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.
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