When we think of Goa, the first images that spring to mind are often its sun-kissed beaches, vibrant nightlife, Portuguese architecture, and spicy seafood. But hidden within this vibrant tourist hub lies a cultural and devotional celebration so unique, so deeply rooted in local tradition, that it stands in complete contrast to Goa’s party image. This is the Chikal Kalo Festival, an extraordinary celebration where hundreds of people come together—not in glitzy auditoriums or temples, but in the middle of a mud-filled ground—to play, laugh, worship, and relive the playful childhood of Lord Krishna. Chikal Kalo, quite literally translating to “mud play,” is more than just a festive event; it is a living expression of Goan heritage, spirituality, and community bonding.
Held annually in the village of Marcel (Marcela) in the Ponda taluka of North Goa, Chikal Kalo is celebrated at the famous Devki Krishna Temple, typically during the Hindu month of Ashadh (June-July), just after the onset of monsoons. This timing is crucial, as the rains ensure the presence of soft, wet, fertile earth, perfect for the joyous mess that defines the festival. What makes Chikal Kalo so powerful is its immersive simplicity—devotees, mainly men and young boys, dress in traditional white dhotis and plunge into the muddy ground of the temple courtyard to enact games and dramas depicting Krishna’s childhood antics.
The origins of Chikal Kalo can be traced back centuries, evolving from simple rural pastimes and bhakti (devotional) traditions into a full-fledged, vibrant, and symbolic festival. Rooted in the philosophy of Krishna Leela—the divine play of Krishna as a child in Vrindavan—Chikal Kalo celebrates the mischief, joy, and untainted innocence of the god as he played in mud, stole butter, teased the gopis (cowherd girls), and danced under the rain with his friends. It is a tribute to the earth, the monsoon, and divine playfulness, enacted not through rituals but through sheer physical participation and devotion.
As dawn breaks on the day of Chikal Kalo, the otherwise quiet temple grounds transform into a high-energy, sacred carnival. Volunteers and temple workers prepare the premises well in advance. Buckets of water are poured, natural clay soil is dug and softened, and the open space is carefully cleaned and leveled to ensure safety. The local youth, their faces bright with anticipation, arrive early, some chanting devotional songs, others carrying traditional musical instruments like dhol, tashe, and ghumots. The rhythmic beats echo through the village, announcing the arrival of one of Goa’s most culturally rich festivals.
The rituals begin with an aarti (prayer ceremony) of Lord Krishna and his mother Devki. The temple is adorned with flowers and oil lamps, and the idol of Krishna is dressed in vibrant clothes with a mischievous smile on his face. Devotees gather around, singing bhajans and offering prayers. The mood is festive yet spiritual. It is a reminder that before all the muddy revelry begins, the divine must be honored and invited to preside over the celebrations. Once the formalities are complete, the main event begins—what follows is pure magic.
Men and boys jump into the mud with unrestrained enthusiasm. There are no inhibitions, no concern for cleanliness or order—only joy, laughter, and a kind of childlike freedom that adulthood often forgets. They engage in traditional games such as gilli danda, tug-of-war, human pyramids (like Govinda), kabaddi, and relay races, all within the slippery, wet mud. There’s a healthy competition, yes, but it is more about participation than winning. The onlookers—mostly women, children, and elderly—cheer from the sidelines, singing folk songs, clapping, and occasionally teasing the muddy players.
One of the most exciting parts of Chikal Kalo is the dramatization of Krishna’s pranks. Groups of boys reenact scenes such as Krishna stealing butter from pots, hiding from Yashoda, or teasing Radha and her friends. These performances are spontaneous, full of laughter and chaos, yet deeply respectful and devotional in their intent. Participants often smear each other with more mud, decorate themselves with leaves or flowers, and playfully wrestle in the sticky field. It is not just a celebration of Krishna—it is a recreation of his presence, as if he is right there in the field, smiling and joining in the fun.
For the people of Goa, Chikal Kalo is a proud cultural identity. Despite its rural, earthy nature, it is far from being a rustic or backward ritual. In fact, it is seen as a sacred recreation of divine events, a spiritual practice that brings together the whole community in unity, love, and shared devotion. The festival is non-commercial and largely self-organized. Locals raise funds, clean the grounds, cook food, and coordinate logistics themselves. It’s a festival “of the people, by the people, and for the gods.”
Interestingly, Chikal Kalo has also become a symbol of eco-spirituality. In today’s world of excessive consumerism and synthetic festivals, Chikal Kalo stands out for celebrating nature in its rawest form—mud, rainwater, trees, and human bonding. There’s no plastic decor, no synthetic colors, no loudspeakers blaring Bollywood music. Everything about this celebration feels grounded, organic, and intimate. The mud isn’t dirty here—it’s divine. It’s the same earth that nurtured Krishna in Gokul and the same earth that nurtures our crops, homes, and lives.
Though the core participants of Chikal Kalo are men, the festival’s women play an equally important role. They sing traditional folklore and devotional songs, often passed down through generations. Their clapping, drumming, and cheers energize the players. Elders share stories about past festivals, how their fathers and grandfathers played the same games, in the same mud, under the same sky. The oral tradition, combined with active participation, ensures that the legacy of Chikal Kalo remains alive, authentic, and evolving.
Many tourists stumble upon the Chikal Kalo festival accidentally—either because they’re staying with locals or happen to be exploring the Ponda region during monsoon. For them, it’s a stunning revelation. This is Goa beyond beach shacks and EDM parties. This is spiritual Goa, folk Goa, the Goa that few guidebooks mention but that stays in your heart forever. Some travelers even return every year, timing their visit with the Chikal Kalo calendar, eager to reconnect with the rawness and purity of this celebration.
Of course, no Goan festival is complete without food. After the muddy games wind down, the players wash off at a nearby well or river (often with community help), and then everyone gathers for a sattvic feast prepared by villagers. The meal typically includes rice, dal, local vegetables, pickle, and a sweet dish like kheer or patoleo (rice cakes steamed in turmeric leaves). This community meal, eaten seated on the ground in banana leaves or plates, is not just food—it is prasadam, blessed food shared in unity.
Chikal Kalo has, in recent years, gained attention from cultural scholars, filmmakers, and social media influencers. Yet, the villagers have managed to keep it pure and intact. While the increased attention has brought in some infrastructure and visibility, the essence of the festival remains untouched. Cameras are welcome but must not disturb. Drones fly overhead but never replace the chants of “Govinda Govinda!” echoing from the field below. The festival lives because the people live it, not perform it.
As the sun begins to set and the final bhajans are sung, there is a sense of calm after the joyful chaos. The mud slowly dries, the music softens, and the field empties. But what remains is the imprint of togetherness, of sacred joy, of tradition lived and passed on. Chikal Kalo reminds us that we don’t need grandeur to celebrate the divine—sometimes, all we need is a little mud, a lot of heart, and a community that remembers how to play.
In a time where festivals are becoming more about commercial value and social media likes, Chikal Kalo stands as a beautiful reminder of what festivals truly mean—faith, simplicity, joy, unity, and connection to our roots. It teaches us that devotion doesn’t always have to be quiet and solemn. It can be messy, loud, playful, and filled with laughter. And in that mess, in that laughter, we find God—not as an idol, but as a feeling that lives within us, dancing in the mud.
If you ever visit Goa during the monsoon and want to see something real, raw, and truly unforgettable—head to Marcela and witness the Chikal Kalo Festival. Don’t just watch. Roll up your sleeves, fold your pants, and step into the mud. You’ll walk out smiling, a little dirty perhaps, but spiritually cleaner than ever before.