Ahmedabad's 'Commonwealth' Kabaddi Spectacle: India's Title Is Settled Before a Single Raid, and the Olympic Dream on Stage Is Hollow

On the morning of 22 October 2026, inside an indoor hall in Ahmedabad's Transport Nagar, the jersey, logo, mascot and team anthem were unveiled. The biggest absence on that stage was not a player. It was Iran. The list of 13 nations for the inaugural Commonwealth Kabaddi Championship includes India, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, Kenya, Uganda, Tanzania, Canada, England, Scotland, Australia, Singapore, Malaysia and one other entrant — but not the country that beat India 18-27 in the 2026 Jakarta Asian Games semifinal and took away its first-ever gold. For eight years I have opened every India preview by naming Iran as co-favourite, not a gift. This time Iran is not even in the draw, and the organisers are calling it 'a new chapter for global kabaddi'. Let me be clear from the start: this championship is not designed to determine the world's best kabaddi team. It is an institutional campaign for a place in the Commonwealth Games and, more ambitiously, the Olympics. The problem is that the stage is grander than the field.

To understand the architecture, look at the size. A total of 62 matches will be played over nine days — 39 men's and 23 women's. The semifinals are on 30 October and the final on 31 October 2026. With 13 nations and roughly 400-plus players, this is a group-stage-plus-knockout structure averaging about 30 delegation members per team — meaning squads of roughly 12-15 in each gender. This is a showcase format, not a deep round-robin. On rules, the event is being held with International Kabaddi Federation (IKF) approval and hosted by the Amateur Kabaddi Federation of India (AKFI), which is the formally correct governance chain. The organisers never stated whether Standard Style (rectangular court) would be used, but with IKF sanction and multi-nation participation, Standard Style is near-certain. That omission matters, because without it you cannot compare these results with Pro Kabaddi League or Asian Games performance.

Now the part the organisers gave the least space to — the captaincy announcements. India's men will be led by Surjeet Singh, with Naveen Kumar as vice-captain. The women's team is captained by Nidhi Sharma, with Ritu as vice-captain. That is all. No player's position (raider, defender, all-rounder), club affiliation, previous season's numbers or form. At an event calling itself a global stage, the team announcement did not go beyond a press release. Naveen Kumar's name matches a well-known Pro Kabaddi League raider, and if it is the same player, his vice-captaincy would suggest India is using the event to give a senior raider leadership exposure. But name commonality in India is high enough that without additional identification, this cannot be treated as fact. The same applies to the women's team. In my experience, when an event's announcement gives space to jerseys, an anthem and a mascot but not to squad lists and statistics, the communications strategy is focused on branding rather than competition. That is not an accusation; it is a pattern.

This is where the real argument begins. Competitively, India is the only tier-1 nation in this 13-country field. Bangladesh, where kabaddi is the national sport, Sri Lanka, and the East African kabaddi circuit nations of Kenya, Uganda and Tanzania sit at tier 2 or 3. Countries like Canada, England, Scotland, Australia, Singapore and Malaysia largely send diaspora-based squads. And the three names that matter most are missing — Iran (India's closest global rival), Pakistan (the Circle Style heartland and the most emotionally charged rivalry) and South Korea (2026 World Cup runner-up level). There is a structural reason for the absence of Iran and Pakistan: neither is a Commonwealth member. But the organisers did not even mention this reason. That silence is the problem, because it sends the message that the weakness of the field is being hidden. When your strongest rival is excluded by the rules, you should state clearly what this title represents and what it does not. In 2026, before Jakarta, I named Iran as co-favourite, and when India lost the semifinal, I did not celebrate being right — I questioned the selection system. Being right is half the job; diagnosis is the other half. The diagnosis here is that this event is built for politics, not competition.

Now the side I consider strongest and the organisers least highlighted — the women's competition. A 23-match women's draw, named captains and vice-captains, and a platform parallel to the men's. This genuinely matters. The Pro Kabaddi League, the sport's commercial engine, still has no women's league. The Indian women's kabaddi team has won four Asian Games golds, yet has no domestic professional pathway. A women's draw at a multi-nation championship is therefore institutionally the right step. But it should not be read as professionalisation. The organisers nowhere said this would open a path to a women's league, nor is any prize money, ranking points or Olympic quota at stake. This is a 'friendly-plus' tier event, and the women's competition is its most honest achievement. For me, it is the one part of this championship I can praise without qualification.

Now the part where I have to argue with myself. Am I being too harsh? The strongest case for this event is that Ahmedabad will host the 2030 Commonwealth Games, and the political window to get kabaddi into that programme is open now. Holding an international championship, with IKF approval, 13-nation participation and an official unveiling, builds a case that can be put before the Commonwealth Games Federation (CGF). If the event is repeated annually and a route is found to invite Iran and Pakistan, it could genuinely become institution-building. My criticism targets the claim, not the event. Talking about Olympic inclusion from this stage is premature. Olympic inclusion requires continental spread, a developed women's game and stable governance — none of which this field demonstrates. The Commonwealth route is more realistic, but even that needs CGF engagement, and no CGF representative appeared at this unveiling. That absence says a lot quietly.

On the commercial side, the picture is even murkier. No broadcaster named, no sponsor named, no prize purse figure, no mention of ticket sales. An event calling itself a stepping stone to the Commonwealth Games should have publicised its commercial partners. The absence of a named broadcaster suggests either coverage limited to public channels or modest commercial interest. Either reading weakens the 'global reach' claim. In my experience, inaugural events that emphasise jerseys, an anthem, a logo and a mascot are often sending a low-cost legitimacy signal — a hunger for institutional recognition, not immediate revenue. That is not wrong, but it should come with transparency.

On governance, the AKFI-IKF approval chain is formally correct, and the direct quote from IKF General Secretary Tejasvi Gehlot gives a clear institutional voice. But there is not a word on athlete welfare, anti-doping rules, referee standards or review systems. These are precisely the areas where kabaddi events often fall short. AKFI's administrative history has been turbulent, though nothing in this report suggests a problem at this event. Still, when you talk about the Olympics, governance transparency is not optional; it is a mandatory condition.

Now the question that matters most to me — what does this event contribute to kabaddi's economy? The honest answer: very little. It does not create a new commercial product that changes the Pro Kabaddi League ecosystem, nor does it immediately affect grassroots funding. Its most tangible channel is international linkage — exposing East Africa and diaspora nations to Standard Style kabaddi, which could seed future participation. The participation of Kenya, Uganda and Tanzania is a more authentic internationalisation signal than the Western entries, because kabaddi's growth there is tied to diaspora communities and development programmes, not just name participation. The women's competition could have a long-term effect if it creates demand for a women's professional pathway, but no mechanism for that is described or implied.

So what is the essence of this whole event? For me, it is a model of 'borrowed prestige'. Kabaddi has no historical Commonwealth lineage. Attaching the sport to the Commonwealth brand is a deliberate institutional strategy — borrowing the prestige of a multi-sport movement to manufacture international legitimacy. Ahmedabad's selection follows the same logic. Gujarat has not been a traditional kabaddi talent heartland — Haryana, Maharashtra, Punjab, Uttar Pradesh and Tamil Nadu are the states that produce players. Ahmedabad's selection is not a kabaddi-community decision but a political-administrative one tied to Commonwealth 2030 preparation. That is not wrong, but it should be acknowledged.

My final point is about the future that will be decided after this event. The semifinals and final on 30-31 October 2026 will be the only matches with genuine stakes. India's title is near-certain — not a prediction, arithmetic, because there is no tier-1 rival in the field. The real question is whether the organisers will use this platform after 31 October. Will there be a second edition, will a route be found to invite Iran and Pakistan, will an Indian broadcaster come forward, and will the CGF bring kabaddi's name into 2030 programme discussions? I have said it before and I repeat it: every chant has a shelf life, and I want to know who is setting the expiry date. If this event is repeated next year with the same 13 countries and the same silence, it will become an annual spectacle rather than institution-building. And if that happens, kabaddi's Olympic dream will remain as unfulfilled as India's 'guaranteed gold' after 2026 — beautiful on paper, hollow on the field.