Panjim, take a bow

What do you say about a city you have grown to love over the years as your own? I call it home.

My home. And I’m possessive about her sacred spaces.

Moreover, I’m sentimental about how she makes me feel about her.

Ten years ago, when I came to the city as a fledgling, trembling with anticipation of what the future held for me as a young, out-of-her-shell enthusiastic writer, I cut my teeth on the many story opportunities the city spaces and problems provided me with. There was a world of words waiting to be explored, there was a charm I had found so fatal, there was an aura about her I wanted to surround myself with. A cosmopolitan sophistication that was infectious, yet comfortable enough to allow me my own voice.

So, I dived straight into the spate with full gusto. And she obliged and indulged me with a charisma so quaint, I was soon under her spell. More `Ponjekann' than the `Ponjekar' himself. A one-on-one relationship. With no masks to wear.

Like every relationship that goes through its phases – including the hate phases – I soon found myself disillusioned with the city. A crass lack of imagination seemed to invade her city planners and developers. With everybody hell-bent on making a fast buck off her precious spaces and nostalgic cornerstones. Ugly concrete monsters sprang up in place of old villas. Indiscriminate cutting of trees and hillsides raped the green cover. Roads more desolate than the moonscape. Suspicious looking people tearing down her identity, filling up living areas and office spaces with more `bhingtakars’ than `Goenkars’. Drains morphed into stench holes, historic houses into an abyss of neglect and ruin. An air of apathy prevailed amongst the city thinkers, taking a class of people down destructive regression lane, along with a fall in values. Values, unfortunately, that did not contribute to make this city a beacon of healthy debate, constructive action and liberal, artistic dynamism. The capital turned cantankerous. In spirit, in beauty and soul.

Another old structure was recently pulled down, in the heart of the city overlooking the Municipal Garden. Not a non-descript structure, but for lack of a coat of paint and some respect. Downed so quickly and systematically, that it left no room for protests by sundown.

Was it yet another heritage building? You bet it was. The building has been entered as Entry No 109 of the list prepared by the experts for the Town and Country Planning Department (in my opinion, this department is plagued with the likes of palm greasing sycophants wholly responsible for the ruin of our heritage cover). The entry says "The ground plus 1 storied structure has arched openings and gothic tracery on upper floor that adds distinction. Brackets hold narrow balconies. Cornice bands and sloping roof covered in Mangalore tiles add distinction." Heritage lovers term the structure as a turn-of-the-century building built between 1890 and 1900. To add irony, the structure belongs to people who themselves claim to be heritage lovers! There are far too many indifferent people living in this city. The old, who have actively watched the city go to its ruins, even in positions of power where they could have turned the laws around. Or used their good offices to stop the malpractices. The young, who wouldn’t care less but for themselves. I am told that `wanting to make a difference’ would be a winded marathon. I am seriously wondering if this is true.

I also voice another concern to initiate mass awareness on what constitutes heritage (we need more watchdogs here). Namely, who decides the heritage list? Why shouldn’t it be made public? And why doesn’t the government provide monetary relief to the residents of these structures to maintain their heritage properties? In short, are we selective about saving heritage? For example, a beautiful private villa in the city is broken down without a public murmur. A high rise replaces this space. While the other demolition evokes protest because it belongs to the city’s Who’s who!

However, there is always a breath of fresh air that blows once in a while down your hoarse throat. It comes from people – not armchair critics who guise themselves as serious, intellectual philosophers with an opinion on everything – who go out there and make a difference. The heat gets turned on them so very often, their motives become suspect, their goals get questioned or politicised, the hurdles become gigantic boulders, their intentions fall prey to suspicion. Why? Simply, because they are different. A generation of motivated youth currently involved in fuelling this campaign with passion, who choose to practice this difference through tough decisions, hard ball talk and serious backside kicking. Like the Panjim Municipal Council that has finally bared its teeth, after lying around for years like a lame duck.

Mercifully, it isn’t a lone game anymore.

Persistence pays. Albeit, slowly.

My Panjim looks well on her way to healing. Hopefully, she will be healed from the soul, with more than just good looking gardens, fountains and clean pathways. Superficial wellbeing need not indicate a wholesome depth of changed spirit. But I believe she’ll get there in time. If only we, as citizens, take her hand step by step, listen to her woes, comfort her insecurities, endorse faith into her goodness and help her see the light. After all, our love for Panjim is absolute. It’s time we learnt to put this high virtue into practice, than merely giving it empty lip service.

But I’m not finished yet. I want to rap Margao, Vasco, Mapuca, Ponda and their respective people and municipalities for the mess they have made of their cities. For voluntarily contributing to the apathy and destruction of their spaces, for greedily making their fast buck by selling their sacred spaces. For them, bow your heads in shame. It’s time to take stock of your pride as a Goan, and the land you must learn to respect and preserve for the future generation.

Panjim has shown she can.





Ethel Da Costa
29 Mar 2003

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