It was the winter of 2020, and social media hadn’t evolved into the scrutiny machine it is now. Back then, a good story didn’t need to survive a laborious fact-check to travel. If something was worth appreciating, it was appreciated, loudly and fast.
That’s how Srinivasa Gowda became a social media sensation and a national hero of sorts. He was a Kambala racer from Karnataka, and Kambala is one of the many forms of bullock and buffalo racing that survive across India.
Videos of Gowda sprinting barefoot behind a pair of racing buffaloes through a slushy paddy field flooded social media, and people started comparing him to Usain Bolt. More amusing than the comparison itself was what followed: the Sports Authority of India invited him for an athletics trial.
Gowda never went. He told reporters that track and field was “a totally different ball game” and that he’d rather stay with what he knew — the buffaloes, the paddy fields, the Kambala season that still had races left to run. He turned down India’s biggest sporting institution to stay loyal to a sport with none.
He did, however, succeed in bringing Kambala into the national conversation, putting it in the mainstream for a few weeks, and getting television channels to argue over him and the races he ran.
Cut to 2026, six years later, and Kambala still continues, but we may hear nothing of it until the next viral moment arrives. Why is that? Picture one of the most visually satisfying spectacles in Indian sport — lush green paddy fields, jet-black bullocks yoked side by side, riders built like action stars lashing them forward, eight lanes deep, a drone hovering over thousands of spectators packed around the track, all of it streamed live.
That sounds like the setup for a genuine success story. Almost none of it has happened. Bullock cart racing has remained one of the most visually spectacular—and commercially neglected—traditional sports in India, unlike Kabaddi, Kho Kho and Panja — all of which are now minting crores through their own leagues. Why?
Bullock cart racing’s commercial stagnation was never caused by a lack of spectators but by a lack of organisation.
Charu Sharma, who co-founded Mashal Sports and helped build the Pro Kabaddi League into the country’s biggest non-cricket sporting property, says the pattern behind kabaddi’s rise offers the clearest explanation.
“The Kabaddi fraternity, the federation, the custodians got organised, other countries organised, had a nice set of rules that everybody could understand in a proper tight box, and then sold the game to international extravaganzas such as the Asian Games. Once you become an internationally accepted sport, you become a major sport… those are obviously easier to promote within the country of its origin and in other countries as well.”
Bullock cart racing, by contrast, stayed where it began.
“Bullock cart racing… is somewhat limited in its geography. They are not organised and there’s no major zonal competition, national competition, there are no rule books that people can go by. They’re not trying to promote it anywhere else. So they remain, sadly, very localised.”
A Tradition Without Institutions
Every winter, across the Konkan coast, the sugarcane belt of western Maharashtra and North Karnataka, thousands line up along narrow mud tracks to watch a spectacle that has lived through generations.
A pair of Khillar bulls, yoked to a lightweight wooden cart, hurtles down a roughly 400-foot stretch in little over a dozen seconds. Standing on the cart, the racer balances himself while urging the animals forward, often inches away from disaster.
In villages across Maharashtra, Bailgada Sharyat is not merely a competition but a matter of family prestige, local identity and agricultural tradition.
The sport has cousins across India. Punjab has hosted bullock cart races at the Kila Raipur Rural Olympics since 1933. Karnataka’s Kambala and Kerala’s Maramadi replace bulls with buffaloes, but the idea remains remarkably similar: animal-powered racing rooted in rural life.
Few Indian sports can claim a lineage as old as bullock cart racing while remaining part of living rural culture. But also one of the only ones to have not found commercial mobilisation.
A Sport Everyone Knows, But Nobody Owns
Every successful sports league begins with someone owning the product. Someone owns the competition, someone sells the media rights, someone negotiates sponsorships. Bullock cart racing has never had that someone.
Across Maharashtra, Punjab and parts of southern India, races are organised independently by village committees, district associations, religious trusts and local organisers. Each competition follows its own calendar, prize structure and, often, slight variations in format.
The money reflects that fragmented ecosystem. Prize purses are typically funded through entry fees, community contributions, local businessmen and political patrons rather than media rights or corporate sponsorship. There is no central body empowered to package hundreds of village races into a single national sporting property.
For Sharma, that fragmentation is the sport’s biggest commercial obstacle.
“They must try and become a national entity, it must try and be held in various parts of the country. You have to create conditions for it. You can’t say the conditions are okay only in the fields of Mangalore. You’ve got to create a situation where that sport can be held anywhere.”
That observation goes to the heart of why bullock cart racing has remained a tradition rather than becoming a business.
Bullock cart racing has spectators, history and emotional investment. What it has never had is a commercial owner.
The League Revolution Left It Behind
After the success of the Indian Premier League, promoters across Indian sport began experimenting with the franchise model. Bullock cart racing was not considered.
The Pro Kabaddi League transformed a traditional Indian sport into one of the country’s biggest non-cricket television properties through franchise ownership, centralised media rights and long-term broadcast partnerships.
Ultimate Kho Kho followed a similar playbook, attracting significant promoter investment while building a national television audience.
Even arm wrestling has undergone a remarkable commercial makeover. The Pro Panja League introduced city-based franchises, attracted celebrity investors and built a broadcast product around a sport that, until recently, was largely confined to local competitions.
It was a simple case of different sports following the same formula: a governing body standardised the rules, a commercial promoter packaged the competition, broadcasters committed to seasons and sponsors followed. Athletes suddenly had careers instead of hobbies. That never happened for bullock cart racing.
Its popularity remained local. Its governance remained fragmented. Its commercial potential remained unrealised.
Asked whether the professionalisation that transformed kabaddi could be replicated for Bailgada Sharyat, Sharma’s answer was unequivocal.
“Without doubt. It has to have people with a sophisticated management background who can come in and add some quality, internationalism and development to that sport.”
But he also pointed to the challenge that separates bullock cart racing from sports that can be staged almost anywhere.
“If you say that it has certain limitations where it can only be held, then that’s a serious limitation, because it will become a tourism attraction and no more… But now, if you’ve got a nice rule book and if you’ve got international participation, because beaches are everywhere, it’s not that only in one part of the world is there one beach.”
The distinction is important. Kabaddi succeeded because it became portable. It could be played in any arena, in any city, under one set of rules.
Bullock cart racing remains rooted to its landscape.
Whether that geographical limitation is an insurmountable obstacle — or simply a challenge waiting for better organisation — is what will determine whether the sport ever moves beyond the village circuit.
When the Courts Entered the Track
Even if someone had wanted to build a professional league around bullock cart racing, the legal environment offered little certainty.
In 2014, the Supreme Court of India prohibited Jallikattu, Kambala and bullock cart racing, holding that practices associated with the sports violated provisions of the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals Act.
States responded by amending their laws to permit the sports under regulated conditions. Maharashtra, Karnataka and Tamil Nadu moved first, while Punjab took considerably longer to complete its legislative process.
Sports businesses are built over long investment cycles. Media rights, sponsorship agreements and franchise valuations depend on regulatory certainty. Few broadcasters or commercial partners are willing to invest in a property whose future could once again become entangled in prolonged litigation or recurring animal welfare controversies.
The legal battle did more than interrupt competitions. It interrupted the sport’s opportunity to commercialise.
While kabaddi, kho kho and other indigenous sports spent the 2010s building leagues, attracting broadcasters and developing sponsorship ecosystems, bullock cart racing spent much of the same decade fighting for its legal survival.
That divergence continues to shape the sport’s commercial prospects even today.
The Economics Simply Didn’t Add Up
Even without the courtroom battles, bullock cart racing faces a problem every professional sport must eventually solve: economics.
A competitive pair of Maharashtra’s indigenous Khillar bulls does not come cheap. Depending on pedigree and racing record, owners can spend anywhere from a few lakh rupees to well over ₹10 lakh to acquire a proven pair. Add the cost of feed, transport, veterinary care and year-round conditioning, and maintaining race-ready animals becomes a significant financial commitment.
Unlike cricket academies or kabaddi camps, however, there is no structured pathway to recover that investment. There are no player contracts, franchise retainers or televised leagues offering appearance fees. The financial ecosystem remains largely confined to village-level prize money, local sponsorships and community prestige. Winning a race may bring recognition and cash rewards, but it does not create a sustainable sporting career.
For younger participants, the contrast is becoming increasingly stark. A talented kabaddi player can aspire to play in the Pro Kabaddi League. Kho kho now offers a professional platform. Even arm wrestlers have city-based franchises and televised competitions to target. A young bullock cart racer has none of that to dream toward — just the next village meet, and the one after that.
The shrinking population of the Khillar breed reflects that reality. With tractors replacing bullocks in agriculture, racing has become one of the few remaining reasons to rear indigenous working cattle. Years of legal uncertainty, coupled with rising maintenance costs, have further reduced the economic incentive to own specialised racing bulls.
In many ways, the sport is no longer struggling because people have stopped watching. It is struggling because fewer people can afford to participate.
For Sharma, solving that problem requires professional management as much as financial backing.
“You need to get on board, partner with professionals — a professional operations manager, a commercial manager and so on — because they are the ones who allow the multiplication of that event.”
Professional leagues do not emerge simply because a sport is popular. They emerge because someone builds an economic model that rewards participation, attracts investment and creates careers. Bullock cart racing is still searching for that model.
Why Television Never Came Calling
Television buys predictability: a fixed calendar, standardised rules, clearly defined commercial rights and advertising inventory that can be sold months in advance.
Bullock cart racing offers none of those at a national level.
Events remain tied to village festivals, harvest cycles and local traditions rather than a centrally planned season. Organisers operate independently, leaving no single body capable of negotiating media rights or presenting the sport as one coherent national property. Formats, track lengths and local regulations also vary, making standardisation difficult.
For broadcasters, those are structural problems, not logistical ones.
Sponsors seek the same certainty.
Even after the Supreme Court upheld state laws permitting traditional animal sports in 2023, the possibility of renewed legal challenges and continuing objections from animal welfare groups remains part of every commercial calculation. For brands deciding where to spend their sports marketing budgets, kabaddi or kho kho offers a far more predictable investment than a property that continues to attract periodic legal scrutiny.
Popularity may attract spectators. Predictability attracts capital.
Sharma believes the final piece is governance.
“Governance is also very, very important, which people don’t realise. You’ve got to organise in such a manner and show that your governance is top class. That’s when people start believing in you. Then sponsors also may come in and say, ‘Well, if it’s so transparent, if it’s so professional, we’ll put some money into it.'”
Until that happens, television is unlikely to see bullock cart racing as a scalable sports property rather than a collection of successful local events.
Horse Racing Shows What Institutions Can Build
For more than a century, India’s racing clubs in Mumbai, Bengaluru, Hyderabad and Kolkata have built a commercially sustainable ecosystem around the sport through recognised governing bodies, standardised rules, fixed racing calendars and licensed betting.
“Horse racing can be an example. It developed the rules, it has an organisation and it is very well organised throughout the world. They’ve gotten themselves organised hundreds of years ago, and there are major horse racing centres around the world. Even though it may not be a medal sport, it became a professional sport where jockeys were paid well, owners were paid well. There’s a whole industry around horse racing which is financially pretty robust.”
Bullock cart racing never built those institutions. There is no national federation with exclusive commercial rights. No central marketing agency, and hence no unified sponsorship inventory.
That distinction explains why one became an industry while the other remained a tradition.
Camel Racing Shows Tradition Can Become Industry
Bullock cart racing would not be the first traditional animal sport to reinvent itself.
Across the Gulf, camel racing was once much like Bailgada Sharyat — an informal rural tradition woven into the social fabric of Bedouin communities. Today, it is a multi-million-dollar industry.
Governments in the United Arab Emirates and Qatar transformed the sport through sustained public investment. Dedicated racing authorities standardised competitions, permanent racecourses replaced makeshift tracks, and breeding programmes turned elite racing camels into valuable sporting assets. The introduction of robot jockeys after the ban on child jockeys addressed one of the sport’s biggest ethical challenges while allowing the tradition to continue.
The result is an ecosystem that extends well beyond race day. Camel racing festivals attract tourists from around the world, support hospitality and local businesses, generate sponsorship and broadcast revenues, and have become an integral part of the region’s cultural tourism strategy.
The transformation did not happen because camel racing suddenly became more exciting. It happened because governments and institutions decided that a rural tradition was worth preserving — and worth commercialising.
Sharma believes the Gulf offers an important lesson for Indian policymakers.
“Without question. Camel racing attained a little bit of infamy because of the children that they used on top of the camels, which have now been replaced by robotic jockeys. They made it into a localised tourism attraction that developed its own universe.”
He cautions, however, that such a transformation requires far more than enthusiasm. “It unfortunately does take infrastructure, it does take an arena, it takes management and, ultimately, a fair amount of funds.”
Bullock cart racing has never had that institutional push.
The Tourism Opportunity Television Never Saw
Perhaps the biggest opportunity for bullock cart racing lies not on television but in tourism. Unlike indoor franchise leagues played under floodlights, Bailgada Sharyat unfolds against landscapes that tourism campaigns already spend crores trying to market.
The races snake through western Maharashtra’s lush sugarcane belt, the villages of the Konkan and open farmlands that come alive after the harvest. Karnataka’s Kambala transforms emerald-green paddy fields into natural sporting arenas, while Kerala’s Maramadi offers a similar spectacle amid rain-fed agricultural landscapes.
Those settings are part of the attraction. Visitors are not merely watching a race. They are experiencing rural India.
Sharma draws a parallel with Kerala’s Nehru Trophy Boat Race, which has evolved into one of the state’s biggest tourism attractions without ever becoming a nationwide competitive league.
“I was called to Kerala to do the Nehru Boat Race and everybody realised the potential of that fabulous contest because it’s dressed up well and the tourists are looked after well. It has become a huge tourist attraction.”
The lesson, he says, is not that every traditional sport must become a national league. Sometimes, becoming a destination is enough.
The Indian government has increasingly recognised the economic potential of rural and experiential tourism through initiatives such as the Swadesh Darshan scheme, while states including Maharashtra have promoted agri-tourism to diversify rural incomes. Parallel efforts to conserve indigenous cattle breeds, including the Khillar, reflect a growing recognition that traditional agriculture and rural heritage are assets worth preserving.
Bullock cart racing sits at the intersection of both.
The Missing Ingredient in Bullock Cart Racing’s Commercialisation
“There has to be a crusade. There has to be somebody, or some set of people, who push, push, push patiently for two years, five years. Was Rome built in a day? It’ll take very long and a lot of pushing for people to accept any new idea — or any old idea that they also need to adopt.”
The sport’s greatest challenge has never been a lack of spectators. Every season, thousands still gather beside village tracks to cheer races that have been passed down through generations.
Nor has it lacked history. Few Indian sports can claim a lineage stretching back centuries.
What it has lacked are the institutions capable of turning that history into a modern sports business: a governing body empowered to sell commercial rights, a standardised national calendar, credible animal welfare protocols that reassure broadcasters and sponsors, and entrepreneurs willing to package a rural tradition for contemporary audiences.
India has already demonstrated that almost any indigenous sport can be commercialised. Kabaddi did it. Kho kho is doing it. Even arm wrestling has found franchises, broadcasters and celebrity investors.