The uproar over Goa’s cancelled “Tales of Kamasutra & Christmas Celebration” has become a parable of modern India’s culture wars, where freedom of expression, religious identity, sexuality and tourism politics collide in a single headline. The SEO-friendly keywords practically write themselves—Kamasutra, tantra, Goa tourism, Christmas controversy, religious protests—but beneath the viral punchlines lies a story about the country’s long, uneasy relationship with erotic spirituality, morality policing and public outrage.
The event, scheduled for 25–28 December, had been promoted as a four-day “tantric meditation retreat” pairing the philosophies of Kamasutra with the festive glow of Christmas. Posters advertised sessions on intimacy, tantric touch, “cosmic orgasm,” and the “mysteries of tantric ejaculation,” all for a neatly packaged USD 279 with meals and lodging. It was to be held under the banner of two Osho-inspired groups: the Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh Foundation and the Osho Ludhiana Meditation Society. Predictably, as the advertising rippled through Goan WhatsApp groups, Facebook pages and news portals, fury arrived faster than an incoming tide.
To understand why, it helps to know that both organisations stand in the long shadow of Osho Rajneesh, the famously controversial spiritual leader whose commune in Oregon imploded in the 1980s amid allegations of bioterror plots, immigration fraud and internal power struggles. Though the movement fractured into independent meditation centres worldwide, the “Osho” brand has never fully detached from its associations with free love, permissive sexuality and unconventional spiritual practices. The Ludhiana group’s previous workshops—ranging from “tantric intimacy for singles” to “energy-based sensual meditation”—have occasionally drawn criticism for blurring the line between spiritual introspection and erotic entertainment. The Goa retreat was not, therefore, an isolated experiment but part of a long lineage of tantra-themed programming that often sparks public suspicion. Rumors periodically surface about boundary-crossing facilitators or overly explicit content, though hard evidence rarely follows; still, the reputation sticks.
That history likely amplified the backlash. When Catholic leaders in Goa saw the event materials, they declared the combination of Kamasutra and Christmas “deeply offensive” and an insult to the sacredness of the Nativity. The Archbishop of Goa and Daman publicly condemned the program as an irresponsible attempt to sexualize a holy festival. Women’s rights NGO Arz, which combats trafficking and exploitation, filed a complaint warning that such events reinforce the dangerous stereotype of Goa as a sex-tourism hub. Other civil society groups echoed the concern, arguing that the state already struggles with cases of coercion and exploitation in its nightlife and hospitality sectors; hosting a high-profile sexual-spiritual workshop during Christmas would send the wrong message.
The police acted quickly. By 23 November, officers had ordered the organisers to remove all advertising and cancel the retreat. An FIR was registered for allegedly offending religious sentiments—an increasingly common tool in contemporary India, where accusations of blasphemy, hurt sentiments and obscenity are regularly deployed to stop cultural productions, artistic performances and events.
Faced with legal heat and public outrage, the organisers apologised. They insisted the program had been misunderstood, saying they intended a “meditation retreat,” not sexual activity. They blamed the phrasing—particularly the juxtaposition of “Kamasutra” and “Christmas”—for sending “the wrong message.” Yet their own posters, with their lush marketing of “tantric lovemaking” and “cosmic orgasms,” suggested an event far more erotically charged than they later claimed.
The whole saga sits at an intersection unique to India: a country where ancient erotic texts like the Kamasutra are celebrated as cultural heritage, yet open discussions of sexuality remain fraught; where Goa markets itself as a sparkling global playground even as religious and social conservatism runs deep; where Christmas is both a sacred Christian holiday and a pan-Indian season of partying; and where tantric traditions are endlessly rebranded for wellness tourism, sometimes tasting like enlightenment, sometimes like exploitation.
In the end, the retreat never happened. But its brief, incendiary life illuminates the contradictions of a place—and a nation—still wrestling with how to negotiate pleasure, spirituality, identity and respect in a crowded public sphere. If anything, the episode reveals just how fragile that balance remains, especially when sensational marketing meets sacred calendars and when India’s ancient erotic philosophy is packaged for modern commercial consumption.
Goa. Sunlight draped over palm trees, fishermen humming old Konkan songs, aunties bargaining for pomfret—and suddenly a “Kamasutra Christmas” retreat pops up like a neon mushroom after the rain. Honestly, my dears, sometimes modern spirituality feels like a buffet where everybody’s serving enlightenment with a side of Instagram reels and early-bird discounts. And in march the usual suspects: the Osho-flavoured “spiritual multinationals,” forever repackaging intimacy as a premium workshop. Add a sprinkle of “cosmic orgasm” and a USD 279 price tag, and voilà—moksha à la carte.
Now, I’m not here to throw sandalwood-scented shade. Your Auntie’s mantra is simple: never disrespect anyone’s faith, anyone’s desire, anyone’s boundaries. Life’s already too short and too chaotic to spend it policing everybody’s path to bliss. But I also reserve the right to giggle a little when self-styled gurus wrap the Kamasutra in gold foil and try to sell it during Christmas week. Christmas, for heaven’s sake! Even I blinked twice at that poster, and I’m not exactly a convent school graduate.
But irritation bubbles up too. These globalized “spiritual enterprises” love to pretend they are anti-capitalist, anti-ego, anti-desire—yet the moment you glance at their retreat fees, you hear the cash registers chanting “Om.” And let’s be honest: many of these groups are no strangers to drama. Whispers of dubious gurus, scandals hushed under meditation cushions, boundary-blurring facilitators who confuse “tantra” with personal indulgence. Not all of them, of course—many earnest seekers do real, beautiful work—but the reputation didn’t grow in a vacuum.
Still, I don’t believe in burning anyone at the stake of purity. If consenting adults want to meditate on love, breath, and erotic energy—go for it. If the Church feels disrespected—speak up. If organisers get overexcited with their marketing—correct course. This balancing act is what pluralism looks like. What irritates me is when everybody starts wearing paper-thin skin. The moment an adjective touches a nerve, the FIRs fly like mosquitoes in April.
But let’s address the deeper current here: the sisters worried about Goa slipping further into the sex-tourism quicksand. On that point, Auntie fully understands. Goa already battles this image—whispered stories of coercion, exploitation, dodgy nightlife economies. When flashy tantra-holidays pop up, especially during a holy festival, it’s easy to fear that the state’s vulnerabilities are being commercially mined.
So here’s my take: meditate, celebrate, educate—but do it with respect. No need to insult faith; no need to panic at every poster; no need to slip into moral hysteria; no need to ignore exploitation hiding behind glossy “wellness” brochures.
In short: Less scandal, more sincerity. Less outrage, more equilibrium. And above all—protect the most vulnerable first.