Every Goa trip comes with an unspoken checklist: hunt down the prettiest cafes, spend unreasonable time finding the perfect beach, buy something unnecessary from a flea market, and promise yourself one unforgettable night out. Usually, that means a packed club, expensive drinks, and videos you’ll never watch again.
This story begins with that same plan. It just doesn’t end there.
I was in Goa with my two best friends, Shraddha and Sangeeta. They plan trips with military precision. Every destination goes on a list, and every item gets checked off before the holiday ends. One of those items simply read: a good party.
Since finding that party somehow became my responsibility, I did what I usually do: I called a friend.
Anuraj, 24, is an electronic music DJ from Pune who works with Maushi, a collective known for live gigs, art, and cultural events. I trusted his taste enough to skip the Google search.
“Go to Shunya,” he said. The name rang a bell from years ago, though I’d completely forgotten about it. He mentioned I couldn’t drink before going there.
Shunya Wellness sits on Temple Road in Arambol, tucked near the area’s iconic banyan tree. Part wellness space, part cultural venue, part community gathering, it’s the kind of place people discover through word of mouth rather than tourist guides. On some evenings, the venue hosts pop-up artisan stalls featuring handmade jewelry, crystals, art, and other experiences that add to the community feel. Over the years, it’s been described in many ways, but one description kept coming up: spirituality. I didn’t know what that meant in practice, but I was curious to find out.
The problem was convincing my friends. They enjoy trying new things only when they know exactly what those things are. I’ve always believed some experiences are better when you know almost nothing about them. Even if they turn out terrible, at least they make for a good story.
So, in the interest of creating memories and testing my friends’ faith in me, I simply said: “I found a place. Trust me, just match my style.”
Arambol is in North Goa. If you’ve spent any time there, you’ll know it has its own personality. It feels slower than the rest of Goa, shaped by decades of backpackers, artists, and travelers who arrived for a few days and never left. The cafes are quieter, the clothes are looser, and the crowd feels more international than local.
Rose Petals > Wristbands
The entrance didn’t look like the beginning of a party.
We were welcomed with rose petals before anyone asked for our tickets. Then came instructions for the dance floor: no talking, no phones, no photographs, no staring at other guests. Before we stepped inside, they asked if we’d consumed alcohol.
It felt less like entering a venue and more like entering someone’s sacred space. The rules weren’t restrictions. They were invitations to be present, and everyone around us seemed perfectly happy to follow them.
After paying the entry fee (500 rupees before 8:00 PM, 700 rupees after), we found a mirror beside trays filled with glitter. No signs explained what to do. People simply dipped their fingers in, dusted it over their faces, and walked in.
Naturally, we followed.
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We swept glitter across our cheeks like blush, while others turned it into tiny works of art across their foreheads and shoulders. The men did the same and honestly looked great. If there was ever a place to forget that glitter had somehow become gendered, this was it.
Looking back, it reminded me that body adornment has always been part of celebration across cultures. Whether paint, jewelry, or flowers, people have long marked special occasions by transforming themselves. This just happened to involve glitter instead.
Ahead of the entrance, the space unfolded around us.
It had the feel of an old Indian house opening into a large courtyard, with a magnificent banyan tree standing at its center, beautifully dressed in lights. Right beneath it was a small prayer space where people quietly stopped to sit, reflect, or offer a prayer before moving on. On the same side, a few fire pits glowed softly as guests gathered around them in comfortable silence. A little further ahead was a small vegetarian cafe where people were eating, chatting, and resting.
We stopped for food before exploring further, and I still think about that meal, specifically the apple pie (my friend Shrads insisted I mention that). Dinner was simple: falafel with hummus, potato wedges, and warm slices of pie, but it tasted exactly right for the setting. The cafe overlooked the rest of Shunya, glowing under paper lanterns and fairy lights, with people drifting in and out between conversations, music, and occasional bursts of laughter.
On the other side of the banyan tree was the place everyone had been talking about without really talking about it.
The dance floor.
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Within minutes, it became clear why all those rules at the entrance suddenly made perfect sense.
Barefoot Is the Dress Code
The dance floor looked nothing like the ones we’re used to.
There were no flashing LED screens, no VIP sections, and no one squeezing through the crowd with drinks in both hands. Instead, people stood barefoot on the floor, waiting almost patiently, as if they already knew something we didn’t.
Everyone looked effortlessly themselves.
Flowy skirts, loose linen shirts, crochet tops, oversized jewelry, scarves tied around waists, silver rings stacked on fingers, hair braided, tied up, or completely wild. There was no dress code, but there was an unspoken understanding that comfort came before looking polished. As someone who studied fashion, I couldn’t help but notice how naturally everyone’s clothes moved with them. Breathable fabrics, earthy tones, and pieces that looked collected over years of traveling rather than bought for one holiday.
If you’re ever planning to visit a place like this, forget dressing for photographs. Dress for movement. Wear something you can sweat in, twirl in, and completely forget you’re wearing.
One Man, An Entire Orchestra
Then the music began.
Or rather, it slowly built itself.
Right under the tree (on the other side of where people were praying) stood the French musician Adrian Atma, surrounded by instruments that each looked like they’d tell a different story. A guitar rested beside him. There was an Indian bansuri flute, percussion instruments, a microphone, and what looked like a small control station.
The songs carried chants, folk influences, and verses dedicated to Saraswati and Shiva, blending seamlessly with electronic beats and world music. It felt ancient and modern at once, familiar even when you’d never heard any of it before.
For the next two hours, he became an entire orchestra.
He would begin with his voice, singing a phrase before capturing it into a loop with the tap of his foot. As it continued to play behind him, he’d reach for another instrument. First the guitar. Then the bansuri. Then the violin. A sitar-like string instrument. Hand percussion. An electronic drum pad. Every new layer was recorded, looped, and folded into the last, until one person somehow sounded like an entire ensemble. Between verses, he’d glance down to the pedals at his feet, quietly orchestrating it all while never missing a beat.
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I’d never seen live looping before. Watching him perform felt like watching someone cook without a recipe. You could see each ingredient go in, but by the end, you couldn’t quite believe they all came from the same pair of hands.
This is live looping, a performance technique where musicians record short phrases in real time and layer them into a constantly evolving composition.
Adrian Atma’s music draws from Sanskrit mantras, Indian classical traditions, shamanic rhythms, and folk melodies, brought together through live looping and layered over electronic soundscapes. The result isn’t music meant to be listened to from a distance. It’s designed to move with the room, gradually shifting from stillness to release, mirroring the emotional arc of a dancing experience.
But standing there, none of us was thinking about technical terms. We were simply trying to understand how one person could make a place feel so full.
And then I looked around.
Nobody was dancing the way social media has taught us dancing should look.
Which was exactly why everyone was dancing so beautifully.
Some people jumped with both hands in the air. Others barely moved their feet, choosing instead to sway with their eyes closed. A few spun in circles. Some laughed. Some cried. Couples danced together without saying a word, while strangers instinctively made space for one another.
No one was trying to impress anyone, checking if someone was watching, or stopping midway to record a story.
For the first ten minutes, I caught myself doing what most of us do on unfamiliar dance floors: wondering whether I looked awkward, whether I was moving too much or too little. Then I realized something.
Nobody cared.
And once you realize that, your body quietly stops performing.
It Turns Out, There’s a Name for This
Much later, while trying to understand what we had experienced, I discovered this wasn’t just an unusually wholesome party. It was a form of ecstatic dance, a movement practice that emerged on Hawaii’s Big Island in 2000, blending the freedom of festival-style dancing with the intention of conscious movement. Over the next two decades, it quietly grew into a global movement. Interestingly, when ecstatic dance reached Asia, one of the places where it began taking root was The Source (Banyan Tree) in Arambol, Goa. The idea itself is beautifully simple: remove everything that usually gets in the way (phones, conversations, alcohol, drugs, cameras, expectations, shoulds, oughts, and judgment) and let the music do the rest.
When you’re standing in the middle of it, the evenings become strangely meditative, not because anyone asks you to, but because it simply allows it to happen.
From Dancing to Breathing
The music didn’t end with one last song. It slowly dissolved into silence. This was the end of what they called an “Ecstatic Journey.”
Almost instinctively, everyone sat down on the dance floor, forming one large circle. The same room that had spent the last two hours pulsing with movement suddenly became incredibly still.
This was the closing circle.
A facilitator gently guided us through meditation. We closed our eyes, focused on our breath, and chanted Om together. There were moments of silence, moments of laughter, moments where strangers simply held each other’s gaze before clapping in rhythm. It wasn’t elaborate or performative. It felt like a natural ending to whatever had happened before.
By then, it made perfect sense why nobody had been talking on the dance floor.
The conversations had happened anyway. Just without words.
The Night Had One Last Surprise
As we were getting ready to leave, a man who had been dancing near us walked over and asked if we were in a hurry.
When we said no, he smiled and said, “Stay for the fire circle.”
None of us knew what a fire circle was, but after the evening we’d just had, we weren’t about to start saying no to unfamiliar experiences.
A few minutes later, people gathered around the fire pits we’d noticed when we first arrived. The man told the circle that they were ancestral songs holding deep personal meaning for him and invited everyone to sing along if they felt comfortable. We didn’t understand a single word of the language he was singing in, but somehow that didn’t matter. The melodies carried the room anyway. Some people sang along, others simply closed their eyes and listened, while a few gently swayed beside the fire.
There was something strangely comforting about ending the night that way.
No encore. No “one last song.” No rush to beat the traffic.
Just people sitting around a fire, singing together before quietly heading home.
What Stayed With Me
It was only after I returned that I realized how difficult this experience is to describe. Calling it a party feels inaccurate. Calling it a wellness retreat doesn’t quite fit either. Even spirituality, though deeply woven into the evening, doesn’t fully explain what happened there.
Maybe it doesn’t need a label.
What stayed with me wasn’t the meditation or even the music, as extraordinary as Adrian Atma’s performance was. It was watching people surrender completely to the music without the invisible rules we’ve attached to dancing.
Nobody was trying to look attractive, waiting for the chorus to pull out their phones, or needing alcohol to become a version of themselves they’d blame on the next morning.
For a few hours, people simply existed.
There’s something oddly radical about that in today’s time.
Somewhere along the way, dancing became another performance. We think about who’s watching, whether we know the steps, whether our outfit looks right, whether someone is filming, and whether we look cool enough to deserve being there.
This room quietly removed every one of those worries.
And what’s left when nobody is watching you?
Apparently, a room full of people dancing harder than they ever have, meditating, venting, and most importantly, feeling the moment.
We went looking for a memorable night out in Goa.
Instead, we stumbled into a place that made spirituality feel far less intimidating and far more human.
And honestly, I wish more nights ended around a fire than in the backseat of a cab, shouting over Google Maps about where to eat next.
And yes, before you ask, Shrads and Sangs absolutely loved it. Which means I’ve earned myself at least one more “just trust me” for our next trip.
