Ramlila in Goa is a curious, intoxicating experience. It is the grand, chaotic retelling of the Ramayana—a mix of devotion, drama, improvisation, and a healthy dose of Goan unpredictability. The Uttarabharatiya Samksritika Samiti—the “Goan North Indians,” as we jokingly call them—have been organizing their annual Ravan Dahan for thirty years now. Thirty years! And I have been technically part of it for twenty-six, with a few missed years here and there. To sustain a tradition like this in Goa is nothing short of miraculous, and their devotion, meticulousness, and sheer stamina deserve every acknowledgment.
This year, I approached the festival with more resistance than excitement. I wasn’t teaching, had no students, and had retreated into a quiet life. Yet, some quiet insistence nudged me forward. And then, almost immediately, Ramlila reminded me that it is never gentle. The actor playing Angad had an accident a week before. The girl cast as Sita collapsed the day before. And the final actress who stepped into Sita’s shoes went on stage with zero rehearsal. And yet, in that sacred chaos, the play unfolded. That is the strange alchemy of Ramlila: disaster and devotion, fear and faith, improvisation and surrender.
Ramlila has always been like that. My first memory is of my bare-headed Sita, in the southern tradition, scandalizing the North Indian audience. One of the children whispered to the organizers, “They are North-Indian Goans!” I didn’t know whether to laugh or be mortified. And my first Hanuman? He forgot his cheek pads and shoved a motichoor laddu into his face to compensate. Absurd improvisation? Yes. But that moment became part of our collective Ramlila lore.
Over the years, we’ve danced, mimed, enacted Sita Haran, Jatayu Vadh, Sundarkhand, Kevat Prasang. Styles have ranged from Bharatanatyam to folk to jazz. And the stories never fail to surprise me. I remember little Sita, only eleven, being kidnapped on stage. She grabbed the hand of the child playing Ravan and whispered, “Hold my hand, yaar.” The audience erupted in laughter, but beneath it was pure humanity—the actors were children, trying to inhabit a story much larger than themselves.
The audience is always part of the story. When they love a scene, they don’t just clap—they jump onto the stage and hand cash to the actors. Eduardo Castellino, who played Ram in a student production and is now a popular Konkani movie star, once amassed three thousand rupees in gift money. His classmates insisted he treat them. Then, in a masterstroke of youthful mischief, they convinced him that because he had “killed a Brahmin” in the play, he needed to collect the ashes the next day and perform a ritual. He believed it entirely. Watching his horrified yet earnest expression is a memory I will never forget.
Another wonderfully quirky incident: one year, the Ravan Dahan had to be postponed because of rain. The actors were scrambling, the stage was slippery, and spirits were dampened. But the eight-year-old dancer waved her little hand and declared, “Now Ravan can stay for half an hour more.” The simplicity of that comment, her generosity toward the demon king, was exactly the kind of magic that makes Ramlila unforgettable.
MES College students, as part of their training, often have to plan productions. One year, they became obsessed with dhotars. For the next formal event, every student appeared in dhotars and bandgalas, every gesture polished. That year, it was Sita who received the cash gifts—a delightful reversal of the usual order.
Each Ramlila is a lesson in surrender and trust. I have learned to trust the universe, the actors, and even disaster, because somehow everything comes together. Props are forgotten, cues missed, rain intervenes, actors fall ill—and yet the story moves forward, alive and sacred. Every improvisation, every small chaos, becomes a thread in the larger tapestry.
Looking back over thirty years of the Samiti’s Ramlila, from bare-headed Sita to laddu-cheeked Hanuman, from mischievous student actors to extraordinary improvisation by children, the story continues to live. The devotion, humor, and unpredictability are constant. Perhaps that is its magic—the epic of Ram, Sita, Hanuman, and Ravan is eternal, but each enactment is fleeting, lived, and unforgettable.
So I end this reflection with the words that begin the Ramayana itself, invoking blessing and auspiciousness:
“Shrīrāma jaya rām jaya jaya rām”
And with the mangalam, a final blessing to Rama:
“Mangalam to Rama, Mangalam to Lakshmana, Mangalam to Sita, Mangalam to Hanuman, Mangalam to all those who celebrate the story with devotion and joy.”
Ramlila in Goa is messy, hilarious, chaotic, sacred, and utterly unforgettable. It is a celebration of devotion and improvisation, of children and adults, of the timeless and the immediate. Thirty years on, the story lives, in every mislaid cheek pad, in every whispered “hold my hand, yaar,” in every generous half-hour extension for Ravan, and in every audience member who jumps onto the stage with laughter and devotion.
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