Diwali in Goa is a far cry from the noisy, hyperactive ones I grew up amidst in Delhi. Unlike North India, there’s no Saptaparni perfuming the nippy air; instead, it’s steamy hot, inducing an overall languidness. Yet, in my mixed neighbourhood, there’s an unmistakable undercurrent of excitement. That energy isn’t directed at firecrackers or puja rituals – it’s focused on a supine effigy that comes together bit by bit, with a little bit of help from communal magic.
This is Narakasura, the demon king who once reigned over Pragjyotisha, the mythical kingdom found in several Hindu texts. When I first moved to Goa, I encountered some 25 Narakasuras within a five-kilometre radius. Every 200 metres or so, a new demon loomed, each with a different aesthetic and each backlit to perfection. The 20-foot one at our local supermarket was accompanied by a full suite of amplifiers blasting Bollywood songs, while a much smaller one in the adjacent house was inspired by the Korean Netflix show, Squid Game. An animatronic beast near a neighbouring mandir (temple) moved its head and hands, much to the terror of stray animals.
The celebration of Narakasura in Goa, while superficially similar to the burning of Ravana effigies in North India, bears a distinctly different flavour. Both rituals involve the creation and destruction of demonic figures, symbolising the triumph of good over evil. However, where Ravana is treated as a solemn, almost detached symbol of wickedness, Narakasura is approached with a mix of reverence and playfulness.
Where Ravana effigies are often mass-produced for a public that gathers only for the spectacle of burning, Narakasura is a community project, offering young men an opportunity to bond. Funding comes from local contributions, MLAs, and corporators, and each year, the creations become increasingly complex. Multiple competitions are held around the state, and on Naraka Chaturdashi, it’s common to see effigies being loaded onto trucks that speed between north and south Goa, in a bid to enter different contests. The cash prizes are often funnelled back into next year’s effigy. It remains a celebration of a craft, and the process of putting a Narakasura together is as much a part of the festival as the ultimate conflagration. The only villain in the mix? The unseasonal rain that threatens to undo weeks of painstaking work.
Not just a festival fixture
The myth of Narakasura is central to both Goan and Assamese traditions, but takes on a distinct character in each region. In Goa, the story focuses on Narakasura as a tyrannical demon king who imprisoned thousands of women, and is defeated by Lord Krishna, aided by his wife Satyabhama (an incarnation of Bhudevi, Narakasura’s mother). In contrast, the Assamese myth presents a more complex Narakasura, who makes an ill-fated attempt to marry the goddess Kamakhya by building a staircase to her temple in one night. This version humanises Narakasura, portraying him as a figure of ambition and desire rather than pure evil.
Over the last few years though, Narakasura has become more than just a festival fixture. For some Goan artists, it’s a muse, inspiring works that interpret the myth in new ways. This reimagining of the myth offers a window into how traditional narratives can acquire new life in contemporary contexts.
One such artist is Diptej Vernekar, a founding member of Goa Open Arts festival and a prominent name in the Forbes India 30 Under 30 2019 list. Several of Vernekar’s works are charcoal drawings, but in 2022, he put together an outdoor installation, ‘Incarnation Park’, for the Serendipity Arts Festival. Vernekar, who grew up making Narakasuras to earn money, fused the myth with an outdoor gym. The installation featured various incarnations of Narakasura: The exercise equipment took on the playful shapes of mythological figures, in a space where urban ethos met traditional craft.
This was a natural creative route for Vernekar, who told me that he was considered a bit of an outcast, since he wasn’t interested in sports, while growing up in Cumbarjua. “I used to love hanging out on the first floor [attic] where people store random, unwanted stuff,” he said. “That was my treasure space.” Vernekar trained himself to fashion these discarded materials into new objects, and his skills were quickly noticed by others in his neighbourhood.
Like all children that grew up in the 1990s, Vernekar was fascinated by Ramanand Sagar’s Ramayana. That, coupled with his participation in tableaus made during the Shigmotsav parade, sparked his interest in making Narakasuras. Even as a 15-year-old, he began to get commissions to make Ganesha idols and Narakasura effigies. “As a child, I would have sleepless nights not about my exams, but about the idols that I was crafting – I was worried that the rain would spoil them,” Vernekar said.
His experience crafting large-scale Narakasuras came in handy when he built Incarnation Park. Vernekar, who worked with local engineer-artists Saiesh Gowde and Shivam Kundekar, said that the whole project was like an “R&D exploration”. Every day, something or the other broke down, but it taught him that “people would interact with it the way they wanted, not the way I intended”. Just the way Vernekar had interpreted the myth in a new fashion, visitors to the outdoor gym would draw their own meanings from the installations.
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Transcending traditional bounds
Another artist who has found inspiration in the Narakasura tradition is Akshay Manjrekar, an illustrator and contemporary sculptor, whose childhood fascination with the festival has evolved into a professional exploration of the myth. Manjrekar’s journey with Narakasura began in his youth, where he honed his skills creating increasingly intricate effigies. He told me that during his school years, he would take his exam question papers and stuff them into a Narakasura, so they could burn. “This is the only year I haven’t worked on a Narakasura,” he told me from Bangalore, “and I feel so guilty!”
Manjrekar’s most notable interpretation of the Narakasura myth came through his work with Quicksand, a research and design collective, on a virtual reality project that was a part of the Goa Heritage Project and showcased at the Serendipity Arts Festival in 2018. This innovative endeavour aimed to bring the Narakasura tradition to life in a digital realm, making it accessible to a global audience. For the project, Manjrekar crafted miniature Narakasura models using paper mache, which were then digitised through photogrammetry and incorporated into a VR environment. This fusion of traditional craftsmanship and cutting-edge technology allowed users to explore the story behind Goa’s Narakasura celebration in an immersive, interactive format. By translating the physical art of Narakasura-making into a virtual experience, Manjrekar’s work exemplifies how ancient myths can be reinterpreted and preserved through modern mediums, ensuring their relevance in alien contexts.
As Manjrekar dreams of elevating his Narakasuras to rival the mechanical marvels of France’s Les Machines de l’Île museum, it’s evident that Goa’s demon king has transcended its traditional bounds. The Narakasura, once a simple figure fashioned from hay and bamboo, is now a symbol of the power of storytelling and communal creativity. In Goa, there’s always room for a demon king or two – be it in a local park, a virtual reality headset, or at the back of a truck speeding down a highway.
This article is part of the Goa Life series, which explores the new and the old of Goan culture.
Karanjeet Kaur is a journalist, former editor of Arré, and a partner at TWO Design. She tweets @Kaju_Katri. Views are personal.
(Edited by Aamaan Alam Khan)
Someone please get Ms. Kaur out of Goa!
Goa is all she can think or care about. Except, of course, for zoos and animals.