Attending to the final decades of Portuguese rule in Goa, da Costa’s book looks closely at rice production in the capital of Estado da Índia, arguing that despite being a dietary staple, the crop regularly fell short of the requirements of Goans, and especially those from marginalized backgrounds. In her book, da Costa examines how the problem of rice insufficiency was emblematic of entrenched social hierarchies, especially in the context of bhatkar-mundkar (landlord-tenant) agrarian economies in Goa. Yet, as da Costa also finds, the failure to meet the basic needs of its people evidenced the decline of Portuguese India.
As is clear, da Costa’s book delves into social, economic, and political concerns related to Goa’s twentieth century history. Nevertheless, da Costa’s research also includes cultural and literary perspectives, topics she says more about in this interview with R. Benedito Ferrão.
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RBF: What led you to the study of rice and especially in the period of Goan history you cover in your book?
MLBC: Rice is the staple food of the Goan people, and any serious study of the region’s history must acknowledge its central role within the community. In my own writing and research, I’ve explored how rice shaped not just daily sustenance, but also systems of power and survival. When this basic cereal was in short supply, it wasn’t just hunger people faced — it was vulnerability. Those who had no land of their own to grow rice, especially the subaltern classes, found themselves increasingly dependent on landowners. That dependence became a tool — a way to control, exploit, and dominate. And it wasn’t just individuals who used it to their advantage. The very institutions that governed agrarian life — our Comunidades, and the colonial rulers behind them — all played their part in reinforcing these hierarchies, with rice as both the currency and the chain.
The sixty years I chose to explore were marked by events that left a lasting impact on Goa and the wider world — two World Wars, the Great Depression, the long struggle for freedom from colonial rule, and ultimately, the end of Portuguese control in Goa, Daman, and Diu. What drew me to this period wasn’t just its historical significance, but its nearness. I had lived through the final years of Portuguese rule as a child, and the memories of that time have stayed with me. More than that, I grew up listening to stories from elders — people who had experienced those events firsthand. Their recollections, shared around the home or in conversation, made history feel vivid and alive. That intimacy, that sense of lived experience, made working with contemporary history far more meaningful to me than delving into the distant past.
RBF: An intertext you rely on quite a bit is one by another writer with whom you share a surname: O Signo da Ira / The Sign of Wrath (1961) by Orlando da Costa (1929-2006). Quite symbolically, this work of fiction in Portuguese was published (in Portugal) in the same year as the end of Portuguese rule in Goa. Inasmuch as da Costa’s novel is set against the backdrop of Goa’s rural agrarian economy and portrays the hardships encountered by mundkars, it coequally represents the stratification of caste-ridden social hierarchies in late Portuguese Goa.
In employing O Signo da Ira, you parallel this work of fiction and the historical realities of the period of its setting. What role does historical fiction play in helping us understand the past?
Historical fiction invites us to see history not just as a series of facts, but as a human story — layered, subjective, and alive. It allows us to question dominant narratives, reclaim silenced histories, to feel the past, and to better understand the forces that shaped our present and, in this particular case, continue to shape Goan (and lusophone) identity today.
My
interest in O Signo da Ira stems from its focus on rice cultivation and
the power dynamics between the
bhatkar and mundkar. Although the
author briefly notes that the story is based on this relationship, the novel
deeply engages with these themes. It begins with the preparation of fields for
the winter rice crop (vangana), grounding the narrative in agrarian
life. However, rice is not just a crop — it becomes a symbol of survival and a
tool of exploitation in the story. The bhatkars control land and, by
extension, the mundkars, reinforcing caste and class hierarchies.
Through this lens, the novel exposes how food and land are central to systems
of oppression. O Signo da Ira thus functions as both historical fiction
and social critique, giving voice to the often-silenced realities of rural Goan
life under colonial rule.
In reading the novel through the lens of rice cultivation, I found it became much more than a historical fiction set in colonial Goa. It served as a critique of agrarian injustice, a document of lived realities, and a reminder of how sustenance — something as essential as rice — could also be weaponised in maintaining systems of inequality.
MLBC: In Goan and diasporic cultural expressions, food represents more than sustenance — it is a vessel of memory, identity, and belonging. Traditional dishes like fish curry-rice or sarapatel carry stories of home, family, and heritage, often passed down through generations. In the diaspora, preparing these foods becomes a way to reconnect with Goa, preserving cultural identity in new environments. Another interesting example is the chouriço–churisas or linguisas de Goa. For many, it is one of the most cherished foods in Goa, as well as for expatriate Goans. An ode to it was written by far and nearby Goan writers, maybe closer in Bombay or far away in Canada.
RBF: Even though your book is about Goan food history, in many ways it is also about the significance of fiction, poetry, and music by Goans in the establishment and maintenance of Goa’s culture. Now that you are retired after many years of service as a librarian, what do you reckon has changed in the way that Goans engage with literature by Goan writers? To be plain, this question arises from my own interest as a scholar of Goan literature and the observation that it is a subject that does not receive adequate attention in academia in Goa.
MLBC: I would agree with you — for a long time, Goan writers were not recognised as having a serious place in literature. We see that while Goa did produce literature in Portuguese during the colonial period, full-length novels were few and far between. What we do have, however, are short stories and significant contributions by Goan writers in Marathi and Roman Konkani.
After the annexation of Goa in 1961, the literary scene diversified further. We began to see works in English, Konkani (both Romi and Devanagari scripts), and Marathi, along with a handful of publications in Portuguese — mostly short stories, a few novels, and some essays. I am speaking specifically about Goan literature in Goa.
Although my own work has drawn on fiction, poetry, and music by Goans to understand how culture was established and maintained, this approach hasn't always been widely accepted. Many conservative historians still regard archival documents as the only legitimate source for historical inquiry. That said, this trend is gradually shifting. More scholars are beginning to see the value of alternative sources — including fiction — in capturing the emotional and cultural realities of a society.
In this spirit, I have used newspapers as a kind of “people’s archive” — a living record of voices, opinions, and everyday experiences that formal archives often overlook. While this approach may not be accepted by all, it is heartening to see a growing openness toward literary and cultural texts as valid sources of historical understanding.
Fiction is often undervalued in academia for lacking factual credibility, yet it offers deep insight, especially when official records are limited or biased. It is up to the researcher to critically engage with fiction as a cultural and emotional archive. Meaningful analysis requires depth — not simply citing many sources, but closely examining a few relevant texts within the research context. When approached thoughtfully, fiction can powerfully complement or challenge official historical narratives.
I would like to add that the São Paulo University, Brazil, academic group, Pensando Goa, and the GIEIPC-IP - Grupo Internacional de Estudos da Imprensa Periódica Colonial do Império Português, based in Lisbon, are responsible for opening up new dimensions of research, and I am happy to be an active member of both groups.
RBF: In closing, how would you like to see your book engaged with in Goa and elsewhere?
MLBC: I’d like my book to be seen as part of an effort to rethink how we engage with Goan history — not only through documents and state archives, but through the textures of everyday life: food, fiction, music, memory. In Goa, I hope readers connect with the work personally — especially those whose families have lived the realities I explore, like the politics of rice cultivation or the bhatkar–mundkar relationship. These are not just economic structures, but deeply emotional and cultural ones, shaping how people experienced power, identity, and survival.
I’ve used fiction, poetry, and song not just as background or context, but as sources — as living archives. And I’ve treated newspapers as “people’s archives,” where voices often excluded from official records could still be heard. I hope that readers and researchers begin to see these forms as essential to understanding history — particularly in postcolonial and regional contexts like Goa.
Outside Goa, I’d like the book to challenge the more superficial or romantic views of the region. Goa is not only a tourist destination or a footnote in Portuguese colonial history — it is a place of deep literary, linguistic, and social complexity. If the book can help spark more interest in Goan literature — whether in Portuguese, Romi or Devanagari Konkani, Marathi, or English — and open up new ways of thinking about cultural memory and resistance, then I’ll feel it has done meaningful work.
In the end, I hope it encourages others — students, scholars, and general readers — to look more closely, to read more deeply, and to question the boundaries between history and culture.
From the João Roque Literary Journal.
