Sarah Rodrigues
As the sun begins to set behind the hills of Pernem, Sitabai slowly makes her way home, a worn jhola resting against her hip. Her day has been spent walking through nearby villages, knocking on doors and asking for leftover food or old clothes—whatever people are willing to give. For Sitabai, this is not occasional; it is a routine shaped by survival.
But returning home does not always bring relief. She often faces verbal abuse from her husband, who, under the influence of
alcohol, vents his frustrations on her. A few feet away, her grandchildren sit playing with stones—too young to intervene, yet old enough to witness it.
Located along the Pernem stretch of NH-66, just behind a fuel station, an uneven muddy road branches uphill. At the top lies a small settlement, home to around 15 families of the Wanarmare community. For nearly three generations, they have lived here with limited access to food, drinking water, housing, healthcare and electricity.
Their homes are makeshift structures built with bamboo poles, tarpaulin sheets and dried palm leaves. They offer little protection from the weather. Cooking is done outdoors on mud stoves using twigs and dry leaves, but whether a meal is prepared often depends on whether someone has earned wages that day. The monsoon makes life harder. Heavy rain rushes down the hillside, flooding homes and washing away belongings.
“It is very difficult for us during the monsoons,” says Akshay, a resident in his early 30s. “Rainwater flows down the hill and enters our houses. Our children have to sleep in water. We don’t have any other option.”
The vulnerability extends to their animals too. Sitabai’s elder brother owns two buffaloes, kept in a shed made of bamboo and dried palm leaves. During heavy rains, the animals remain exposed to flooding and cold.
The Wanarmare community in Virnoda belongs to the Wanarmare clan of the Katkari tribe, listed among India’s Particularly Vulnerable Tribal Groups. Historically dependent on forests, many migrated from Maharashtra after hunting restrictions became stricter. Over time, they settled in parts of Goa, including Virnoda and Nirankal.
“We used to live in Malpe and Bhutwadi, on the other side of the highway,” recalls Dattaram, one of the elders. “But we shifted to this hillslope in Virnoda many decades ago.”
Dattaram says he learned archery from his father and grandfather but never hunted monkeys. “We now depend on agricultural work,” he says. Today, most residents work as labourers on nearby farms, maintaining cashew plantations, tending areca nut and coconut trees, harvesting mangoes and doing general agricultural work. They also collect forest produce such as mushrooms, tirfala, kokum and pulses, which they sell at the weekly Pernem market for additional income.
Despite living there for decades, the families do not own the land. “We work on the land of a local landlord who has allowed us to stay here,” says Akshay. “But the land is not in our name. We don’t have any security.”
Education remains difficult to access. Younger children attend the Government Marathi Primary School, while older students travel to Vikas High School in Virnoda. The muddy road to the settlement is inaccessible to school transport, forcing children to walk long distances every day.
Komal, a mother of three, sits beside a brick oven blowing through a pipe to light dry twigs. She speaks quietly: “We only want a proper house with a proper roof.”
Healthcare is another challenge. The nearest health centre is in Parcem, requiring travel on foot, often through forest paths. During the monsoon,
when illness becomes more common, access becomes even harder.
After sunset, darkness settles over the settlement. “Only two houses have a single light bulb,” says Hanuman Powar. Water supply too is limited, with only a few homes connected to tap water supply.
Yet the community continues to find moments of togetherness. Festivals such as Ganesh Chaturthi and Diwali are celebrated collectively. Residents say neighbouring villagers
often hire them for farm work and maintain cordial ties with them.
NGOs such as Human Touch Foundation have helped residents secure documents including birth certificates and ration cards, while government departments and the local MLA have supported access to welfare schemes and basic amenities.
But one issue remains unresolved: land ownership.
“We have lived here for so many years without land in our name. We hope the government will intervene for our cause,” he says.
Sitting on a stone and watching his grandchildren play in the sand, Dattaram looks ahead.
