In the weeks leading up to Naraka Chaturdashi, if you walk through the lanes of many Goan villages, you will see groups of young boys and men working late into the night under streetlights or in open courtyards. Bamboo poles lie stacked against walls, bundles of hay and old clothes are scattered around, and the smell of paint hangs in the air. The making of a Narkasur effigy is not just a last-minute activity; it is the result of days, sometimes weeks, of effort. The process begins with building the skeleton using bamboo — a frame that will give the demon its height and shape. This is followed by layering it with hay or other fillers to add volume, and finally dressing it in bright fabrics. The head is crafted separately, often with exaggerated horns, wide glaring eyes, and a mouth open in a terrifying roar. Once assembled, the whole figure is painted in vivid colors, with intricate details added to give it character.
In smaller villages, the making of Narkasur is a deeply social activity. Older men pass down tricks they learned decades ago — how to make the frame sturdy so it doesn’t topple during the parade, how to mix paints for a glowing effect under lights, or how to attach moving parts like waving arms or nodding heads. In some places, women contribute by stitching the costumes or helping decorate with beads, sequins, and other embellishments. Children act as eager assistants, carrying tools, fetching water, or simply watching in fascination. There is often laughter, playful teasing, and a fair bit of friendly competition between teams.
When asked why they put so much time and effort into building something that will be burned in a few hours, many participants give the same answer: “It’s our tradition.” For them, the creation and destruction of Narkasur is symbolic, but it is also a community event that strengthens bonds. A 62-year-old carpenter from a village near Mapusa once explained, “Every year I help the boys make the frame. My father taught me, and his father taught him. This is how our village has always celebrated. It’s not about the prize money or winning a competition; it’s about being part of something that belongs to us.”
In Goa’s capital city, Panaji, the Narkasur tradition has taken on a grander scale. The city hosts one of the largest Narkasur competitions in the state, with dozens of groups from different wards and surrounding areas participating. The competition here is fierce — effigies can reach over 30 feet in height and feature elaborate props, lighting effects, and sometimes even pyrotechnics. Some groups incorporate scenes from the myth, with smaller figures representing Lord Krishna, Satyabhama, or the captives being freed. Others take a more creative route, blending the traditional demonic features of Narkasur with modern political or social commentary.
The Margao competition in South Goa is equally famous. Here too, the emphasis is on size and creativity, but the community atmosphere is different. The parade winds through the heart of the town, drawing crowds who cheer and applaud each passing effigy. The judges look for craftsmanship, adherence to the mythological theme, and overall presentation. The winning group often gains prestige that lasts until the next year’s competition, and for some teams, the victory is a matter of local pride.
In smaller towns and villages, the celebrations may not have the same scale, but they often have a stronger sense of intimacy. In a village in Quepem, for example, the Narkasur is paraded on a bullock cart, accompanied by traditional dhol-tashe drums and folk songs. In another village in Sattari, the effigy is taken from house to house, where residents offer snacks and drinks to the participants. These variations reflect the diversity within Goa — coastal areas, inland farming communities, and urban centers all bring their own flavor to the tradition.
For the artisans who build the largest effigies, Narkasur season is also an opportunity to showcase their skills. Some of these makers are involved in stage set design for tiatr plays or in float construction for carnival parades during other times of the year. They see Narkasur not just as a demon from myth but as a canvas for artistic expression. A well-known effigy maker from Ponda once said, “Every year, I try to make something people will remember. Yes, Narkasur is the villain, but in art, even a villain can be beautiful in his own way.”
The role of local youth groups, often called “mandals,” is central to keeping the tradition alive. These mandals organize fundraisers, collect materials, assign tasks, and ensure that the effigy is completed on time. They also handle the logistics of moving the massive structures through narrow streets — a task that requires careful coordination. In some areas, two or three villages might join forces to create an especially large Narkasur, sharing costs and labor.
In recent years, environmental concerns have prompted changes in how the effigies are made and burned. Traditionally, the figures were made of biodegradable materials like bamboo, hay, and cloth. However, modern additions like thermocol, synthetic fabrics, and chemical paints caused pollution when burned. Responding to criticism, many groups are now returning to eco-friendly materials and natural paints. Some mandals have even won awards for creating entirely biodegradable Narkasurs.
Another evolving aspect is the use of the effigy as a medium for social messages. While the demon remains the central figure, some designs incorporate symbolic elements — a chain around his waist representing corruption, shackles symbolizing oppression, or even environmental motifs like burning forests or polluted rivers. This blend of tradition with contemporary issues adds a layer of relevance to the celebration, allowing it to speak to present-day challenges while honoring its mythological roots.
For visitors, the Narkasur night is a sensory overload. The air is filled with the smell of burning hay and gunpowder from firecrackers. The beat of drums echoes down the streets, accompanied by the occasional burst of music from loudspeakers. People of all ages crowd the sidewalks, craning their necks to see the towering demons pass by. Children clap their hands in delight, teenagers take selfies with the effigies, and elders exchange knowing smiles, remembering how they too once marched in these processions.
The burning of the effigy is the climactic moment. As the flames consume the demon, there is a collective cheer, and the symbolism is clear — the victory of good over evil. It is a moment of release, of catharsis, marking the end of months of preparation in a blaze of light and heat. In that instant, the entire community is united in a shared emotional high.
Once the fires die down, the celebrations transition into the quieter rituals of Naraka Chaturdashi. People return home, take oil baths, and prepare for the rest of the Diwali festivities. Lamps are lit, sweets are exchanged, and the focus shifts from the destruction of evil to the welcoming of prosperity and light. Yet, the memory of the Narkasur procession remains fresh, and conversations often drift to which effigy was the biggest, the most creative, or the most fearsome.
It is this blend of myth, artistry, competition, and community participation that makes Narkasur so famous in Goa. It is not just about remembering a demon from ancient stories; it is about turning that story into a living, breathing event that involves almost everyone. From the young boys tying bamboo poles to the elders recounting the legend, from the artisans painting fearsome eyes to the judges deciding the winners, the Narkasur tradition is a collective creation.
In a rapidly changing world, where many old customs fade away, the continued enthusiasm for Narkasur in Goa is remarkable. It shows that traditions can survive and thrive when they adapt to the times while holding onto their essence. Whether through eco-friendly materials, modern social themes, or just the timeless joy of making something grand and burning it in symbolic victory, Narkasur remains a celebration that belongs to the people.
When the next year’s season rolls around, the cycle begins anew — bamboo is cut, paint is mixed, ideas are exchanged, and once again, the demon will rise, only to be brought down in flames. And with every year, his fame grows, not as a terror of myth, but as a beloved villain of Goan culture, whose defeat is a cause for unity, creativity, and joy.