MARIAN PINHEIRO
The current Unity Mall controversy in Goa is an illustration of how consti tutional democracy fails when development is pursued as an executive project rather than as a legally accountable, partic ipatory process. Goa’s dispute reflects a wider pattern in India, where courts, communities, and constitutional principles collide over what may be described as “unilateral development”. The Unity Mall concept is framed nationally as a platform to promote ODOP and GI prod ucts and to support artisans and MSMEs. That policy objective may be defensible. However, constitu tional legitimacy is not conferred by a slogan, a budget line, or a “development” label. Legitimacy comes from procedure—lawful permissions, transparent reason ing, and meaningful participation where people’s lives and environ ments are affected. In Goa’s case, the controver sy escalated precisely because citizens allege they were effec tively bypassed in the selection and push for the location, and the dispute moved from protest to legal challenge. This matters because modern constitution al democracies do not fail only through authoritarian takeovers. They also fail through a quiet er pathology: “decision first, consultation later”—a form of governance in which public en gagement is reduced to damage control once contracts, time lines, and political commitments are already locked in. Article 21’s “right to life” in cludes the right to enjoy pollu tion-free air and water, because environmental degradation directly undermines life and health. The Supreme Court has held that the right to life includes the enjoyment of pollution-free water and air. This doctrine has grown into a broader constitu tional environmental jurispru dence, linking Article 21 with Article 48A and Article 51A(g). Even when a project does not immediately “pollute”, it can still violate the spirit of Article 21 if it destroys the conditions of digni fied life, access to water, common lands, local mobility, local mar kets, and informal livelihoods. In disputes such as the Chimbel Unity Mall, residents often link environmental concerns to live lihood impacts—water bodies, wetlands, aquifers, local farming and fishing systems, and settle ment pressures. The Unity Mall opposition in Chimbel has prom inently featured environmental impact concerns and their link to local life and livelihood. Under Article 21, the State cannot treat environmental and livelihood impacts as “externalities” to be managed after siting decisions are final. They are central con stitutional interests requiring reasoned, participatory, evi dence-based decision-making. Article 48A obligates the State “to protect and improve the en vironment and to safeguard the forests and wildlife of the coun try”. Courts have repeatedly used it to interpret the scope of State responsibility and to reinforce environmental protection as a constitutional value, not a dis cretionary policy choice. The constitutional contradic tion in controversies such as the Unity Mall is this: • The State presents a project as “public interest development”, yet • the process appears to gen erate serious allegations of envi ronmental risk and procedural impropriety, culminating in judi cial intervention. In constitutional terms, Article 48A demands more than a claim that a project will “boost tourism” or “support artisans”. It requires decision-makers to demonstrate environmental due diligence, es pecially where wetlands, lakes, or zone-of-influence questions are raised. Inspections and surveys focusing on lake impact and the “zone of influence” have become central to the dispute. The State cannot comply with Article 48A by merely asserting benefits. The duty is to protect and improve— which implies careful siting, credible assessment, avoidance of ecological harm, and public ac countability. Part IX of the Constitution constitutionalises Panchayats as units of local self-government. Article 243G specifically contem plates devolution and entrust ment of functions to Panchayats for the preparation and imple mentation of plans for economic development and social justice relating to matters in the Elev enth Schedule. That design has a democratic purpose: to pre vent exactly the kind of “unilat eral siting” conflict that erupts when projects are planned over people rather than with people. When Panchayat processes are overridden—whether through administrative directions, trun cated hearings, or post facto “en gagement”—the constitutional architecture of decentralisation becomes hollow. A frequent governmental de fence in such disputes is: “We held a meeting”, “We spoke to representatives”, or “We will do a survey”. However, constitutional democracy—especially after the 73rd Amendment—demands more: that local institutions have an effective role in planning, and that public participation is meaningful, informed, and early enough to influence outcomes. When residents claim the lo cation was decided unilaterally and only later “managed” through inspections or negotiations, it sig nals a failure of decentralisation in practice—even if decentralisation exists on paper. Ignoring the plan ning role of Panchayats (or com pressing it into a formalistic step) turns Article 243G into symbol ism—fuel for conflict rather than a framework for consent-building. This pattern is familiar in In dia: • Projects are announced as development imperatives • Local opposition surfaces, often on environmental and live lihood grounds • Administrative processes (permissions, clearances, land use changes) become contested • Courts step in—not neces sarily to “stop development”, but to enforce legality, jurisdiction, and procedure When citizens repeatedly need courts to restore basic procedural legality, democracy is not functioning as a participa tory system; instead, it functions as litigation-driven accountabil ity—often slower, more polaris ing, and more costly for commu nities and the environment. In the Niyamgiri/Vedanta mining dispute, the Supreme Court directed that the project could not proceed without the approval of gram sabhas and re quired those proceedings to be independent and uninfluenced. When projects affect ecology and community life, participation is not charity; it can be a decisive legal requirement. Niyamgiri shows that India’s constitutional structure is capable, at its best, of insisting that “public inter est” cannot be declared over the heads of affected people. The POSCO project in Odisha became emblematic of how ma jor projects can face sustained resistance when communities argue that legal requirements are being bypassed or dilut ed. Prolonged conflict is of ten produced when decisions are front-loaded (“the project must happen”) while participa tory and legal safeguards are back-loaded (“we’ll handle con cerns later”). That order is con stitutionally backwards. The Aarey metro car shed con troversy illustrates how urban development disputes can be come constitutional flashpoints around environmental value, public participation, and gov ernance credibility. Even where a project is framed as essential infrastructure, the legitimacy crisis begins when people per ceive that decision-makers treat ecology as expendable and pub lic engagement as performative. Across India, many environ ment-and-livelihood controver sies follow the same script: • A big project is announced as job-creating or tourism-boosting • Local ecological realities (wetlands, forests, aquifers, commons) are treated as techni cal hurdles rather than constitu tional values • Local bodies are pressured or overridden • The conflict shifts to courts and street protests The constitutional cost is enor mous. It trains citizens to believe that elections do not protect them from unconsulted land-use transformation, and that envi ronmental protection exists only when courts intervene. Democ racy is then reduced to executive convenience, with courts forced into late-stage repair. The Unity Mall controversy is not merely about being “for or against development”. It is about Goa’s life and environmental quality. (The writer is a Professor of Law and an education consultant)
