Politicians keep crawling out of the woodwork in Goa all the time. Apart from their usual haunts like the Secretariat and offices of local self-government bodies, one runs into them tanking up in neighbourhood taverns, gossipping with the local newspaper vendor or even awaiting his turn at the bus-stand. Naturally, Goa is one place where voters do not accuse the neta brigade of showing up just once in five years during election time.So every time there is a political crisis, busy-bodies throng the press room of the Secretariat in Ponjee or Panjim. (The name Panaji was coined by someone obviously unfamiliar with either Konkani or Portuguese.) The resident hacks are then subjected to an endless inquisition as to the fate of a favourite politician. And should the worthy be unfortunate enough to miss the defection bus (and a ministerial berth), his backer begins a long lament about unkept promises and how much people have to depend on politicians to get their work done. Of course, the long haranguepredictably ends with the definitive statement that all politicians need to be dumped in the Mandovi, which conveniently flows by the Secretariat building!Thanks to its tiny size and small population, Goa has a low people-to-politician ratio. With 40 MLAs, three MPs and 2,000 members in 183 panchayats and 11 municipal councils, every one of Goa's 12 lakh residents knows a politician or two on a first-name basis. Something a denizen of Mumbai would envy if only the quality of administration was any better.But what certainly brightens up the scene for an outsider looking in are tid-bits of juicy gossip that are frequently served up by longstanding neighbours of politicians. For instance, old-timers recall the cold December night in 1961, when the Indian army marched into Goa and seized it from the Portuguese. Since popular loyalty was equally divided between the occupier and the liberator, supporters of the ancient regime holed up inside places of worship throughout the territory in large numbers andprayed for divine intervention. And among those who wept the loudest, they say, was then a little boy and is now one of the key claimants to the coveted chief ministerial throne!Remo Fernandes, the local lad who hit the big time with his pop number Politicians Don't Know How To Rock and Roll, was proved wrong when a respected lady legislator left her husband for a younger man. And should both the adversaries bump into each other at a watering hole, other patrons raise a toast to women whose life begins at 60!Reflecting its enviable educational and living standards (literacy levels just below Kerala's and a per capita higher than Punjab's), Goa's elected representatives largely comprise professionals like doctors, engineers, lawyers and college teachers - a far cry from the riff-raff who monopolise national politics. Consequently, debates in the Assembly (when MLAs are not jockeying for power) are remarkably well informed. Legislators come armed with accurate facts and figures and actually raiseissues pertaining to the people at the grassroots since most of them return to their constituencies after each day's session. Thanks to their experience and exposure abroad, Goan politicians like former chief minister Pratapsinh Rane and Wilfred D'Souza always manage to hold their own in the company of visiting professionals and technocrats.But unfortunately for the people of Goa, Bharat seems to have caught up with India here as well. During the three political crises which have rocked the state in the last six months, Nehruvian decorum has clearly become the main casualty. Shorn of their middle-class sophistication, the same politicians have now invited comparisons with Laloo Prasad Yadav and his ilk!
