The suspension of Rajesh Naik, Goa’s Chief Town Planner, has stirred more than just administrative circles. It has reignited a simmering debate on accountability and the rot festering within public institutions. Accused of deliberately undervaluing land in zoning approvals and causing a staggering Rs 7.16 crore loss to the state exchequer, Naik’s fall from grace is not just about one man’s misconduct. It’s a cautionary tale of systemic failure, bureaucratic impunity, and the long, hard road citizens must tread to demand justice.
Naik’s case did not unravel overnight. It took months of persistent civil action, spearheaded by environmentalists and social activists, including Goa Foundation Director Claude Alvares, to bring the issue into the spotlight. On Gandhi Jayanti last year, a symbolic ‘broom march’ was carried out outside the Town Planning Office, highlighting not only Naik’s questionable reappointment after retirement but his blatant misuse of Section 17(2) of the Town Planning Act. He allegedly converted over 4.5 lakh square metres of land; most of it forested or under cultivation into developable plots. This was not town planning; this was legalised environmental vandalism.
The Vigilance Directorate finally took note and moved to suspend Naik in April 2025. Seven months after the public outcry is both a relief and a revelation. The question now reverberating through civil society and across social media is simple: Why did it take so long? The Vigilance Department falls directly under the Chief Minister’s jurisdiction.
Worryingly, this is not an isolated incident. Over the past few weeks, a series of disciplinary actions against high-ranking officials from negligent Chief Conservator of Forest to errant medical officers, suggests that something is finally shaking the complacency that has long plagued our administrative machinery. But is it sincere reform or selective scapegoating?
The relationship between elected leaders and the bureaucrats who implement policy is supposed to be one of mutual respect and accountability. In practice, however, many senior officials become pawns in a larger political game. Empowered by their proximity to political patrons, they function with impunity, knowing they are shielded. Corruption, in such an ecosystem, becomes institutional rather than incidental.
High Court has recently stepped up where the government hesitated. In Bardez, 14 Revenue Department officials were summoned for failing to demolish illegal constructions in the CRZ zone despite a High Court order. It took a contempt petition to force the administration into action , a troubling indicator of how court orders can be ignored unless legally enforced. In another case in Bicholim, following a complaint of illegal sand mining, government authorities only inspected the site seven days later. The delay drew sharp criticism from the court, which directed the District Collector to issue show-cause notices to the responsible parties.
But perhaps the most striking example of administrative negligence came in the Tillari project. Despite completing land acquisition in 2013, one affected family had still not received compensation. The High Court was left with no choice but to direct the government to recover Rs 9.36 lakh, with interest, from 12 land acquisition officers, an extraordinary move that laid bare the callousness of those meant to serve the public.
Why, then, do these officials forget that their role is to serve the people, not themselves? In a well-functioning democracy, public representatives must lead with character, and officials must act with competence. Today, citizens are confronted with the bitter reality that both are often missing in action. Instead of complementing each other in governance, they often unite in collusion. Shielding one another in a web of favouritism, neglect, and corruption.