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.
Tuesday, 24 February 2026
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.
Saturday, 13 December 2025
31 laptops and a whole lot of embarrassment – By Nisser Dias
Chief Minister Pramod Sawant seems to have achieved the impossible: lowering the dignity of his office to never-before-seen subterranean levels by first accepting — and now sheepishly returning — 31 laptops gifted by an alleged scamster. Yes, you read that right. Thirty-one. Not one. Not two. A whole classroom set.
On December 7, Vaibhav Thakar was arrested by LT Marg police in Maharashtra for allegedly cheating a jeweller of ₹2.8 crore while impersonating an officer from the Maharashtra Chief Minister’s Office. A minor detail: he had already been arrested by the Directorate of Revenue Intelligence earlier in a tidy little ₹200-crore gold trading case. A resume like that could only mean one thing — naturally, he must meet the Goa Chief Minister.
Which he did. In April. And gifted 31 laptops to Goa Police. Because, of course, nothing screams “trustworthy citizen” like an impressive history of arrests.
Now, after his December arrest, Goa Police HQ has instructed all stations to return those laptops. So let’s do the math: does that make the Chief Minister the primary recipient of this “generosity” and the police the secondary recipients of… well, whatever this was supposed to be?
It is astonishing — and frankly embarrassing — that the Chief Minister of a State can meet individuals without even the most basic background check from his office. And even worse, accept gifts to be distributed across government departments as if he were running a festive lucky draw.
Speaking of the laptops: did the CM’s office bother to verify how they were purchased? Any receipts? Any confirmation they weren’t procured through, say…the very activities Thakar has been alleged to engage in?
And let’s not forget the police department — under the CM’s control — now ordering the return of these laptops. This is the administrative equivalent of the police proudly “recovering” stolen goods after the thieves have already sold them at a discount.
Unfortunately, this is hardly the first time the Goa government — especially the CMO — has been taken for a royal ride. Flashback to 2020: the bidder chosen by the government to build the Dona Paula Convention Centre — DCR Solar — failed to cough up the ₹16.20-crore performance guarantee. When the High Court insisted, the bidder produced one. It was fake. Tailor-made tenders? Who would’ve guessed.
So should we believe the Chief Minister is so astonishingly gullible that his office and police force lack even the authority to verify who he meets? Or is he following instructions from the much-celebrated “double-engine sarkar” to welcome all visitors, no questions asked — except, of course, when the visitors are Goans or activists with real grievances? Those folks rarely get appointments.
Back to the laptops: what happens now? Will they gather dust in some evidence room? Will an FIR be filed to investigate how they were procured? Will the police run forensic tests to ensure these devices aren’t loaded with spyware or surveillance tools?
Whatever the outcome, one thing is painfully clear: Chief Minister Pramod Sawant has managed to drag the dignity of his office to a spectacular low, courtesy of what can only be described as shockingly casual governance.
On December 7, Vaibhav Thakar was arrested by LT Marg police in Maharashtra for allegedly cheating a jeweller of ₹2.8 crore while impersonating an officer from the Maharashtra Chief Minister’s Office. A minor detail: he had already been arrested by the Directorate of Revenue Intelligence earlier in a tidy little ₹200-crore gold trading case. A resume like that could only mean one thing — naturally, he must meet the Goa Chief Minister.
Which he did. In April. And gifted 31 laptops to Goa Police. Because, of course, nothing screams “trustworthy citizen” like an impressive history of arrests.
Now, after his December arrest, Goa Police HQ has instructed all stations to return those laptops. So let’s do the math: does that make the Chief Minister the primary recipient of this “generosity” and the police the secondary recipients of… well, whatever this was supposed to be?
It is astonishing — and frankly embarrassing — that the Chief Minister of a State can meet individuals without even the most basic background check from his office. And even worse, accept gifts to be distributed across government departments as if he were running a festive lucky draw.
Speaking of the laptops: did the CM’s office bother to verify how they were purchased? Any receipts? Any confirmation they weren’t procured through, say…the very activities Thakar has been alleged to engage in?
And let’s not forget the police department — under the CM’s control — now ordering the return of these laptops. This is the administrative equivalent of the police proudly “recovering” stolen goods after the thieves have already sold them at a discount.
Unfortunately, this is hardly the first time the Goa government — especially the CMO — has been taken for a royal ride. Flashback to 2020: the bidder chosen by the government to build the Dona Paula Convention Centre — DCR Solar — failed to cough up the ₹16.20-crore performance guarantee. When the High Court insisted, the bidder produced one. It was fake. Tailor-made tenders? Who would’ve guessed.
So should we believe the Chief Minister is so astonishingly gullible that his office and police force lack even the authority to verify who he meets? Or is he following instructions from the much-celebrated “double-engine sarkar” to welcome all visitors, no questions asked — except, of course, when the visitors are Goans or activists with real grievances? Those folks rarely get appointments.
Back to the laptops: what happens now? Will they gather dust in some evidence room? Will an FIR be filed to investigate how they were procured? Will the police run forensic tests to ensure these devices aren’t loaded with spyware or surveillance tools?
Whatever the outcome, one thing is painfully clear: Chief Minister Pramod Sawant has managed to drag the dignity of his office to a spectacular low, courtesy of what can only be described as shockingly casual governance.
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