Goa, has once again delivered peak political theatre — complete with fasting, rumours, AI-generated wisdom, and a bonus episode titled “To Be Continued.”
St. Andre MLA Viresh Borkar and Tushar Gawas recently called off their hunger strike — but not without leaving us with a cliffhanger. The fast, staged against Section 39A of the Town and Country Planning Act, has been “temporarily suspended” with a dramatic addendum: it shall resume if the BJP government does not repeal the contentious provision. In other words, the protest is on standby mode.
Now, let’s address the real star of this saga: not the fast, not Section 39A, but the mighty and unstoppable WhatsApp University — now upgraded with Artificial Intelligence. Because why rely on boring facts when you can have cinematic conspiracy theories?
During and after the fast, the rumour mills spun faster than a casino roulette wheel in the Mandovi river. AI-crafted videos and fantastical narratives emerged with the precision of a well-funded content studio. One theory claimed that Viresh had some master chess game planned with Chief Minister Pramod Sawant. Another insisted that Manoj Parab, chief of the Revolutionary Goans Party, was allegedly monetizing the protest by extracting huge sums from the builder lobby. Not satisfied with that, yet another rumour suggested Manoj was panicking over Viresh’s rising popularity and therefore plotting to sabotage him.
Honestly, Netflix should consider outsourcing its political thrillers to Goa’s WhatsApp groups. The scripts are tighter. The twists are better. And the fact-checking? Completely optional.
What’s fascinating is not just the creativity of these theories, but their timing and coordination. They didn’t merely attack individuals; they attacked the spirit of the protest itself. Because if you can’t defeat a movement, you can always divide it. If you can’t discredit the issue, discredit the people. And if you can’t win the argument, just flood the timeline.
Whether the “alumni” of WhatsApp University succeeded is debatable. But what isn’t debatable is that someone, somewhere, has the machinery to churn out such content with alarming efficiency. The BJP’s well-oiled social media apparatus has long been known for its digital agility. When a protest gains traction, suddenly a parallel digital universe appears — complete with suspiciously polished AI videos and neatly packaged narratives designed to inject doubt like a political vaccine.
Of course, let’s not be unfair. It could also be “independent creators” who just happen to have professional-level editing skills, strategic messaging instincts, and perfect timing. Pure coincidence, I’m sure. Just passionate citizens with laptops and too much free time.
But here’s the real damage: it’s not about who created what. It’s about the slow erosion of trust. When every protester is suspected of a hidden agenda, when every leader is presumed to be playing a double game, and when every video could be AI-generated fiction, public discourse doesn’t just get polluted — it gets paralysed.
The purpose of such propaganda is simple: confuse, divide, exhaust. Make people so tired of sorting truth from trash that they give up altogether. Snatch the spirit of collective action and replace it with suspicion. Turn solidarity into side-eye.
And that is where the real battle lies.
Because Section 39A, builder lobbies, political rivalries — all of that is policy-level conflict. But the information war? That’s psychological. It’s about shaping perception so effectively that the protest collapses under the weight of its own doubts.
Goans, therefore, face a new civic responsibility. It’s no longer enough to show up at a protest or share a post. One must also become a fact-checker, a sceptic, and occasionally, a digital detective. The new literacy isn’t just reading and writing — it’s discerning and verifying.
Ignore malicious content. Question conveniently timed “leaks.” Ask who benefits from a narrative that divides protesters more than it challenges power. Separate the chaff from the grain, as the elders would say — except now the chaff is algorithmically optimized.
The hunger strike may have been paused. The rumours certainly won’t be. But if Goa has survived colonialism, mining scams, casino politics, and monsoon potholes, it can surely survive a few AI-generated conspiracy videos.
The real question is not whether the fast will resume.
The real question is whether Goans will stay hungry — not for drama, not for viral forwards — but for truth.
Tuesday, 3 March 2026
Friday, 27 February 2026
The day the ‘Double Engine’ mis-fired – By Nisser Dias
Thursday night, the people of Goa delivered a message so powerful that even the might of the ruling establishment was forced to pause.
A rising tide of public anger surged through St. Andre and beyond, compelling the BJP government led by Chief Minister Pramod Sawant to suspend approvals in St. Andre constituency granted under Section 39A of the Town and Country Planning Act. What was projected as “development” was increasingly seen as a calculated assault on Goa’s fragile topography, its skyline, its villages — and its identity.
This confrontation did not erupt overnight.
For two years, resentment simmered after TCP Minister Vishwajit Rane bulldozed through an amendment empowering sweeping alterations to land use and terrain. Hills could be flattened. Low-lying fields could be filled. The natural character of Goa could be reshaped — all with bureaucratic ease. The builder lobby smiled. Ordinary Goans did not.
Then came the flashpoint.
At the TCP office in Panaji, St. Andre MLA Viresh Borkar stood shoulder to shoulder with his constituents from Palem-Siridao, demanding accountability. What followed shocked the state. Borkar was dragged down the steps in full public view — an act many saw as an attempt to humiliate not just an MLA, but the very people he represented.
Instead of breaking him, it ignited him.
Borkar announced an indefinite fast-unto-death. Soon, he was joined in spirit and resolve by villager Tushar Gawas, the quiet face of grassroots resistance. What the government perhaps dismissed as political theatre transformed into a moral challenge. As the days passed, the protest swelled. Strong-arm tactics only deepened public solidarity and resolve. The more the establishment flexed its muscle, the more Goans rallied.
Six days later, the government blinked.
An intent letter to suspend Section 39A was issued. It was not repeal — but it was retreat. It was the first crack in the façade of invincibility.
Borkar and Tushar ended the fast only after seeking legal clarity, but not without a clear warning: if the amendment is not repealed in the upcoming Assembly session, the fast will return — and perhaps this time, even stronger.
What happened in St. Andre was not an isolated protest. It was a symptom of something larger.
Across Goa, discontent is erupting. In Mirabag, villagers agitate over bandaras. In the coastal belt of Cansaulim and Velsao, resistance continues over double-tracking. Casinos in Panaji remain a festering issue. Demonstrations have surfaced in Tivim, Bicholim, Mormugao, Maina-Curtorim and elsewhere. From hinterland to coastline, the message is consistent: governance without consent will be resisted.
The BJP government may have been elected “by the people,” but increasingly it is perceived as functioning for powerful interests beyond Goa — particularly the builder lobby. Critics argue that under the banner of economic growth and infrastructure, policies have appeared aligned with corporate giants such as Gautam Adani, while the ecological and cultural fabric of the state pays the price.
The flattening of hills. The filling of fields. The silent disappearance of low-lying khazans. Development, many feel, has become a euphemism for irreversible damage.
What unsettled the government most was not merely a hunger strike. It was unity.
At Azad Maidan, respected voices — advocate Norma Alvares, environmentalist Claude Alvares, Dr. Oscar Rebello, architect Dean D'Cruz and journalist Sandesh Prabhudessai — stood in solidarity. Their presence signalled that this was no fringe uprising. It was civil society drawing a red line.
Chief Minister Sawant’s repeated remark to the media — “I do not know who is advising Viresh” — betrayed more than irritation. It hinted at anxiety. Because the realization was dawning: this was not about one adviser, one MLA, or one village. It was about a populace that had found its voice.
With elections approaching in 2027, the stakes are political as much as moral. No ruling party wants a united electorate demanding accountability. The suspension of Section 39A may have bought time — but it has not extinguished the fire.
If anything, it has shown that sustained pressure works.
Borkar and Tushar have delivered a telling blow. One engine of the much-touted “double engine” has stalled. Now the question is whether this momentum will dissipate — or whether Goa will continue to hold its government to account, issue by issue, policy by policy.
The pot has been boiling for two years. Last week, it boiled over.
And unless the people’s aspirations are respected — not managed, not delayed, not diluted — the heat is only going to rise.
A rising tide of public anger surged through St. Andre and beyond, compelling the BJP government led by Chief Minister Pramod Sawant to suspend approvals in St. Andre constituency granted under Section 39A of the Town and Country Planning Act. What was projected as “development” was increasingly seen as a calculated assault on Goa’s fragile topography, its skyline, its villages — and its identity.
This confrontation did not erupt overnight.
For two years, resentment simmered after TCP Minister Vishwajit Rane bulldozed through an amendment empowering sweeping alterations to land use and terrain. Hills could be flattened. Low-lying fields could be filled. The natural character of Goa could be reshaped — all with bureaucratic ease. The builder lobby smiled. Ordinary Goans did not.
Then came the flashpoint.
At the TCP office in Panaji, St. Andre MLA Viresh Borkar stood shoulder to shoulder with his constituents from Palem-Siridao, demanding accountability. What followed shocked the state. Borkar was dragged down the steps in full public view — an act many saw as an attempt to humiliate not just an MLA, but the very people he represented.
Instead of breaking him, it ignited him.
Borkar announced an indefinite fast-unto-death. Soon, he was joined in spirit and resolve by villager Tushar Gawas, the quiet face of grassroots resistance. What the government perhaps dismissed as political theatre transformed into a moral challenge. As the days passed, the protest swelled. Strong-arm tactics only deepened public solidarity and resolve. The more the establishment flexed its muscle, the more Goans rallied.
Six days later, the government blinked.
An intent letter to suspend Section 39A was issued. It was not repeal — but it was retreat. It was the first crack in the façade of invincibility.
Borkar and Tushar ended the fast only after seeking legal clarity, but not without a clear warning: if the amendment is not repealed in the upcoming Assembly session, the fast will return — and perhaps this time, even stronger.
What happened in St. Andre was not an isolated protest. It was a symptom of something larger.
Across Goa, discontent is erupting. In Mirabag, villagers agitate over bandaras. In the coastal belt of Cansaulim and Velsao, resistance continues over double-tracking. Casinos in Panaji remain a festering issue. Demonstrations have surfaced in Tivim, Bicholim, Mormugao, Maina-Curtorim and elsewhere. From hinterland to coastline, the message is consistent: governance without consent will be resisted.
The BJP government may have been elected “by the people,” but increasingly it is perceived as functioning for powerful interests beyond Goa — particularly the builder lobby. Critics argue that under the banner of economic growth and infrastructure, policies have appeared aligned with corporate giants such as Gautam Adani, while the ecological and cultural fabric of the state pays the price.
The flattening of hills. The filling of fields. The silent disappearance of low-lying khazans. Development, many feel, has become a euphemism for irreversible damage.
What unsettled the government most was not merely a hunger strike. It was unity.
At Azad Maidan, respected voices — advocate Norma Alvares, environmentalist Claude Alvares, Dr. Oscar Rebello, architect Dean D'Cruz and journalist Sandesh Prabhudessai — stood in solidarity. Their presence signalled that this was no fringe uprising. It was civil society drawing a red line.
Chief Minister Sawant’s repeated remark to the media — “I do not know who is advising Viresh” — betrayed more than irritation. It hinted at anxiety. Because the realization was dawning: this was not about one adviser, one MLA, or one village. It was about a populace that had found its voice.
With elections approaching in 2027, the stakes are political as much as moral. No ruling party wants a united electorate demanding accountability. The suspension of Section 39A may have bought time — but it has not extinguished the fire.
If anything, it has shown that sustained pressure works.
Borkar and Tushar have delivered a telling blow. One engine of the much-touted “double engine” has stalled. Now the question is whether this momentum will dissipate — or whether Goa will continue to hold its government to account, issue by issue, policy by policy.
The pot has been boiling for two years. Last week, it boiled over.
And unless the people’s aspirations are respected — not managed, not delayed, not diluted — the heat is only going to rise.
Wednesday, 25 February 2026
39A must fall — This is a people’s uprising. – By Nisser Dias
The ground is no longer steady beneath the feet of Goa’s political establishment.
Chief Minister Pramod Sawant can feel the tremors. The anger is no longer a murmur — it’s a gathering storm. And to prevent that storm from turning into a political tsunami, he has begun dangling a last-minute olive branch before St. Andre MLA Viresh Borkar — a promise to keep Amendment 39A of the Town and Country Planning Act “in abeyance” if Borkar calls off his indefinite hunger strike.
But here’s the real question: is Goa supposed to be grateful for a pause button?
Because trust in Sawant and TCP Minister Vishwajit Rane has collapsed. Not dented. Not cracked. Collapsed. Credibility, once squandered, is rarely rebuilt — and in this case, it may already be beyond salvage.
Borkar has put his life on the line demanding a full repeal of Amendment 39A. And Goans, cutting across divides, have rallied behind him. This isn’t political theatre. This is a reckoning.
Let’s not forget how this amendment was born.
When the BJP government pushed 39A through the Assembly, it wasn’t through dialogue or consensus. It was bulldozed. Opposition MLAs were denied adequate space to debate. Benaulim MLA Venzy Viegas was marshalled out. Others staged a dharna in protest (with notable silence from Fatorda MLA Vijai Sardesai). The message from the treasury benches was blunt: brute majority equals unquestioned authority.
The amendment was endorsed despite visible resistance.
And now the same government wants breathing space? To keep it “in abeyance”? For what — consultations? Legal vetting? Or to quietly reassure powerful builder lobbies that their interests will eventually be protected?
Goans aren’t naïve. They understand what 39A represents. They understand what it enables. And they understand who stands to benefit.
The demand is simple: repeal it. Not suspend it. Not defer it. Repeal it. Period.
The people of Goa have already shown what collective resistance can achieve. The government was forced to retreat on the proposed Unity Mall project after sustained public pressure. That victory emboldened citizens. It proved something vital — that this government is not invincible.
And the pushback will not stop here. From land policy to coal transportation, the message is growing louder: Goa is not for sale.
The era of “make hay while the sun shines” governance is ending. The sunshine is fading. Accountability is rising.
After intense discussions with Borkar, the Chief Minister reportedly convened an urgent late-night meeting with Rane and the Chief Town Planner. Midnight strategy sessions are rarely a sign of confidence. They are signs of crisis management.
When Rane emerged, the swagger was gone. The combative lectures about “procedure” and “forums” had evaporated. The bluster had thinned into silence. When public anger hits critical mass, even the most confident ministers discover the limits of rhetoric.
Meanwhile, the Chief Minister’s approach bordered on transactional politics. A typed letter holding 39A in abeyance — ready to be handed over — but only if the fast is withdrawn. This is not governance. This is bargaining.
A government is not supposed to negotiate with its people’s conscience. It is supposed to respond to it.
For years, Borkar sought deeper discussion on 39A. The requests were brushed aside. With a comfortable majority, the ruling establishment believed it could override dissent. That assumption now stands shattered.
The clock has turned.
Today, a single amendment has become a symbol of something larger — the struggle between political power and public will. And as Borkar continues his fast, demanding total repeal, the pressure mounts.
The question is no longer whether 39A will be paused.
The question is whether this government can survive the consequences of ignoring Goa’s voice for so long.
Chief Minister Pramod Sawant can feel the tremors. The anger is no longer a murmur — it’s a gathering storm. And to prevent that storm from turning into a political tsunami, he has begun dangling a last-minute olive branch before St. Andre MLA Viresh Borkar — a promise to keep Amendment 39A of the Town and Country Planning Act “in abeyance” if Borkar calls off his indefinite hunger strike.
But here’s the real question: is Goa supposed to be grateful for a pause button?
Because trust in Sawant and TCP Minister Vishwajit Rane has collapsed. Not dented. Not cracked. Collapsed. Credibility, once squandered, is rarely rebuilt — and in this case, it may already be beyond salvage.
Borkar has put his life on the line demanding a full repeal of Amendment 39A. And Goans, cutting across divides, have rallied behind him. This isn’t political theatre. This is a reckoning.
Let’s not forget how this amendment was born.
When the BJP government pushed 39A through the Assembly, it wasn’t through dialogue or consensus. It was bulldozed. Opposition MLAs were denied adequate space to debate. Benaulim MLA Venzy Viegas was marshalled out. Others staged a dharna in protest (with notable silence from Fatorda MLA Vijai Sardesai). The message from the treasury benches was blunt: brute majority equals unquestioned authority.
The amendment was endorsed despite visible resistance.
And now the same government wants breathing space? To keep it “in abeyance”? For what — consultations? Legal vetting? Or to quietly reassure powerful builder lobbies that their interests will eventually be protected?
Goans aren’t naïve. They understand what 39A represents. They understand what it enables. And they understand who stands to benefit.
The demand is simple: repeal it. Not suspend it. Not defer it. Repeal it. Period.
The people of Goa have already shown what collective resistance can achieve. The government was forced to retreat on the proposed Unity Mall project after sustained public pressure. That victory emboldened citizens. It proved something vital — that this government is not invincible.
And the pushback will not stop here. From land policy to coal transportation, the message is growing louder: Goa is not for sale.
The era of “make hay while the sun shines” governance is ending. The sunshine is fading. Accountability is rising.
After intense discussions with Borkar, the Chief Minister reportedly convened an urgent late-night meeting with Rane and the Chief Town Planner. Midnight strategy sessions are rarely a sign of confidence. They are signs of crisis management.
When Rane emerged, the swagger was gone. The combative lectures about “procedure” and “forums” had evaporated. The bluster had thinned into silence. When public anger hits critical mass, even the most confident ministers discover the limits of rhetoric.
Meanwhile, the Chief Minister’s approach bordered on transactional politics. A typed letter holding 39A in abeyance — ready to be handed over — but only if the fast is withdrawn. This is not governance. This is bargaining.
A government is not supposed to negotiate with its people’s conscience. It is supposed to respond to it.
For years, Borkar sought deeper discussion on 39A. The requests were brushed aside. With a comfortable majority, the ruling establishment believed it could override dissent. That assumption now stands shattered.
The clock has turned.
Today, a single amendment has become a symbol of something larger — the struggle between political power and public will. And as Borkar continues his fast, demanding total repeal, the pressure mounts.
The question is no longer whether 39A will be paused.
The question is whether this government can survive the consequences of ignoring Goa’s voice for so long.
Tuesday, 24 February 2026
45,000 in one night? Then why the silence at Miramar? – By Nisser Dias
Sattari in North Goa was once the stronghold of the Ranes — a clan that traced its lineage to the Rajputs of Rajputana and built its reputation on defiance and dominance. In 1746, frustrated with their Sawantwadi overlords, the Ranes pledged loyalty to the Portuguese crown through a Treaty of Vassalage. But rebellion ran in their blood. The peace collapsed. The first revolt erupted in 1755, followed by fourteen uprisings between 1782 and 1825.
The final Rane revolt in 1912 ended brutally — rebels imprisoned, deported and executed.
History tells us they fought. History tells us they resisted.
So here’s the question: when confrontation arrived at his doorstep, where was Vishwajit Rane? When thousands of protestors gathered near his Miramar residence on Monday evening, the self-styled strongman was nowhere to be seen. This is the same Vishwajit Rane who thundered, “I will have 5,000 of my constituents guarding me at my residence.”
Where were they?
This is the same man who boasted, “I can bring 45,000 people from Sattari in one night and completely block Panjim.” Yet while protestors — including women — sat peacefully at Azad Maidan for four days, the so-called lion of Sattari did not emerge. Not to face them. Not to answer them. Not even to acknowledge them.
If you market yourself as fearless, you cannot vanish when the doorbell rings.
For years, I have said it plainly: Vishwajit Rane thrives on bluster. Loud declarations. Swaggering claims. Carefully staged strength. But every difficult question is met with the same retreat — “It’s in court. It’s sub judice.”
At what point does legal caution become political camouflage?
Questions on land conversions? Sub judice.
Agricultural land transformed into concrete corridors? Sub judice.
Transparency about the constitution of the Town and Country Planning Board — not even remotely in court? Silence.
A pattern is not an accident. It is a strategy.
Ironically, even people from his own constituency have begun to call his bluff. Many from Sattari stood in solidarity with the protestors at Azad Maidan. They made one thing clear: they are not anyone’s slaves.
Yes, Vishwajit Rane may have facilitated employment for many in government hospitals. But public jobs are not feudal favours. Gratitude is not servitude. Democracy is not a plantation economy.
The chant that echoed through the protests said it all: “Raneacho por, Sattaricho chor.”
Crude? Perhaps. But slogans are born from sentiment. And sentiment is shifting.
The Ranes of history were often described as mercenaries — men who fought, plundered, and buried what they seized. Today, critics argue that through the controversial 39A amendment to the Town and Country Planning Act, Goa’s hills, orchards and fields are being parcelled out under the glossy label of “development.”
Is this governance — or is it inheritance?
Meanwhile, the minister accuses the Opposition of “creating anarchy.” The irony is almost theatrical. A man who cannot transparently answer who sits on his own Board blames citizens for asking questions. It is the oldest trick in politics: when cornered, attack the crowd.
But Goans are not naïve. They see the smoke. They see the mirrors. They see the well-timed legal shields deployed whenever accountability knocks. Right now, the Town and Country Planning Ministry does not look like a department of governance. It looks like a bunker.
And outside that bunker, the pressure is mounting.
With St. Andre MLA Viresh Borkar launching a “Karo Ya Maro” indefinite hunger strike, the political temperature is rising. The silence from cabinet colleagues is deafening. The distancing within his own constituency is telling.
Power built on noise cannot survive sustained scrutiny.
The real question now is not whether Vishwajit Rane can summon 45,000 people overnight.
It is whether he can stand alone, in broad daylight, and answer one simple thing:
What exactly are you hiding?
Because in politics, history remembers two kinds of leaders — those who faced the crowd, and those who hid from it.
And time is running out.
The final Rane revolt in 1912 ended brutally — rebels imprisoned, deported and executed.
History tells us they fought. History tells us they resisted.
So here’s the question: when confrontation arrived at his doorstep, where was Vishwajit Rane? When thousands of protestors gathered near his Miramar residence on Monday evening, the self-styled strongman was nowhere to be seen. This is the same Vishwajit Rane who thundered, “I will have 5,000 of my constituents guarding me at my residence.”
Where were they?
This is the same man who boasted, “I can bring 45,000 people from Sattari in one night and completely block Panjim.” Yet while protestors — including women — sat peacefully at Azad Maidan for four days, the so-called lion of Sattari did not emerge. Not to face them. Not to answer them. Not even to acknowledge them.
If you market yourself as fearless, you cannot vanish when the doorbell rings.
For years, I have said it plainly: Vishwajit Rane thrives on bluster. Loud declarations. Swaggering claims. Carefully staged strength. But every difficult question is met with the same retreat — “It’s in court. It’s sub judice.”
At what point does legal caution become political camouflage?
Questions on land conversions? Sub judice.
Agricultural land transformed into concrete corridors? Sub judice.
Transparency about the constitution of the Town and Country Planning Board — not even remotely in court? Silence.
A pattern is not an accident. It is a strategy.
Ironically, even people from his own constituency have begun to call his bluff. Many from Sattari stood in solidarity with the protestors at Azad Maidan. They made one thing clear: they are not anyone’s slaves.
Yes, Vishwajit Rane may have facilitated employment for many in government hospitals. But public jobs are not feudal favours. Gratitude is not servitude. Democracy is not a plantation economy.
The chant that echoed through the protests said it all: “Raneacho por, Sattaricho chor.”
Crude? Perhaps. But slogans are born from sentiment. And sentiment is shifting.
The Ranes of history were often described as mercenaries — men who fought, plundered, and buried what they seized. Today, critics argue that through the controversial 39A amendment to the Town and Country Planning Act, Goa’s hills, orchards and fields are being parcelled out under the glossy label of “development.”
Is this governance — or is it inheritance?
Meanwhile, the minister accuses the Opposition of “creating anarchy.” The irony is almost theatrical. A man who cannot transparently answer who sits on his own Board blames citizens for asking questions. It is the oldest trick in politics: when cornered, attack the crowd.
But Goans are not naïve. They see the smoke. They see the mirrors. They see the well-timed legal shields deployed whenever accountability knocks. Right now, the Town and Country Planning Ministry does not look like a department of governance. It looks like a bunker.
And outside that bunker, the pressure is mounting.
With St. Andre MLA Viresh Borkar launching a “Karo Ya Maro” indefinite hunger strike, the political temperature is rising. The silence from cabinet colleagues is deafening. The distancing within his own constituency is telling.
Power built on noise cannot survive sustained scrutiny.
The real question now is not whether Vishwajit Rane can summon 45,000 people overnight.
It is whether he can stand alone, in broad daylight, and answer one simple thing:
What exactly are you hiding?
Because in politics, history remembers two kinds of leaders — those who faced the crowd, and those who hid from it.
And time is running out.
Saturday, 21 February 2026
When an MLA is lifted, Democracy is lowered, Goa at a crossroads.– By Nisser Dias
The bodily lifting of St. Andre MLA Viresh Borkar from a government office while he was demanding the repeal of amendments introduced by Town and Country Planning Minister Vishwajit Rane is not merely an isolated episode. It is a chilling image — one that speaks volumes about the state of democratic functioning in Goa today.
An elected representative, raising concerns on behalf of his constituents about zoning changes that could permanently alter the character of their villages, was not debated with, reasoned with, or politically countered. He was physically removed.
That image — of a sitting MLA being bodily lifted — is not just about one man. It is about the shrinking space for dissent.
A troubling Déjà Vu
For many Goans, this moment triggers an uncomfortable memory from 2004, when the late Manohar Parrikar, then Chief Minister, faced a no-confidence motion. In a move that remains controversial, police personnel were deployed as marshals inside the Assembly, and Velim MLA Filipe Neri Rodrigues was physically lifted out of the House.
The “Temple of Democracy” witnessed force where persuasion should have prevailed.
Two decades later, the visuals feel eerily similar. And again by the BJP government
Power First, Accountability Later?
Under the non-Goan Chief Minister of Goa Pramod Sawant, the perception that power must be preserved at all costs has only deepened. Whether it is controversial land-use decisions, large-scale development projects, or abrupt policy shifts, critics argue that consultation has been replaced by unilateralism.
The resistance in Chimbel over the proposed “Unity Mall” showed that public pushback can halt even government-backed initiatives. Villagers forced a rethink. It was a reminder that democratic authority ultimately flows upward from the people — not downward from ministerial offices.
The TCP amendments: Development or Discretion?
At the heart of the current storm are Sections 17(2) and 39A of the Town and Country Planning framework.
Section 39A empowers the Chief Town Planner to alter regional and development plans, including zoning changes. Section 17(2) allows land conversion under specified authority.
Critics argue that these provisions, when exercised without robust safeguards, public consultation, or transparency, risk turning long-term regional planning into short-term administrative discretion.
When elected representatives like Viresh Borkar question sweeping zoning changes — especially those perceived to threaten village identity, ecology, and land-use balance — the appropriate response in a democracy is debate, data, and justification.
Not force.
A Pattern of Retreat Under Pressure?
Minister Vishwajit Rane has previously faced strong public resistance — notably during the 2019 IIT proposal at Shel-Melauli, where large tracts of land acquisition triggered protests. The plan was eventually shelved after sustained public opposition.
Similarly, the draft zoning plan in Pernem faced backlash over concerns that substantial green cover would give way to concrete expansion. Once again, public resistance forced reconsideration.
Each time, public mobilisation altered the course of policy, Rane had to hide. Coward that he is.
This raises an uncomfortable question: Are controversial decisions being advanced without adequate groundwork, only to be withdrawn when resistance becomes politically inconvenient?
The Health Portfolio Incident
In June 2025, another controversy erupted when Rane, who also holds the Health portfolio, publicly demanded action against Dr. Rudresh Kuttikar, Chief Medical Officer of a casualty block. Video clips circulated widely, showing sharp and abusive language.
For many observers, the issue was not merely administrative discipline — it was tone, process, and optics. Public governance cannot resemble a spectacle. Institutions demand procedure, not performance.
The Viresh Borkar fiasco: A turning point?
The manhandling of Viresh Borkar may prove to be a political miscalculation.
He was not staging a personal protest. He stood with constituents demanding that zoning changes in Siridao be scrapped due to concerns about preserving village character and preventing over-development.
The physical removal of an elected representative has inadvertently unified opposition voices and mobilised public opinion across constituencies. What might have been a policy disagreement has now become a symbol of democratic friction.
When a government appears intolerant of dissent — especially from within legislative ranks — it risks strengthening the very resistance it seeks to suppress.
Democracy Is Not a Show of Strength
The true test of leadership is not how firmly one can hold office, but how responsibly one exercises power.
Development cannot be sustained if it is perceived as opaque. Planning cannot endure if it sidelines participation. Authority cannot command respect if it relies on physical force against elected representatives.
The image of Viresh Borkar being bodily lifted will linger — not because of partisan politics, but because it captures something deeper: the uneasy tension between governance and accountability in Goa today.
If the government believes its planning decisions are sound, let them withstand scrutiny in open forums. Let them be debated transparently. Let data speak louder than force.
Democracy does not collapse in a single dramatic moment. It erodes gradually — whenever dissent is removed instead of addressed.
And Goa deserves better than that.
An elected representative, raising concerns on behalf of his constituents about zoning changes that could permanently alter the character of their villages, was not debated with, reasoned with, or politically countered. He was physically removed.
That image — of a sitting MLA being bodily lifted — is not just about one man. It is about the shrinking space for dissent.
A troubling Déjà Vu
For many Goans, this moment triggers an uncomfortable memory from 2004, when the late Manohar Parrikar, then Chief Minister, faced a no-confidence motion. In a move that remains controversial, police personnel were deployed as marshals inside the Assembly, and Velim MLA Filipe Neri Rodrigues was physically lifted out of the House.
The “Temple of Democracy” witnessed force where persuasion should have prevailed.
Two decades later, the visuals feel eerily similar. And again by the BJP government
Power First, Accountability Later?
Under the non-Goan Chief Minister of Goa Pramod Sawant, the perception that power must be preserved at all costs has only deepened. Whether it is controversial land-use decisions, large-scale development projects, or abrupt policy shifts, critics argue that consultation has been replaced by unilateralism.
The resistance in Chimbel over the proposed “Unity Mall” showed that public pushback can halt even government-backed initiatives. Villagers forced a rethink. It was a reminder that democratic authority ultimately flows upward from the people — not downward from ministerial offices.
The TCP amendments: Development or Discretion?
At the heart of the current storm are Sections 17(2) and 39A of the Town and Country Planning framework.
Section 39A empowers the Chief Town Planner to alter regional and development plans, including zoning changes. Section 17(2) allows land conversion under specified authority.
Critics argue that these provisions, when exercised without robust safeguards, public consultation, or transparency, risk turning long-term regional planning into short-term administrative discretion.
When elected representatives like Viresh Borkar question sweeping zoning changes — especially those perceived to threaten village identity, ecology, and land-use balance — the appropriate response in a democracy is debate, data, and justification.
Not force.
A Pattern of Retreat Under Pressure?
Minister Vishwajit Rane has previously faced strong public resistance — notably during the 2019 IIT proposal at Shel-Melauli, where large tracts of land acquisition triggered protests. The plan was eventually shelved after sustained public opposition.
Similarly, the draft zoning plan in Pernem faced backlash over concerns that substantial green cover would give way to concrete expansion. Once again, public resistance forced reconsideration.
Each time, public mobilisation altered the course of policy, Rane had to hide. Coward that he is.
This raises an uncomfortable question: Are controversial decisions being advanced without adequate groundwork, only to be withdrawn when resistance becomes politically inconvenient?
The Health Portfolio Incident
In June 2025, another controversy erupted when Rane, who also holds the Health portfolio, publicly demanded action against Dr. Rudresh Kuttikar, Chief Medical Officer of a casualty block. Video clips circulated widely, showing sharp and abusive language.
For many observers, the issue was not merely administrative discipline — it was tone, process, and optics. Public governance cannot resemble a spectacle. Institutions demand procedure, not performance.
The Viresh Borkar fiasco: A turning point?
The manhandling of Viresh Borkar may prove to be a political miscalculation.
He was not staging a personal protest. He stood with constituents demanding that zoning changes in Siridao be scrapped due to concerns about preserving village character and preventing over-development.
The physical removal of an elected representative has inadvertently unified opposition voices and mobilised public opinion across constituencies. What might have been a policy disagreement has now become a symbol of democratic friction.
When a government appears intolerant of dissent — especially from within legislative ranks — it risks strengthening the very resistance it seeks to suppress.
Democracy Is Not a Show of Strength
The true test of leadership is not how firmly one can hold office, but how responsibly one exercises power.
Development cannot be sustained if it is perceived as opaque. Planning cannot endure if it sidelines participation. Authority cannot command respect if it relies on physical force against elected representatives.
The image of Viresh Borkar being bodily lifted will linger — not because of partisan politics, but because it captures something deeper: the uneasy tension between governance and accountability in Goa today.
If the government believes its planning decisions are sound, let them withstand scrutiny in open forums. Let them be debated transparently. Let data speak louder than force.
Democracy does not collapse in a single dramatic moment. It erodes gradually — whenever dissent is removed instead of addressed.
And Goa deserves better than that.
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