There is a quiet truth about Goa that we often miss in our debates about development and preservation. The infrastructure around us is not something that simply happens to us. It is a mirror reflecting the choices we make as a society. The roads we complain about, the vanishing public spaces we mourn, the increasingly hostile streets we navigate—these are not accidents. They are the logical outcomes of countless individual decisions to withdraw from shared life.
Walk through any Goan village today and you will notice a subtle but profound shift. The traditional balcão, that open-air porch where neighbours once gathered to exchange news, argue politics or simply watch the world go by, is disappearing. These weren’t ornamental features of a home; they were the social operating systems of our villages. Without needing grand ideas about “community,” community happened — because architecture demanded it.
Today, those balcãos are disappearing, and with them, something intangible but vital is slipping through our fingers. Houses have turned their faces away from the street. Porches have moved to the backyard, hiding life behind high walls. We live in private enclaves with gated driveways designed for maximum privacy. The village itself — once a series of open invitations — has become a scattering of isolated private fortresses. This architectural shift is not just about aesthetics. It signals a deeper retreat from community life.
The architecture of old Goa created the possibility of public life. Low boundary walls meant you could exchange a quick word across a hedge. Shaded, narrow lanes meant walking was natural because trees offered cover. The consequences of this retreat reveal themselves in our shared public infrastructure. When we stop sitting on our front steps, streets become mere thoroughfares rather than social spaces. When we choose cars over walking, authorities respond by widening roads at the expense of sidewalks and shade trees. When we no longer linger in public markets, those local markets shrink or vanish.
Contrast that with today’s development patterns, where villages are being redesigned for cars instead of people. Wide roads slice through neighbourhoods. Trees are chopped down to make room for wider carriageways. Pedestrians are left clinging to crumbling shoulders, if they can even walk at all. “Connectivity” now means how fast you can drive, not how deeply you are woven into the life of your community.
This is not a conspiracy. It is simple cause and effect. A community that no longer uses its commons will find those commons eroded—not out of malice but neglect.
The costs of this disengagement are both tangible and intangible.
Start with the social fabric. The balcão was more than architectural flair. It was a daily exercise in democracy. Casual interactions with neighbors, even those we might disagree with, fostered tolerance and compromise. Sociologists call these middle-ring relationships—the layer between intimate friends and strangers—and they are essential for healthy societies. Without them, we risk becoming a collection of isolated individuals, disconnected from the people next door. As public life collapses, public tolerance collapses with it.
Then there are the economic consequences. Compare the vibrant, pedestrian-friendly streets of old Panjim, where shops, cafés and homes spill onto sidewalks, with the car-centric sprawl of newer suburbs. The former nurtures small businesses and chance encounters. The latter demands parking lots and fast-moving traffic. When streets become mere conduits for cars, they cease to be places where community life unfolds.
And finally, the ecological toll. More asphalt means less shade, hotter microclimates and increased reliance on private air conditioning—a vicious cycle that further drives people indoors.
Meanwhile, the surge of second homes and short-term rentals further hollows out what little remains of the commons. These homes rob villages of real neighbors. A second home or holiday home doesn’t vote in the local panchayat. Without the mundane rhythms of daily life, community cannot regenerate itself.
And yet, we remain confused about why Goa feels different.
If all we ask from public authorities is better roads, then all we will get is more roads — at the cost of everything else. If our only vision for public infrastructure is faster throughput for private cars, then trees will fall, local markets will hollow out, and eventually, the very streets we loved for their life and slowness will be sacrificed to vehicular traffic.
It is no accident that the best neighborhoods in the world — the ones we romanticise on holidays — prioritize pedestrian life over vehicular life. Places like Alfama in Lisbon, Marais in Paris, or even Fort Kochi in Kerala — are all designed around the human scale. These places share a common insight. Infrastructure is not neutral. It encourages certain behaviors and discourages others. Wide roads invite speeding cars. Narrow, shaded streets invite strolling neighbors.
One of the most overlooked tools we have to rebuild community life is architecture itself. What if Goa began encouraging what we can call community-positive architecture? Imagine offering tax breaks, fast-track approvals, or other incentives for designs that prioritize openness over fortification — low or porous boundary walls, front-facing balcãos or verandahs, shaded sidewalks, windows and doors that engage the street rather than retreat from it. Financially rewarding openness, instead of hiding, could nudge private choices back toward collective good.
If Goa wants to retain what is special about it, we have to make different choices. This isn’t about banning cars or freezing villages in amber. It’s about understanding the forces we set in motion through our personal habits, our architectural choices, our demands of the state. We can continue down the path of isolation, watching as our public realm withers from disuse. Or we can reinvest in the choices and spaces that make community possible.
The Goa we love was never just a collection of scenic spots. It was a way of living together. If we want to preserve that spirit, we must be willing to inhabit it.
The infrastructure we get will always reflect the community we are. What do we want ours to say?
(The author is a strategy consultant and writer living in Goa)