Some families sift through rubble; others seek refuge with relatives and neighbours
LOST PARADISE: A day after the demolition, displaced residents sift through the rubble, searching for anything they can salvage from the remains of their homes.
Photo Credits: Agnelo Pereira
MAPUSA
A day after bulldozers tore through the narrow lanes of Lala ki Basti in Tivim, reducing 23 homes to rubble, grief hangs in the air.
The once-bustling settlement, home to families for over three decades, now lies flattened – its former residents left to gather fragments of lives abruptly uprooted.
Under the direction of the High Court, the demolition was carried out on Tuesday, targeting what were deemed illegal structures.
But for the residents, these homes were far more than encroachments – they were symbols of stability, community and hard-earned survival.
On Wednesday, the scene was heart-wrenching. Men, women, and children rummaged through the debris, salvaging what they could – torn school books, broken furniture, twisted appliances.
Some had managed to remove their belongings before the bulldozers arrived. Others weren’t so fortunate.
“Look at this,” said Ayub Khan, holding up a schoolbook. “These are our children’s books – destroyed in front of our eyes. We’ve lived here for 30, some even 40 years. We are Indian citizens, Goans. Not outsiders,” he added, speaking in chaste Konkani.
For now, the displaced are seeking refuge with relatives and neighbours.
Khan, like many others, is staying with extended family in Mapusa. “Thankfully, some of our relatives opened their doors. But this can’t go on forever,” he said.
Others are crammed into small quarters, depending on the goodwill of friends and neighbours.
The sense of betrayal is palpable. Many residents expressed anger at the absence of political support during their hour of crisis.
“Not one politician came to ask about us. They only come when they need votes,” Khan lamented.
He recalled how then chief minister late Manohar Parrikar had visited the area in 2012, accompanied by Kiran Kandolkar, and assured them their homes would be regularised.
“If Parrikar was alive, this would not have happened. He promised us a future here,” Khan said, his voice choked with emotion.
Beyond the emotional toll, the financial implications are staggering. Many had made payments for the land they built on, even if the paperwork was lacking.
“We paid Rs 500 per square metre back in 2001 to the tenant and the comunidade,” claimed Kurshid Ahmed.
“We’ve been regularly paying house and garbage taxes for years,” he added.
The local comunidade and the tenant Lala Ansari Bepari, who acted as the intermediary, are now under the residents’ scrutiny.
Many accuse them of turning a blind eye after accepting money from those seeking shelter.
Ansar Shiledar, another resident rendered homeless, voiced a common concern: the soaring cost of rent.
“How can we afford Rs 12,000 to Rs 14,000 a month for just two rooms?” he asked.
“We’re not asking for charity. If the government can give us a plot anywhere in Goa, we’re willing to pay and rebuild,” he said.
For now, there is little clarity on what the government’s next move will be. The families continue to wait, hope flickering among the ruins.
“We’ve lost everything,” said Ahmed. “But all we want is a chance to start again – with dignity, with a roof over our heads.”
