There comes a time in every Goan’s life when he must rise above the romanticised fog of colonial nostalgia and look himself squarely in the mirror of truth. I am a product of such a time.
Let me say it plainly, without shame or hesitation: I am not Portuguese. I am Indian. My soul beats to the rhythm of Vande Mataram, not A Portuguesa. My blood carries the legacy of Bharat Mata, not the colonial ambitions of Vasco da Gama. My story, my struggle, my triumph, are all rooted in Indian soil.
Yes, I bear a surname that may trace its origins to a Portuguese household. Yes, I follow a faith that came to Goa through the sails of Iberian missionaries. And yes, my ancestors might have eaten bacalhau while humming fado. But what of it?
Are we merely the sum total of our past rulers? Shall the child born under British rule in Bengal call himself British? Shall the Tamilian whose ancestors lived under French rule in Puducherry raise the Tricolour or the Tricolore?
This misplaced pride in colonial identity is a ghost that still haunts some Goan hearts. And it must be exorcised.
There’s a dangerous trend among a vocal minority in Goa—a delusion cloaked in nostalgia. They believe that being Goan means being Portuguese in essence. That somehow, the moment you step outside the language, cuisine, and music brought by colonial rule, you’ve betrayed your Goan roots.
To them I say: Goa existed long before Afonso de Albuquerque docked his ship. Goa was shaped by the Bhoja dynasty, the Kadambas, the Vijayanagara Empire, and later by the Bahmani and Adil Shahi sultanates. Our temples were not built by the Portuguese. Our festivals were not invented by them. Our spirit was not born in Lisbon—it was born on the Konkan coast, under the Indian sun, drenched in the same rain that kissed Kerala, Maharashtra, and Karnataka.
Our Christianity is Indian in soul, even if Western in ritual. Our culture is not an extension of Europe. It is a fusion—yes—but one where Indian ethos remains the foundation.
For me, being Indian is not a forced identity. It is my karma, my dharma, and my destiny. I don’t wear it like a mask to fit into the Indian mainstream. I wear it like a second skin—one that has endured trials, battles, and rebirths across centuries.
My Indianness is not negated by my church attendance or my English accent. It is affirmed by my commitment to this land. I believe in the Indian Constitution. I uphold the Indian Flag. I vote in Indian elections. I cry when Indian soldiers die. I cheer when Indian athletes win. And I pray when India hurts.
I do not need a Portuguese passport to find meaning in life. I do not need a foreign identity to feel special. I do not need to look west to find pride in who I am.
Let us not forget: the Portuguese left not because they wanted to, but because the people of Goa—led by sons and daughters of this soil—rose in revolt and demanded freedom. From the Azad Gomantak Dal to the fearless Ram Manohar Lohia and Dr Juliao Menezes, history testifies that Goans chose India, not Portugal.
And let’s be brutally honest—Portugal didn’t give us their best. They gave us the Inquisition, censorship, religious persecution, and systemic dismantling of native culture. Goa paid a heavy price under their boots. And yet today, some among us romanticise that period as if it were a golden age. I call that wilful blindness.
It’s time to accept who we are, not who we were told we should be. I’m not ashamed of my ancestry. But I will not be a slave to it. My children will grow up as Indians who are proud to be Goans—not Goans pretending to be Europeans as I did because that’s what my parents taught me. They will learn to honour our devas and devtas, our saints and sages, our rivers and mountains, not through borrowed eyes, but through a truly Indian gaze.
My vision for Goa is not a Portuguese museum. It is a thriving, progressive, and proud Indian state, contributing to the soul of this great nation. A Goa that sings in Konkani, debates in English, prays in Latin, and dreams in Sanskrit. That is the Goa I believe in.
So let me say this one more time, clearly and for the record: I am not Portuguese. I am Indian.
I might carry the surname Rodrigues. I might bow my head at the altar. I might still enjoy sorpotel and feni. But in my aatma, in my heartbeat, in my allegiance—I am a son of Bharat Mata.
And I bow to her alone.
