our guruji always said: kushti builds not just the body, but the mind. But today, young boys dream of becoming UFC stars. They want lights, glamour, money. If India built its own MMA league with kushti at the core, I guarantee you we could produce world champions within a decade. Dagestani and Chechen wrestling has taken over the UFC. Haryanvi kushti can do so as well. Why should they own the cage? We can build our own."

With the right packaging, Indian martial arts could become not only heritage displays for tourists but also living, competitive sports. The youth market is already primed, and MMA has shown that there is hunger for the spectacle of combat.

The untapped opportunity is clear. India can either remain a consumer of UFC fights produced in Las Vegas and Dubai or it can create its own arena, its own heroes, and its own league rooted in centuries of martial memory.

Why This Matters Beyond Sport

At first glance, the revival of Indian martial arts might appear to be a niche cultural project, or at best a fitness trend. In reality, it carries implications far larger than the fight arena.

Today's young Indians know Bruce Lee or Alex Pereira better than they know Parashurama, the legendary sage-warrior credited with founding Kalaripayattu. For them, UFC belts are the ultimate symbols of martial glory. But imagine if Indian fighters entered that same cage with techniques drawn from Kalari kicks or kushti locks and won. Overnight, a generation that has borrowed its fighting heroes could reclaim its own.

Martial arts offer something cricket or football cannot. They provide a direct link to heritage. They allow the body to become a vessel of memory, a living archive of civilisation. For a youth often accused of being detached from roots, this is powerful.

Just as yoga became India's global brand of wellness, martial arts could become India's global brand of combat. China has Kung Fu, Thailand has Muay Thai, Japan has Judo and Karate, Brazil has Jiu-Jitsu. India, despite having some of the oldest combat systems in the world, has nothing comparable on the global stage.

The internationalisation of Indian martial arts could shift that balance. Kalari training camps could attract foreign fighters. Silambam tournaments could become tourist draws. A Pro Martial Arts League could stream globally as "India's UFC."

The sports economy thrives on infrastructure: gyms, tournaments, sponsorships, tourism and digital broadcasting. A national martial arts movement would generate local gyms integrating indigenous techniques, regional tournaments attracting spectators and sponsors, content for OTT platforms hungry for sports entertainment beyond cricket, merchandise, training equipment and even fitness-tourism packages.

Just as kabaddi transformed from a rustic game into a ₹500-crore league with slick production and urban fanbases, Indian martial arts could spark their own economy.

In a society where women's safety is a pressing concern, indigenous martial systems could provide practical, homegrown tools of self-defence. Already, some schools in Kerala and Tamil Nadu include Silambam and Kalari training in their self-defence curricula for girls.

The popularity of martial arts also dovetails with India's booming wellness and fitness industries. Martial training is not only combat, it is discipline, agility and confidence. It is a civilisation's last line of defence.

This is my final point. Reviving martial arts is about more than sport, economy or safety. It is about reconnecting with dharma and warrior ethos, the idea that physical discipline is not merely for aggression, but for protection, restraint and honour. India's martial traditions never separated combat from philosophy. They trained warriors to fight, certainly, but also to heal, to meditate and to cultivate humility.

In an age when global combat sports often glorify brute force, India can offer a different model: the warrior-sage tradition, where discipline tempers violence. It can provide a new idea of masculinity for a generation that seeks it elsewhere.

Obstacles to Overcome

For all the promise of revival, India's martial arts revival remains precarious. The gap between cultural nostalgia and sustainable practice is wide. To bridge it, the obstacles, both structural and psychological, that hold back the growth of indigenous martial traditions must be confronted.

Unlike cricket, wrestling or kabaddi, most martial arts remain outside the formal sports ecosystem. Few federations have adequate funding or transparent structures. National-level recognition is inconsistent, leaving practitioners to train in obscurity. Without a strong institutional base, young players often turn to other sports with clearer career pathways.

A major perception challenge persists. Many young people view Indian martial arts as archaic, ritualistic or irrelevant compared to the appeal of MMA or UFC. Kalari or Silambam is imagined as something performed in a heritage centre, not in a cage. Gatka is seen as religious pageantry rather than athletic combat. This mental barrier is as significant as the infrastructural one.

Each martial art has its own state, language and community base. Silambam thrives in Tamil Nadu, Kalari in Kerala, Thang-Ta in Manipur and Gatka in Punjab. They rarely connect with one another, let alone unify under a national banner. In contrast, MMA thrives on consolidation, with different fighting styles competing within a single format. Without a unifying ecosystem, Indian arts risk remaining parochial.

For most practitioners, martial arts are still a labour of love, not livelihood. Trainers run academies on minimal budgets, and students leave due to the absence of career prospects. Sponsorship is scarce, and prize money at competitions is negligible compared to cricket or even kabaddi. A sustainable ecosystem requires not just passion, but also a functioning economy.

Unlike regulated combat sports, many indigenous forms lack modern safety protocols, weight classes or uniform rules. This makes it difficult to attract larger audiences or adapt them to professional circuits. Without codification and safety standards, both legitimacy and investor confidence remain weak.

Perhaps the deepest obstacle is psychological. For centuries, Indian martial arts were suppressed by colonial rulers who feared armed natives, and later by independent India's focus on "modern" sports borrowed from the West. The residue of this dismissal lingers: a subtle but persistent belief that Indian traditions are outdated, while imported ones are progressive.

These obstacles are real, but they are not insurmountable. What is required is visionary re-imagination to present these arts not as museum pieces, but as living, competitive and commercially viable sports.

The Way Forward

The global combat sports boom, driven by UFC and MMA, has opened an unexpected opportunity for India. For the first time, youth from Delhi to Dimapur follow fight nights as closely as cricket matches. Yet the irony remains. Indians cheer for Conor McGregor, but few know that their own land birthed combat traditions as sophisticated as any in the world.

If India is to reclaim its martial legacy and seize this new market, it must act decisively. The future lies not in nostalgia, but in building an ecosystem where heritage meets modernity.

The first step is to bring disparate traditions onto a common stage. Just as Pro Kabaddi revived kabaddi by giving it league structure, an Indian Martial League could spotlight Kalari, Silambam, Thang-Ta, Gatka, Mallakhamb and Pehlwani. Different styles could be showcased both in their traditional format and adapted into regulated competitive matches. This would create visibility, sponsorship and aspirational value for the youth.

Indian martial arts need not compete with MMA. They can feed into it. Kalari strikes and Kushti grappling can enrich MMA's arsenal. Gyms across India could introduce hybrid training, such as "Kalari conditioning plus MMA sparring," making indigenous techniques modern and globally relevant. Fighters trained in Indian systems could carry that identity into international octagons, much like Brazilians carry capoeira and jiu-jitsu.

Varun Sanyal, when asked whether traditional Indian martial arts can be used in MMA, replied, "Absolutely! It's called Mixed Martial Arts after all. Even if it is a singular technique, a movement pattern, exercise, or principle, it can be incorporated. For example, we saw Conor McGregor utilise capoeira, a traditional Brazilian martial art; not only for the kicks, but more for its movement patterns."

Gurpreet, a Gatka player based in Amritsar, commented, "I used to binge-watch UFC highlights on YouTube. Then one day my grandfather said, 'Why are you looking west when your ancestors fought with the kirpan?' That hit me. I started training seriously in Gatka, and today I also practise MMA. I want to blend both worlds, bring the spirit of the Khalsa into the cage. Imagine the day when our people cheer not just for foreign fighters, but for one of our own."

There also needs to be government support for indigenous martial arts, which are currently maintained mainly by local institutions, including temples. Varun mentioned that even MMA is not a government-recognised sport yet. It was only in May 2025 that, for the first time, there was a national event conducted by the MMA Sports Federation of India under the Asian body's rules and supervision.

Inclusion of martial arts in Khelo India and other national sports programmes, scholarships, recognition in the sports quota and dedicated training centres for traditional forms would all help. Collaboration with the armed forces, who already practise Gatka, Thang-Ta and lathi drills, could also professionalise training.

No sport grows without stories. Cricket has Sachin, kabaddi has Anup Kumar, and MMA has McGregor. Indian martial arts need their own heroes. The rising stars such as Anshul Jubli and Varun Sanyal should be marketed well, but so should Silambam or Thang-Ta fighters. Documentaries, OTT shows and films that dramatise the journeys of practitioners, along with broadcasts of tournaments on sports channels and streaming platforms, would be crucial.

Varun Sanyal also highlighted the importance of storytelling. "In MMA, you are an individual, nobody knows who and what you represent. Therefore, promotions must give fighters a platform to tell their stories and let people connect with them."

A strong revival is not only about domestic pride, it has global potential. Just as yoga became India's wellness export, martial arts can be its combat export. Training centres abroad, workshops at MMA gyms and international tournaments can reframe India not as a latecomer but as an origin point of martial wisdom.

If nurtured with foresight, this revival could do more than entertain. It could restore a civilisational confidence that India has lost since colonial times, when body and spirit were seen as integral to culture. A national martial renaissance would remind the youth that their ancestors were warriors, and their arts are alive in them.

And perhaps, one day soon, when an Indian fighter steps into a global arena carrying Kalari footwork or Silambam strikes, the world will not only see a competitor, but a civilisation reclaiming its warrior spirit.