The myth that casino development represented some organic evolution of Goa’s character has been demolished. Now, Panjim stands alienated from itself, where even basic institutions carry the branding of private gambling operators.

Never has a site of battle glittered as much as Panjim’s Mandovi riverfront. The promenade is busiest past midnight, when drunk, depleted patrons filter out of the “offshore” casino vessels anchored in the middle of the river, like beached whales wrapped in fairy lights. Will they end up in a spontaneous karaoke competition, a full-blown argument, or simply continue their “car-o-bar” from their docked taxis? Who knows — the night is still young, and Goa a permissive mistress for the holidaying, honeymooning lot.
What unfolds nightly in Goa’s capital is a microcosm of the state’s uneasy relationship with its casino industry. And the only people who feel unwelcome at this unwarranted party are the residents of this tiny city, trapped in a geography transformed against their will, victims of a state-sanctioned gamble. The latest flashpoint in this ongoing struggle? A public parking facility near the Ferry Wharf – built with Rs 20-22 crore of taxpayer funds – allegedly transferred to a casino operator without transparency or due process.
A few days ago, a PIL was filed in the High Court of Bombay at Goa, contending that the Captain of Ports and the North Goa District Magistrate collaborated to hand over this 627-square-metre public space to M/s Golden Peace Infrastructure Pvt Ltd for the exclusive benefit of their casino patrons. The area, originally upgraded to enhance state revenue and improve traffic management in the capital, was formally designated as a pay parking zone for public use in 2017.
But the vital community space was quietly repurposed for private commercial gain through de-notification orders issued in December 2023 and March 2024, neither of which were publicised nor published in the Official Gazette. The petition seeks the nullification of these orders, restoration of public access, removal of structures erected by the casino, and accountability for officials involved in what the PIL characterises as an illegal transfer of public land.
This alleged misuse of public land represents one more win for the other side in a city sighing under the weight of unabated tourism. For Panjim residents like Dr Luis Dias, who runs the music education charity Child’s Play India Foundation, casino operations constitute a daily violation of dignity and urban citizenship.
“For those of us who live on the waterfront, we have every possible problem from drunk driving, noise pollution, actual litter, and parking issues. I have never seen Panjim under such mismanagement,” he explained. Dias said they’ve had to call the police several times during the wee hours, but the burden of proof consistently falls on harassed citizens rather than disruptive visitors – notorious for jumping over the low boundary walls of old houses and peering into windows.

Traditions criminalised
The unspoken social contract that once allowed residents to exist peacefully in their city has been shredded over the last few years. This reorganisation has altered the psychology of public life in Panjim. “It’s very difficult to have fun the old-fashioned way, like going for a walk in the evening,” Dias said, describing an encounter with a drug user during a stroll. When residents attempt to reclaim their spaces through formal channels, they find themselves abandoned. When they complain about a lack of respect from tourists, they are mocked. “We have had to just carry on living,” he said. “For the government, the visitor and the tourist are much more important. The rest of us are meant to just vote and then shut up.”
Beyond the daily inconveniences of noisy nights and traffic snarls lies a fundamental disconnect between policy and practice. When Goa amended its Public Gambling Act in 1992, it cracked open a narrow door with electronic gaming machines in five-star hotels. By the late nineties, that exception expanded to include “table games and gaming on board in vessels offshore.”
The loosely defined term “offshore” once bore the promise that these floating casinos would operate far from residential areas, perhaps 5-10 nautical miles out to sea. But a quarter-century later, that promise lies shipwrecked in the Mandovi, where massive vessels now dominate Panjim’s landscape: a disjointed Las Vegas-style strip within swimming distance of shore. Meanwhile, the state’s relationship with gambling remains contradictory. In 2020, responding to years of local activism, the government implemented a ban preventing Goan residents from entering casinos — making gambling morally acceptable for tourists but not for locals.
Another example of this selective morality is the recently instituted ban on Housie games, a cherished tradition at parish events and football matches. For many Goans, watching their community traditions criminalised while commercial casinos thrive — thanks to multiple extensions — reveals the government’s true priorities.
Beyond the economic prosperity
The economic defence of casinos has always stood on two pillars: revenue generation and employment creation. Casinos have been very profitable and have filled up the state’s coffers. According to reports, in 2023-24 the Goa government earned Rs 606 crore from the industry, marking a 70 per cent jump over the previous year. Can a state really afford to reject this industry, regardless of its moral costs?
But social activist Sabina Martins, convener of Aam Aurat Admi Against Gambling (AAAG), challenges these claims. According to her, the promised prosperity masks a darker reality that activists have witnessed firsthand.
“When casinos started, they didn’t have business, so they relied on locals to provide business,” she said. Her organisation has documented numerous cases of addiction, financial ruin, and family destruction – young men taking loans or leaving education to go to casinos. “Women have equal property rights in Goa,” she told me, “but I have seen some of their husbands gambling it all away by taking power of attorney under duress.”
Martins, who has been involved with women’s activism for a long time, said that the industry has been marketed as a lifestyle and a high-end status symbol for locals. That has directly contributed to gambling addictions, which were previously present but not at the scale they now experience. Martins also suggested that the rise of casinos as an economic policy has led to visitors associating Goa with a den of vices.
“The tentacles of casinos have penetrated the social, political, and economic sectors. It’s like when the East India Company or the Portuguese came to India, and we lost our freedoms. The same thing is happening with casinos,” she said.
Not everyone opposes casinos on purely moral grounds. Jack Sukhija, a citizen of Panjim, acknowledges overt and indirect economic benefits: Casinos bring visitors who fill hotels and restaurants, boost rental demand, and fuel consumption. His critique focuses instead on the industry’s current form and location.
“My problem is, why run it in the worst possible way? There is no real advantage to running ‘offshore’ casinos, so why have this farce at all?” he asked. Sukhija argued that the state could continue to reap the same economic benefits by operating casinos within existing settings like four- and five-star hotels or a special gaming zone.
Sukhija wants the government to focus on channeling the profits from the industry back into the city – by appointing a Gaming Commissioner, regulating the industry, and preserving the riverfront. “All over the world, cities that are by the water use it to their advantage. This [visual pollution] is a total loss for Panjim,” he said.

Now, it’s a matter of ‘pride’
Eventually, it all boils down to public consent — and who the casinos eventually serve. Patricia Pinto, former councillor of the Corporation of the City of Panjim, recalls deliberations from the 1990s when citizens envisioned their capital’s future.
“In 1996, I attended a seminar where we searched for an identity for Panjim,” she recounted. “We discussed how Panjim should develop: as a seat of power? A walking city? A heritage city? Nowhere did we discuss whether it should become a casino city.”
This insight demolishes the myth that casino development represented some organic evolution of Goa’s character – instead, it was imposed from above, bypassing community vision. In Campal, Pinto said, there is talk of evicting fishermen, accused of polluting the river, even as a report by NIO has shown otherwise. Now, Panjim stands alienated from itself, where even basic institutions carry the branding of private gambling operators.
“Even police barricades bear the names of Casino Pride and Majestic Pride,” Pinto said. “I want to ask, ‘Where is our police pride?’”
Whether it’s fishermen or public parking, this debate is about who ultimately has the right to Goa’s commons – whose activities deserve legitimisation and who is considered a criminal. In the inexorable march toward progress, Goa must reckon with who gets to have a meaningful vote in shaping the place they call home.
This article is part of the Goa Life series, which explores the new and the old of Goan culture.

Karanjeet Kaur is a journalist, former editor of Arré, and a partner at TWO Design. She tweets @Kaju_Katri. Views are personal.

(Edited by Prashant)

Courtesy: The Print