I didn’t grow up doing music festivals. No mud-soaked boots, no sunburnt sing-alongs, no hazy memories of bands playing into the night. So, when I found myself at SulaFest this year, surrounded by vineyards, basslines and a sea of people who looked like they belonged exactly where they were, it felt less like a weekend plan and more like a quiet personal milestone.
This was my first music festival. And it turned out to be about far more than music.
Set against the rolling vineyards of Nashik, SulaFest doesn’t announce itself loudly. It eases you in. One moment you’re walking past neat rows of grapevines under a wide blue sky, the next you’re standing amid thousands of people, the air buzzing with anticipation, laughter and the unmistakable hum of live sound checks. There’s something deeply grounding about listening to music in the open, with no ceiling above you, just the sky slowly shifting colours as the day melts into evening.
What struck me first was the vibe. I was surrounded by strangers smiling at each other, groups sprawled on the grass, people dancing without worrying who’s watching. There was no pressure to “belong”. You simply did. Whether you were there for the music, the wine, the food or just the feeling of being away from routine, SulaFest made space for all of it.
And then there was the food. Music festivals, I’d been warned, usually mean compromise meals eaten standing up. But here it was different. From vegetarian indulgences to hearty non-veg plates, the variety was staggering; we had shawarma and chicken tikka rolls to sev puri, bhelpuri, chaat to pastas and pizzas and a variety of ice creams to choose from.
It felt as if food here was also a significant part of the experience, not just a filler. It felt communal, the way good food always does. But somewhere between the performances in the evening and the wine tastings through the day, it dawned on me that music festivals are really classrooms in disguise. They teach you how to slow down, even when the music is loud. In a world trained to rush, a festival forces you to live by a different clock. You learn to wait for artists, for sunsets, for that perfect song you didn’t know you needed to hear live. They teach you how to be present. You can’t half-attend a live performance. The music demands your attention. Phones come out, and then just as quickly they slip back into pockets. At some point, I simply stopped recording for Instagram and started properly listening.
There’s something profoundly comforting about singing along with strangers, moving in rhythm with people you’ll never meet again. All that exists is the collective high of sound and moment.
Nashik isn’t far, but SulaFest felt like a reset. A reminder that escape doesn’t need passports or long itineraries. Sometimes, it’s about stepping into a different rhythm, even briefly, and returning lighter.
And perhaps, most unexpectedly, festivals teach you how to let go of self-consciousness. I watched people dress up for the fest in the most liberal way possible. Nobody was judging nobody and everyone was dressed in their most uninhibited way. Watching that was liberating. Somewhere during the evening, you stop worrying about how you look or whether you fit in.
As a first-timer, I went in curious and came back changed in small but significant ways. I understood why people plan their calendars around festivals, why they chase line-ups and locations. It isn’t just about the music, it’s about the permission to feel unguarded, joyful and connected.
SulaFest 2026, with its seamless blend of music, wine, food and landscape, didn’t overwhelm. It taught me that sometimes, the best journeys aren’t about ticking destinations off a list, but about experiences that quietly expand who you are.
