Samrudhdi Kerkar
As winter fades and deciduous trees shed their leaves, Goa prepares for a season of celebration. Following Mahashivratri, Goans immerse themselves in fairs, festivals, ritualistic dances, and spirited recitations, culminating in the grandeur of Shigmo.
Deeply woven into Goa’s cultural fabric, Shigmo unfolds in the last month of the lunar calendar, bringing communities together in vibrant revelry. The name Shigmo is said to have evolved from Sugimha, meaning ‘Let summer be pleasant’—a fitting invocation for the changing season.
Rooted in agrarian and warrior traditions, Shigmo blends myth, devotion, and folk expression. Its music, played on traditional instruments like the dhol, taso, shehnai, and kansallem (cymbals), carries echoes of the past while driving the festival’s energy.
Every village comes alive with the Romat (musical procession), filled with the deep beats of the dhol and taso, the melodies of the shehnai, the sharp chimes of kansallem, and occasional sounds of string instruments. Folk songs blend with the music, expressing life’s joys and sorrows. As the rhythm builds, dancers—covered in bright colours—move freely, lost in the moment.
From the hills of Canacona to the coast of Pernem, Goan folk music comes alive. The Romtamel becomes an outpouring of joy, where artists, caught in the moment, enter a trance, leaving their daily struggles behind.
In villages like Saal, Narve, Kudne, Piligao, and Amona, Gadeutsav brings people from across Goa for a night of mystery and devotion. One ritual that has always intrigued me is the invocation (Garanhe), sung together to the steady beat of the dhol. As the night goes on, the Gade (devotees) start dancing, giving themselves over to a power beyond explanation.
The air reverberates with the beat of the dhol, voices rise in chorus, and the atmosphere becomes electric. In Gadeutsav, music is not just heard—it is felt. The rhythm guides devotees into a deep state of immersion where time dissolves, revealing only sound and devotion.
As a child, I watched in awe, convinced it was impossible. But as I doubted, I felt the ground vibrate with each beat of the dhol. My heartbeat synchronised with the rhythm, sending goosebumps through me. In that moment, I realised the trance wasn’t just theirs—I could feel it too.
The fervour of Gadeutsav is a form of spiritual ecstasy, where drumming and movement induce a heightened state of consciousness. Many dancers prepare through fasting and devotion, surrendering completely to the music. In doing so, they deepen their connection with the divine, the earth, and each other.
A folk song called Sokarati captures its essence—Shok signifies suffering, while aarti represents devotion. Sung during Karavlyo, a festival honouring the Satis—women who immolated themselves on their husbands’ funeral pyres after they fell in war—the haunting melody carries the weight of history, echoing voices of mourning and faith.
Shigmo’s brings drummers, dancers, and spectators together in a shared rhythm, connecting the past and present—just as generations before danced under the same open sky.
