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.
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