Few fragrances can match the saundhi smell of the akhara! Most holy places have a beautiful, unforgettable aroma, like, say, that of incense. The akhara is sacred to pehelwans and so it is no different. The pit is made up of a combination of special mud and clay, hand-picked lovingly and carefully to be as soft as a mattress—so that you never get hurt when you fall on it. They revere this little patch of land like devotees. And like devotees worshipping at the altar, the pehelwans too, lovingly performed their own rituals of worship. A mixture of fragrances would fill the air as they sprinkled water on this sacred patch of earth.
I got some langots stitched as the thrill of wrestling gripped me. As did my friend Vakil. Barely a couple of years older than me, about nine or ten years old, Vakil and I used to watch and practise pehelwani together. Moves in wrestling are called daav. We used to try daav with each other. For instance, kabhi dhobi pachad ka daav laga diya. This is a classic move where you toss your opponent over their back in the vein of a dhobi dealing with his washing. There were also countless other moves like kasauta, baharli and machli gota.
‘Nawaz is a great wrestler,’ Mullah Pehelwan used to tell Abbu but before Abbu could bask in pride, he would quickly add, ‘but he is rather weak.’
This oxymoron was completely true. In spite of the disciplined diet and exercise regimen, I remained weak. But the incredible thing was that I used to beat my opponent using my mind rather than my muscle. Therefore, I often performed a certain daav before anybody could anticipate it. Given my cunning, quick wit and my frail structure, I soon came to be known as Teetar Pehelwan. Teetar is a tiny bird which doesn’t have much stamina. I was no different. I couldn’t wrestle for too long. Typical wrestling matches lasted for at least half an hour but not the ones I fought. Mera ek hi baar mein chit-pat ho jata tha. Either the opponent would defeat me or I would defeat him, all within a minute. Naturally, nobody could put me in a tournament. I was too risky. So I came to be known as Risky Pehelwan as well.
My performance was so bloody unpredictable that nobody, not just lay people and spectators but also experts, and even the mighty Mullah Pehelwan himself, could predict if this Teetar Pehelwan would win or lose. They could not even hazard a guess. Sometimes, I would perform a wonder and leave everybody silent in awe. People never expected that a frail, skinny little chap like me could defeat a hefty, muscular wrestler.
Once there was a tournament for seniors who were mostly a bunch of youngsters aged between eighteen and twenty years. People came from all the surrounding villages to watch it. Among the champions the spectators were rooting for was this one particular muscle powerhouse called Qamaruddin who was from my akhara. To us fledglings, he was our local champ. In fact, he lived quite close to my house. Unlike the bodybuilders you see sweating in today’s gyms, guys like Qamaruddin had real stamina and unparalleled strength. Qamaruddin was a strange chap. Renowned for his Herculean strength, he could single-handedly beat up a dozen guys to a pulp. And yet, he never won a single match. That day, this puny little me ended up defeating him. Imagine! Just like that, in a daav he never anticipated. The spectators were obviously upset. Not because their beloved champion had lost or anything like that. But because you need to build up a tempo in a match; however, here in true Risky Pehelwan style, the whole bout was over in a few minutes, before they could even sink themselves into the fight!
This Qamaruddin, he was a classic character of Budhana. Every time I hear the popular idiom ‘akal badi ki bhains’ (all brawn and no brain), I can’t help but think of him. In fact, he lived with many buffaloes. Bhainso ke saath reh, reh kar woh khud bhi bhains ban gaya tha. We become the company we keep and probably the company of cattle rubbed off on him, or at least on his brain. Like an Indian bull, a saand, you never knew what would light his fuse and he would do something lunatic with his super strength. Once he got so angry that he killed two people, his own mausi (maternal aunt) and mausa (her husband). Mostly, we have fond childhood memories of growing up around such close blood relatives and tend to love them. Qamaruddin probably did too, but he was so upset when his mausi said something mean to his mother that he murdered her and her husband. He butchered them into pieces with his own bare hands and then went to prison for fourteen years. That was the end of his wrestling career. By the time he came out of prison, he had grown too old to wrestle. And when he could, he didn’t win due to his hot-headedness and lack of brains.
Such Jat buddhi plagues every nook and corner of my region. Honour killings are common, sadly as common as the common cold. Even in this day and age, if, say, a Jat boy romances a Gujjar girl, it isn’t surprising at all for both sets of parents to actually get together for honour killings, plotting the murders of both the children. I love Budhana, it is an integral part of me, like my arteries, but I can never understand this insane, shadowy side of my land.
2Patta Prodigy
‘Abey, Risky Pehelwan! Tu patta khel!’
Out of the blue, somebody randomly suggested that I play this ancient Indian martial art. Back then, patta was omnipresent across India and as timeless as time itself. Like their
