Jakarta Bronze, The Iran Question: The Myth of 'Guaranteed Gold' and the Truth of Real Strength in Kabaddi

I still have that notebook where the sounds of the Jakarta kabaddi hall are recorded. In the semifinal of the 2026 Asian Games, India lost to Iran 18-27. On the scoreboard, that gap was just a number, but for me, sitting in the media tribune, that moment felt like a disaster. I had half-written the script for 'the seventh gold', and it took me two minutes to tear it up. That night, I was on the phone with a Haryana Police coach until 3 a.m.—he was explaining to me the nuances of Iran's wrestling-trained defenders and ankle holds. That same night, I removed the word 'guaranteed gold' from my copy forever.

This article is not based on any other news, because I haven't received any solid input in the past few days that I could turn into a report. But it's the habit of an old reporter—when the calendar is empty, he opens his old notes. And today, in this tournament cycle, when no big kabaddi news has come in for the past few months, the same question haunts me: did we learn anything from that loss to Iran? Or did we once again console ourselves with our false stories?

I remember, in the early 2010s, when I used to watch Asian Games finals on Doordarshan, kabaddi meant one thing—India's one-sided dominance. Scores like 40-20 were common on the scoreboard. Korean teams were just polite guests, and the match against Pakistan seemed like an extension of military and political tension on the field. But after the 2026 Incheon Asian Games, something changed. I was on the athletics desk at the time, but when kabaddi scores came up, I would be startled—India was winning, but the margin was shrinking.

By 2026, this shrinking became clearly visible. In Jakarta, South Korea beat India 23-24 in the group stage. I remember that day well, because I didn't want to be in that hall. I was busy with athletics coverage, but a Hindi channel producer called—"Sir, you need to come to the kabaddi hall, there's something different about these teams." I went, and what I saw was nothing short of a shock for me. The Korean raiders not only broke the Indian defence line, but read it regularly. Their raids were based not just on strength, but on a thought-out plan. The Indian defenders felt they were in their rhythm, but the Korean team pushed them back a step every time.

The loss to Iran in the semifinal, 18-27, was not just a loss. It was proof of Iran's strength. I was sitting in the media tribune at the time, and an Iranian journalist sitting next to me looked at me and said, "This is no surprise." I got angry. But today, six years later, I understand what he meant. The Iranian team was not just a 'spoiler' who ruined India's game. They were a co-favourite team that, with their wrestling-based defence and disciplined raiding, changed the power balance of this sport forever.

To understand how this happened, you have to look into Iran's kabaddi system. In Iran, kabaddi is trained like wrestling. The strength of their defenders is not in their bodies, but in their technique—ankle holds, thigh holds, and that grip they call 'control'. When Indian raiders enter their line, they feel they are moving forward, but the Iranian defenders slowly take them to a place from which it is difficult to escape. This is a mindset that comes from pehlwani—tiring the opponent, disrupting his balance, and then bringing him down. I remember a Haryana Police coach telling me on the phone, "Sir, they don't let our raiders 'play'. They force them to 'think'. And when you start thinking, your cant (breath) breaks, and you are out."

India did not lack talent. Even in 2026, we had raiders like Pawan Kumar Sehrawat, who could change the course of a match single-handedly. But against Iran, he did not shine. Why? Because Iran built their strategy around neutralizing India's strength. They kept Pawan away from the defenders, isolated him, and stopped his support raiders near the bonus line. This was not just physical defence, it was a thought-out plan.

And here lies a very big lesson, which I have recorded in my character ledger of four hundred names. We Indians consider kabaddi to be something that no one can challenge, but that is not true. After the arrival of the Pro Kabaddi League (PKL), we made kabaddi a professional sport, but we forgot that other teams are also learning. Iran has continuously upgraded their game since 2026. Even in the 2026 Asian Games, they gave a tough fight, and in the coming times, they will come even stronger.

Whenever I write a kabaddi preview, I first write the losing version, then the winning one. This has become my habit. After 2026, I learned that there is no such thing as 'guaranteed gold'. Behind every medal is someone's hard work, and behind every loss is a strategic lapse. In Jakarta, our biggest lapse was that we did not take Iran seriously. We saw them as a 'spoiler' who came to beat us, not as a team that was playing better than us.

This same lapse is reflected in our selection process. When we select players based only on reputation, we ignore those players who are performing brilliantly in the domestic circuit. In 2026, our selection committee chose some names who were not in form at the time, and left out some players who could have been strategically better against Iran. I won't name anyone, but the scoreline speaks for itself.

Iran's victory was not just an accident, it was the victory of a system. They had a clear plan—strength in defence, patience in raiding, and exploiting our weaknesses. And our weakness was—dependence on one or two star raiders. When those raiders came under pressure, the whole team fell apart.

Now the question is, did we learn from this loss? If you look at the 2026 Asian Games score, India won gold, but no one has forgotten how close the match against Iran was. And in the 2026 Asian Games, Iran will come even stronger. I have named Iran as co-favourite in every preview, and coaches forward it to me. I am proud of this, because it means my reporting is based not just on patriotism, but on facts.

The core idea of this article is this—we should celebrate our victories, but we should also learn from our defeats. The Jakarta bronze was not a matter of shame for us, it was a warning. And if we did not hear that warning, we might have to pay an even bigger price next time.

Kabaddi is not just a sport, it is a language. And in this language, Iran now speaks fluently. We have to accept them as a rival, not as a 'spoiler'. Because the real game begins when you recognize your opponent's strength, and build your strategy to defeat them.

Now let's see, the next time India and Iran face each other, will our team remember the lesson that Jakarta taught us? Or will we lose ourselves in the same old story again—'we are the kings of kabaddi'?