It was supposed to be just another Narkasur night in Margao — a little noise, a lot of sparkle, and some harmless competition. But this time, the fireworks weren’t just in the sky. At the SGPDA grounds, leaders of non-BJP parties — Congress’ Yuri Alemao and Alton D’Costa, Goa Forward Party’s Vijai Sardesai, Revolutionary Goans Party’s Manoj Parab, and former AAP leader Rajesh Kalangutkar — shared a rare stage at the Shree Krishna Vijayutsav, popularly known as the Narkasur competition.
In a fiery moment of symbolism, the opposition united in calling on Goans to “burn the Narkasur ruling the state.” They warned that Goa’s very culture was in danger if the “ruling demon” was not resisted. It was a political scene straight out of mythology — only with better lighting and louder microphones. And as if the universe wanted a say, the rain arrived right on cue.
The downpour washed over the effigies, dampened the fireworks, and soaked the crowd — yet it couldn’t douse the heat of the speeches. The opposition’s unity made headlines, and by the next day, Chief Minister Pramod Sawant hit back: “If they think we are Narkasur and they are God, they’re mistaken. The people will decide who the real demons are.”
And there it was — the perfect Goan plot twist. Even Narkasur wasn’t safe from political appropriation.
Traditionally, Narkasur night is a celebration of good triumphing over evil, chaos overthrown by light. But this year, the effigy on the stage wasn’t the only one set on fire.
When opposition leaders invoked “the ruling Narkasur,” it wasn’t just a metaphor — it was a rallying cry. The ruling side, predictably, refused to play villain. Within hours, the festival of lights had turned into a battle of interpretations. Margao’s rain-soaked streets became the backdrop for a new kind of burning — one that left behind not ash, but accusation.
The opposition called for unity to “save Goa.” The Chief Minister called it a publicity stunt. By the end of it, everyone was claiming moral superiority, and the actual Narkasur stood there, wet and sagging, wondering how he became a campaign prop.
Goa’s politics has always had a flair for drama — and this year’s Narkasur event proved it. Myth met manifesto, and the result was pure theatre.
The opposition leaders’ call to “burn the ruling Narkasur” may have been symbolic, but it was also strategic — a not-so-subtle declaration that Goa needs a political cleansing. And to be fair, they’re not wrong. The State is drowning in real demons — corruption, drug abuse, unemployment, reckless development, and a growing moral fatigue.
But when both sides claim to be fighting evil, it gets hard to tell who’s actually holding the torch and who’s adding kerosene.
Every year, we light Narkasur on fire, and every year, we pat ourselves for “defeating evil.” But look around. The real Narkasurs are still comfortably seated — in power, in bureaucracy, in our daily conveniences.
They sign files that eat up green zones.
They auction land as if it were scrap.
They announce jobs but deliver contracts.
They invoke “Goenkarponn” while approving projects that erase it.
We keep burning effigies while these demons keep multiplying. Maybe the rain that night wasn’t an accident. Maybe it came to remind us that a few fireworks can’t wash away decades of rot.
But before we get too excited blaming “them,” maybe we should pause. Because the ruling class isn’t the only one with horns showing.
There’s a bit of Narkasur in all of us.
In the voter who stays home on polling day.
In the citizen who dumps garbage in the gutter and calls it someone else’s problem.
In the parent who keeps silent about abuse “to avoid shame.”
In the young person who says, “This is Goa, baba, what can we do?”
We love to burn Narkasur, but we rarely burn our apathy.
If the festival truly symbolized good over evil, we’d have cleaner villages, safer children, and fewer excuses. Instead, we’ve made it a spectacle — lights, smoke, and noise, followed by silence till next Diwali.
There was something poetic about the downpour that night. As the opposition raged against the “ruling demon,” and the ruling class retaliated the next morning, the rain quietly blurred the line between both.
It reminded us that neither side owns virtue. The real cleansing Goa needs isn’t political, it’s moral. It’s about doing right even when nobody’s watching — whether you sit in Cabinet or queue at Kadamba.
When Yuri Alemao called for unity to “protect Goa’s future,” and Manoj Parab warned of a “cultural collapse,” they weren’t wrong. But the danger isn’t only from those in power. It’s also from a society that’s too tired, too distracted, or too divided to demand better. The day after Narkasur night, the rain stopped, the effigies were gone, and the headlines moved on. But the real question lingered — who did we actually burn? Was it the ruling party’s arrogance? The opposition’s opportunism? Or our collective disinterest?
If the “ruling Narkasur” was truly burned that night, we’d wake up to better governance, cleaner systems, and a quieter blame game. Instead, the only thing we’ve managed to burn consistently is accountability.
Goa doesn’t need another Narkasur competition. It needs a moral competition — one where integrity, empathy, and courage actually win.
Maybe the next time the skies open during a Narkasur event, we should take it as divine stage direction. Not to stop the show, but to change the script. Because when everyone wants to play God while acting like demons, the heavens eventually have to intervene.
And maybe, just maybe, the rain wasn’t there to spoil the fun — it was there to remind us that you can’t wash away darkness with water. You have to confront it — in policy, in politics, and in yourself.
The rain soaked the effigy, but not the irony. Goa’s demons didn’t drown that night — they just changed seats.
The writer is an Assistant Professor of Social Work, Goa University and Founder, Human Touch Foundation
