“Irrigated land is not barren land waiting to be “developed.” It is already productive. It sustains farmers, supports local economies, and contributes to food security in a state that is increasingly dependent on external supplies. When such land is declared “unfit” for irrigation, the question is unavoidable: unfit for whom?
The Tillari command area was envisioned as a lifeline for agriculture—a project that would secure water access, increase crop yields, and provide stability to rural communities. To now reverse that vision without a compelling and transparent justification is not just contradictory; it is deeply concerning.
The government’s push for investment and development is understandable. Goa’s economy relies heavily on tourism, and diversification is often seen as necessary.”
In Goa, land is not just a resource—it is memory, livelihood, and identity. Which is why the recent decision to denotify vast stretches of irrigated land in Dhargalim has triggered more than political criticism; it has struck at the heart of what Goa stands for.
This is not an isolated administrative move. It is a signal. A signal that fertile, irrigated land—painstakingly developed under long-term public projects—can be reclassified, repurposed, and ultimately handed over for commercial exploitation. And not just any commercial use, but one linked to high-end tourism and casino-driven development.
The implications are stark.
Irrigated land is not barren land waiting to be “developed.” It is already productive. It sustains farmers, supports local economies, and contributes to food security in a state that is increasingly dependent on external supplies. When such land is declared “unfit” for irrigation, the question is unavoidable: unfit for whom?
The Tillari command area was envisioned as a lifeline for agriculture—a project that would secure water access, increase crop yields, and provide stability to rural communities. To now reverse that vision without a compelling and transparent justification is not just contradictory; it is deeply concerning.
The government’s push for investment and development is understandable. Goa’s economy relies heavily on tourism, and diversification is often seen as necessary. But what is unfolding here is not diversification—it is displacement. A quiet but steady shift where agriculture is being edged out, not by necessity, but by design.
Even more troubling are the concerns around due process. Laws governing irrigated land are not ornamental—they exist to ensure that such decisions undergo scrutiny, consultation, and accountability. If these procedures are being diluted or bypassed, it raises a larger institutional question: are safeguards being respected, or are they becoming inconvenient hurdles in the path of rapid commercialisation?
Then there is the issue of financial discretion. Waivers, concessions, and selective relaxations—especially when extended to large corporate players—inevitably create a perception problem. It begins to look less like governance and more like preference. In a democracy, perception matters almost as much as policy.
But beyond policy and process lies a deeper concern: the direction in which Goa is heading.
For years, the state has struggled with the consequences of over-tourism, unregulated construction, and ecological strain. Rivers under pressure, hills cut for projects, villages transformed beyond recognition—these are not abstract fears, but lived realities. In this context, converting irrigated farmland into commercial hubs is not just risky; it borders on reckless.
What makes this particularly sensitive is the casino linkage. Casinos in Goa have long been a contentious issue, symbolising both economic gain and social unease. Expanding that footprint onto land that once fed communities adds a layer of moral discomfort. It reinforces the perception that profit is being prioritised over people.
Supporters of the move may argue that development requires tough choices. That progress cannot be stalled in the name of nostalgia. But this is not about nostalgia—it is about sustainability. It is about asking whether the choices being made today will leave Goa stronger or more fragile tomorrow.
Because once irrigated land is lost, it is lost forever. You can build resorts in a few years, but you cannot recreate an agricultural ecosystem that took decades to nurture.
There is also a democratic deficit in how such decisions are perceived. People are not resistant to development—they are resistant to being excluded from it. When decisions appear top-down, when communities feel unheard, resistance is inevitable. And justified.
Goa today stands at a delicate crossroads. It can choose a path where economic ambition coexists with ecological wisdom and social balance. Or it can slide into a model where land becomes a commodity, governance becomes transactional, and identity becomes negotiable.
This is not just about Dhargalim. It is about the future of Goa.
And the question that must be asked—loudly and repeatedly—is simple: development for whom, and at what cost?
