Yes, the carrion from India has descended on Goa, changing our beloved homeland's very soul. And of course Goa's government is doing all it can to grab its own wrongful share of the ensuing loot. But are they really at the base of the change that has overtaken Goa? No no no no no. It is we Goans who are hawking off our Goa each time we succumb to greed and sell our homes to the aforementioned carrion.Those homes, built lovingly by long gone grand- and great- and great great grandparents, that we sell away to the filthy rich, shedding crocodile tears as we do it, but do it anyway. Those generations of our forefathers hover over us, weeping unheard, as we willingly participate in changing Goa into Greater Kailash. This rush of love and hate has been brought on by my friend Jug Suraiya's blog that appeared in this morning's Times of India. _______________________________________________________
Keep it Goan: The tiny state is charmingly different, so let’s keep it that way Jug Suraiya People ask me why I keep going to Goa but don’t buy a place of my own there. My reply is that it’s because I like Goa so much that I don’t want to own a piece of it. If I did such a thing, as so many non-Goans are doing, Goa will lose its distinctive charm, its Goan-ness, which is what makes it so attractive for me. Goa has changed almost unrecognisably since Bunny and I first went there, back in 1978. We lived in Calcutta and there was little information we could glean about the tucked-away state. We had several Goan friends in Calcutta, but having their family homes in Goa, they couldn’t tell us much about hotels or restaurants, or give us other tips for travellers. There was no oracular Internet or Google Search to consult then, so when we flew into Dabolim we were venturing into what for us was unknown territory. It was this unknowingness that gave gradual rise to the enchantment of discovery as we fell under the spell of this lush, emerald green, palm-fringed land, adorned with its golden necklace of beaches, and flowing with majestic rivers, like the mighty Zuari, which we crossed by ferry, there being no bridge then. We stayed in small hotels, rode in local buses which included chickens and goats as passengers, driving down winding, densely wooded country lanes dotted with sleepy-eyed ancient villas dozing in the dapple of sun and shade, and tiny, bleach-white churches at which the driver would make an impromptu halt for evening prayer, in which everyone joined, goats and all. We savoured Goa’s inimitable hospitality in the form of xacuti, and sorpotel, and vindaloo, and chonak rava fry, and delicious poi bread, in family sitting rooms turned into impromptu eateries for the comfort of hungry wayfarers in search of a home-cooked meal. That Goa is fast vanishing, obliterated by a sprawl of luxury hotels, resorts and monstrous apartment blocks of holiday homes for people from Delhi, and Mumbai, and Bengaluru, and elsewhere. Steamroller India is grinding Goa’s uniqueness into oblivion. So, no, I don’t want to buy a place there. But I’d like to keep going to Goa. And to keep it Goan. - - - Stanley Pinto 153 The Embassy
