Even as Varanasi is known as a city obsessed with transcendence, its centuries-old akhara culture is rooted firmly in the body. Revered as sacred spaces, these mud pits have not only upheld tradition but also produced national and international wrestlers. Today, they are drawing in a new generation, including women, who see the akhara not as a relic, but as a living pathway to discipline, strength, and ambition. Varanasi-trained wrestlers have made their mark well beyond the city. Saurabh Yadav won gold at the U17 National Wrestling Championship 2025 in the 80 kg category, participating in the U17 World Wrestling Championship. Jaiveer clinched gold in the 55 kg category at the Third Youth Asian Games in Bahrain in 2025.
Their success has had a ripple effect: shopkeepers, students, mechanics, security guards, many of whom once trained only to uphold tradition, are now committing to akharas with competitive aspirations, fitting in rigorous practice alongside day jobs. “Very few visitors know that Varanasi’s akharas have been shaping national and international players for years,” says Arun Kumar Singh, manager of Justa Luxé Kashi Parampara, a heritage property located close to several akharas.
Women are increasingly visible in these spaces, stepping into arenas long considered male domains. Palak Yadav, an under-15 national gold medallist, grew up around dangals and now trains with a clear goal. “I want to take it to the international level,” she says. Like many young wrestlers, Palak also trains on professional mats, but she insists the akhara remains central to her practice.
The same philosophy has shaped wrestlers like Gaurishankar Pahalwan, an international freestyle wrestler and gold medallist who began training in the akharas long before professional arenas became accessible. A clerk by profession, he earns between Rs 11,000 and Rs 25,000 for district-level dangals and up to Rs 1 lakh at the state level. After nearly 30 years of training, the akhara remains his anchor. “It’s an art with many techniques,” he says. “Even the langot matters—it’s sacred, used only here. Scientifically, it reduces bruises, but traditionally it is tied to brahmacharya, to conserving energy and disciplining the mind and body.” Not everyone here is chasing medals. For many, the draw is health, community, and continuity. Akhara Swaminath, one of the city’s oldest, is overseen by 74-year-old Dayashankar Yadav. “In this akhara, every person of age six and above—of all genders, religions, and castes—is welcome,” Yadav says. “It is completely free of cost. The only aim is to ensure this ancient art is not lost.”
Newcomers like Shubham Pandey and Aryan Kapoor describe akharas training as a “desi workout” unlike anything a gym offers. “For me, two hours here is like charging my mobile phone for the day,” Aryan says. “Unlike the gym, where the bulk fades, the akhara builds strength and stamina.” Given a chance, they would like to participate in dangals and make it big.
The mud is sacred; it is treated less like soil and more like prasad. Dug from eight to ten feet below ground, it is mixed with turmeric, curd, and mustard oil. Changed every eight to ten months, it is believed to cool the body and heal the skin. Its upkeep is sustained by community labour and anonymous donations.
As the sun climbs and Varanasi slips into its familiar rhythm of prayers and pilgrims, the akharas have already done their work. In this city, salvation takes many forms. Some find it in the river. Others, like the wrestlers, find it in the mud.