Dancing Mantras
SD-06, above WTF Gyms, Sector 116, Noida, Uttar Pradesh 201301, India
https://www.instagram.com/dancingmantras
Dancing Mantras pulses where Goa’s jungle-lined coast meets the galaxy’s DIY dance floor. Concealed behind a banyan-studded hillock two kilometres inland from Arambol, the open-air venue is reachable only by footpaths scented with frangipani and wood-smoke. As dusk falls, lanterns made from recycled palm-oil tins slide down bamboo poles, throwing honeycomb shadows across the stamped-earth dance circle. Vines sag with hand-painted prayer flags that carry micro-mantras—hand-written Sanskrit, Amharic and Mayan glyphs—each one a tiny pledge of intent for whoever reads it aloud and dances it into motion.
Sound arrives via a hand-carved, five-ton “biosound” rig: the bass scoops were once sacred temple dhaks, their goat-skin heads stretched into horns, their residually spiritual overtones giving every low end a vaguely tantric growl. Mid- and high-mass drivers sit in hollowed jack-fruit trunks suspended by jute rope; the treble shimmers through silk saris that have been dipped in wild honey for acoustic dampening. Built by an alumnus of Berlin’s Liquid Sky collective, the rig only ever runs at 74–96 bpm, a tempo musicians call “heart coaxing.” You’ll hear dub played as classical gamelan, Afro-house broken down into Latin taal, Japanese forest techno threaded with tanpura drones—yet nothing ever sounds imposed; it all feels like the jungle has learnt to DJ.
No ticketing kiosk mars the path. Instead, a sign reads: “Offer what moves, bring nothing that doesn’t.” Past the threshold, barefoot volunteers hand out jasmine water and chilled earthen cups of masala toddy. A kitchen the size of a bullock cart serves jackfruit tacos smoked over teak leaves, activated-charcoal dosas, and moon-pineapple kimchi that glows faintly under black-light stars. Nothing costs money; volunteers chalk tallies on a communal slate, settling karmic balance at dawn with notes, hugs or something they’ve brewed.
When night unhooks its mask, a 3-D mandala tensile-sculpture blooms over the dancers: 10,000 silken threads laced with UV-reactive mycelium spores. Every sway of the crowd changes the luminosity, so the ceiling becomes a living respiration between humanity and its own shadow. Underfoot, pressure-plates in the earth trigger sub-bass pulses that massage the soles, translating dance into tactile feedback called “sole yoga.” The architecture is conscious, listening, answering.
Dawn is the ceremony: Dayak djembe masters sync with Delhi shehnai players while drones record the final heartbeat of the rig. The crowd sits in concentric circles; someone always recites a poem they never realised they knew. At the first birdsong the structure begins to disassemble itself: poles slot into sockets, fabrics are folded into bedsheets for the nearest orphanage, and the amps—still warm—are reseeded with forest-floor loam so mushrooms will grow inside them until the next full moon when Dancing Mantras dreams again.
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- Published: August 1, 2025
