Nilankur Das
As the sun rises over the Mandovi River, casting golden light on the quiet streets of Panjim, the city, still wrapped in the softness of dawn, begins to stir. You can hear the distant clink of metal shutters being rolled up as shop owners prepare for the day ahead. The narrow lanes start to fill with life, filling the air with the rich smells of Bhaji Pao and Chao.
Panjim comes alive in these early hours, a city breathing in unison with its people. There’s a certain magic in how life unfurls here—small and familiar. The shopkeepers greet each other with nods, their smiles that signify bonds formed over years of shared routines. The honks of scooters and the hum of cars mark the slow build of the day’s tempo. And yet, amidst this daily resurgence, an unease hangs in the air—a sense of inevitable change, as though Panjim itself is aware of its own slow fading.
When you look around, you can already see the cracks, in the old buildings that line the streets, and in the spirit of the town. Redevelopment has become a catchphrase here, a promise wrapped in the garb of modernity. But what they don’t tell you is the price that Panjim will pay. Take a three-story building, one of those quaint old structures with crumbling plaster but a soul. It stands there, an aging witness to the stories of the generations it has housed. The builder arrives with plans—convert this modest structure into a towering 20-story high-rise. Progress, moving with the times, they say.
The families who have lived there for decades are told to move out, offered meager sums for their displacement. Where do they go for two or three years while the new building rises from the dust of their memories? And when they return, it’s not to the home they once knew. It’s to a towering block of concrete, impersonal and out of place. The charm of those places where children once played and elders sipped tea is replaced by glass and steel. The weight of this progress presses down on the land and on the hearts of its people.
And then there’s the burden on resources. A city like Panjim, with its age-old infrastructure, was never built to support 20 stories where three once stood. Water, electricity, sewage—these systems buckle under the strain. For every high-rise that springs up, Panjim loses a piece of itself, a fragment of its identity. It’s more than just the skyline that changes; it’s the soul of the city that erodes with each new floor added to the skyline.
You walk down the streets of Panjim and the air would be filled with the smells of local Goan cuisine. Bhaji Pao, Batat Bhaji, Poi, and Sukhi Bhaji—the simple, rich foods that nourished the body and the community. The small, family-run eateries that lined Cunha Rivara Road and its neighbouring streets are the heartbeats of the city. They aren’t just places to eat; they are where life happens. Neighbours met, stories are shared, and strangers became friends over plates of steaming food.
But today, these beloved joints are disappearing. Just as in Baga-Calangute, where the influx of commercial interests drove out local businesses, Panjim too faces this fate. As new buildings rise, so do the rents, and these small eateries—unable to keep up with the skyrocketing commercial rates—are being replaced by chain restaurants and boutique cafes. The demographics are shifting. The people who grew up on Bhaji Pao are being replaced by a newer crowd, one less tied to the flavours and textures that define Goan cuisine. In a few years, will there still be a line of people waiting at their favourite local spot for breakfast? Or will Panjim’s streets be dotted with eateries that offer everything but a true taste of Goa?
We are losing more than just food; we are losing a culture, a way of life. These eateries are as much a part of Panjim’s identity as its architecture. Their disappearance marks the slow death of a community’s soul, one Sukhi Bhaji plate at a time.
If the buildings are Panjim’s bones and the food its lifeblood, then the trees are its guardians. Tall, old trees have lined the streets of this city for generations, offering shade and respite to all who pass by. But even these sentinels are not immune to the onslaught of modernisation. National Green Tribunal rules dictate that a one-meter gap of soil should surround the roots of trees, allowing them space to grow, to breathe. Yet in Panjim, concrete encases the roots, suffocating them slowly. Pavements are laid without care, and the trees grow weaker.
The other day, a young girl lost her life when a tree, its roots strangled by concrete, fell. A tragedy that could have been avoided, had we only listened to the silent cries of these trees. Not long after, a Silver Oak tree collapsed in front of a friend’s house. These trees, once proud and towering, now fall with frightening regularity, unable to withstand the pressures of an urban environment that no longer nurtures them.
What happens when we lose the trees? We lose the shade that protects us from the harsh summer sun, the beauty that softens the edges of our urban landscape. We lose a part of Panjim that has stood the test of time, watching over its people, silently giving more than it takes. In the rush to pave everything over, to create sleek and efficient spaces, we are forgetting the importance of life beyond the concrete.
Panjim is at a crossroads. The old and the new stand side by side, in an uneasy truce, but for how long? Every day, another building falls to redevelopment, another local eatery closes its doors for the last time, and another tree succumbs to the embrace of concrete. If we continue down this path, there will be nothing left of the Panjim we know, the Panjim we love.
It’s time for us to slow down, to take a step back and reflect. Redevelopment doesn’t have to mean erasure. We can rebuild, yes, but let us do it thoughtfully, with respect for the people who live here, for the culture that has thrived here for generations, and for the natural world that sustains us. Can we ask ourselves—what kind of Panjim do we want to leave behind for future generations?
The city doesn’t have to die. It doesn’t have to fade into just another soulless urban landscape. There is still time to save Panjim’s heart, to preserve its spirit. We must act now, before the shadows of high-rises stretch too long. Panjim’s story is ours to write. We can still write a hopeful one—where the old and the new coexist, where heritage is honoured, and where the trees stand tall, their roots deep in the soil of a city that remembers to breathe.