This is a translation of an article “Passagem para a Índia” published in the magazine section of O Expresso on December 8, 2001. Translated by Gabriel Figueiredo, reproduced here with his permission. It tells the story of the 1961 Indian annexation of Goa from a Portuguese perspective, through the eyes of Carlos Azaredo.
At 0:00 hours on December 18, 1961, the invasion of Goa, Damão and Diu began. It lasted 36 hours. The disproportion was obscene: Indian forces were 13 times larger than the Portuguese garrison. The “total sacrifice” Salazar demanded would have been a tragedy. General Vassalo e Silva, the last governor of 451 years of Portuguese India, understood this when he surrendered.
Carlos Azaredo was one of the soldiers who lived through it. Forty years later, he guided O Expresso back through the last years of India Portuguesa.
The Volunteer
Azaredo first set foot in Goa on September 17, 1954. He was 23, an ensign in the Cavalry, and he had volunteered to defend the Estado da Índia against what everyone expected would be an invasion by the newly independent India.
“We left Lisbon on board the Serpa Pinto. I was the only Cavalry officer on board.”
He came from a monarchical family in the district of Baião, joined the Military School in 1948 against his father’s wishes—his father wanted him to study Engineering—and then the Cavalry Training School at Torres Novas, and the Cavalry Regiment No. 6 at Porto, “my first regiment.”
The voyage was slow and uneventful. “We passed the Suez Canal and the British were still in Aden.” He disembarked at Mormugão, the port conquered by Afonso de Albuquerque on November 25, 1510.
The neighbouring Union of India was a volcano of nationalist fervour. Independent from England since 1947, its leaders had long proclaimed the integration of Portuguese territories: Goa, Damão and Diu. Mahatma Gandhi was the first to declare Goa could not remain separate. Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru made it official in 1950, formally reclaiming the territories and proposing negotiations.
The government of Oliveira Salazar refused, arguing Goa was part of the Portuguese nation. In Goa, Damão and Diu, civil disobedience and demands for autonomy were met with prison, deportation and censorship. Many Goans—Catholic and Hindu alike—fled into exile.
In this dialogue of the deaf, India tried a new tactic: economic blockades and the satyagrahis. The word literally means “force of truth”—Gandhi’s strategy of non-violent resistance. Successive waves of satyagrahis, escorted by military personnel, invaded the Portuguese enclaves of Dadrá and Nagar-Aveli near Damão in 1954. The first fell on July 22, the second eleven days later.
In the confrontations at Dadrá, two Portuguese police officers were killed. “Died for the Motherland,” reads the inscription on a headstone still maintained in a garden at one of the forts in Damão.
Salazar responded with diplomatic and military plans. On the day Portugal joined the United Nations, it appealed to the International Tribunal of Justice in The Hague against the annexation. And it strengthened the defence of Portuguese India by calling for volunteers.
Azaredo answered the call. Three more army battalions arrived in Goa. General Benard Guedes, the governor, had 12,000 troops across the three territories.
The Frontier
Goa was not entirely unknown to young Azaredo. Born on October 4, 1930 in Marco de Canavezes, he belonged to the Távora family through maternal links—the same family that the Marquês de Pombal had treated as a love rival. Francisco de Assis Távora, the last marquês with that title, was the 45th viceroy of India (1750–54). No wonder the family had become one of the largest landowners in the colony.
Once numerous, rich and influential, the Noronha e Távora that Azaredo met in Goa were shadows of their former selves. D. Augusto was the head of the family. “He was the first cousin of my grandfather. He married a Goan and stayed on to look after the family property—each time smaller, they say.”
D. Augusto, now 90, was not at home. A major stroke had put him in hospital. A metallic plaque reading “D. Augusto de Noronha e Távora, better known as ‘Lobé’” marked the residence in an ordinary building on a chaotic road in Panaji.
The general was received by one of D. Augusto’s daughters, Margarida. On a wall hung a family tree, starting from D. Lourenço Carlos Bernardo de Noronha and his link with D. Veridiana Amália Henriques da Cunha Lobato de Faria. “Our cousins from Porto sent it to us,” Margarida explained. On a table, an ashtray from Futebol Clube do Porto—Lobé was a devoted supporter. “The last time I saw him was during President Mário Soares’ visit in 1992. He was at the hotel reception, wearing an FC Porto cap.”
The last Távora in Goa was in room 10 of the hospital at Bambolim. With tubes and a drip, D. Augusto was unconscious, unaware of his circumstances, unable to recognise his cousin Carlos. A nurse tried to rouse him. In the silence of the room, it felt like the torpor of death. The general took his leave with a gentle caress of the hand and an inaudible goodbye.
Azaredo’s first posting was at Perném, near the Tiracol river that marked the border with India. He commanded a detachment of 30 men—27 privates and 3 sergeants. “We set up in conical canvas tents and spent the whole monsoon in them.”
The most identifiable frontier post was Tiracol, on the northern bank of the river, protected by a fort built in 1746. In August 1954, before Azaredo arrived, satyagrahis had taken the fort and raised the Indian tricolour until a police force reclaimed it. The subsequent peace reduced border control to routine. “In my time, nothing happened. We’d leave Perném, catch a customs launch and go down the Tiracol to the fort. It was a beautiful trip.”
The Tiracol fort, built of laterite blocks, is now a pleasant hotel popular with Goan tourists. The bridge is far away, so you take a ferry-boat near Querim—10 minutes between the two riverbanks. The view towards Querim beach to the south is fantastic. Inside, the small fortress is very well preserved. The façade of the Jesuit chapel, from 1822, is whitewashed and still holds statues of Saint Sebastian, Saint Francis Xavier and Anthony of Lisbon. The old fort of Terekhol—the Konkani name, the language most spoken in Goa—is one of the finest examples of Portuguese military architecture, a leading lookout facing the state of Maharashtra.
His commission at Perném lasted six months. Then came a posting at Maulinguem on the northeastern frontier as a shooting-range officer. “I was there three months. I wrote a report stating that 60% of the ammunition was unused.” The rifles were Lee-Enfields, five-shot, British-made, 1917 model. “The humidity would penetrate the cartridge belts and the rifle barrels would get stuck. You had to clear them with a rod.”
For someone who had volunteered for war, the inactivity was maddening. “As nothing was happening, I requested a passage home.” Minister Santos Costa refused. “The dispatch said: ‘When a Cavalry ensign volunteers, he volunteers for everything. Bear with it!’ And bear it I did.”
The rest of his commission was at the Mapuça squadron, in an old school converted to quarters. He shared a house in the centre of town with another officer. “Each had a batman and the cook was shared—but all were Africans. At this time there were soldiers from Landim, a place on the banks of the Zambesi in Mozambique, of the Vátua tribe of the famous Gungunhana, stationed in Goa.” The preferred entertainment was the cinema at night, watching Indian films. “I was always attacked by huge bugs. When I reached home, I’d undress, enter naked and leave the infested clothes at the door to be washed. That was life at Mapuça.”
Mapusa is today Goa’s third city, after Panaji and Margão. The market is lively, the cinema halls abundant. A marble slab records that General Craveiro Lopes inaugurated the Liceu Municipal D. Francisco d’Almeida there in 1933. The school became quarters and is now a school again—St. Mary’s, run by Carmelite nuns. The sentry boxes are gone. “The sentries were Landins. Perfect statues, the best soldiers I’ve seen.”
The school was closed—it was Diwali, the festival of lights marking the Hindu New Year. At the door, cars from a driving school were parked, their logo bearing a Brahmanic cross (which inspired the Nazi swastika).
The Turning
In September 1955, Nehru ordered an end to the satyagrahi movements. The decision came after August 15—the anniversary of Indian independence—when 3,000 pacifists penetrated into Goa, Damão and Diu.
“The Portuguese police and military forces opened fire on the satyagrahis without warning and in various places,” writes P.N. Khera in Operation Vijay. Estimate: 22 dead, 225 wounded. Non-violence was put on hold. New Delhi changed strategy. Nehru tightened the economic siege—Goa was now totally dependent on imports—and moved toward a military solution.
In February 1956, after 18 months in Goa, Carlos Azaredo returned to Portugal. Now a lieutenant, he married and dedicated himself to horsemanship.
By the turn of the decade, the anti-colonial wave was building toward the Portuguese African territories—Angola, Guiné, Mozambique. Lisbon re-evaluated the situation. Priority went to Africa, because everyone knew Goa was militarily indefensible, as Salazar would otherwise have admitted.
The International Tribunal at The Hague delivered its verdict in April 1960. Ambiguous: Portuguese sovereignty over Dadrá and Nagar Aveli was recognised, but India had the right to obstruct the passage of foreigners through its territory.
At the end of the year, the under-secretary of the Army Staff made a survey visit to Portuguese India. Pragmatic and realistic, Lt-Col Costa Gomes proposed a drastic reduction in the military presence. Salazar agreed. Within months, the garrison shrank from 12,000 to around 3,500. The navy, once two ships, was reduced to the ageing Afonso de Albuquerque, with three small customs launches for the three territories and the island of Angediva. The Air Force remained non-existent.
The Return
In January 1961, quite unexpectedly, Azaredo and India crossed paths again. Promoted to captain, he returned to Goa—not as a volunteer this time. “By then I was married, so I took my wife Lúcia and our three children—a boy and two girls.”
This time he travelled on the Timor. Same route, but the differences were clear. “At Port Said, the statue of Ferdinand Lesseps, the constructor of the Suez Canal, had been knocked down. The British military were no longer at Aden.”
One of the few officers with Goan experience, Azaredo stayed in the capital, in charge of the Police of the Estado da Índia. Headquarters were at Largo das Sete Janelas in central Panjim. The commander was also a Cavalry captain, Joaquim Pinto Brás. “I started as provisional second commander, then went on to command the sections of Procedures, Traffic, Municipal Police, Military Training and Foreign Service—I hope I haven’t forgotten any others.”
The effective force was around 500 police personnel, European and Goan. The eastern and southern frontier was his responsibility. “I had to visit and inspect the posts—which at this time were dedicated mainly to combatting terrorism.” The so-called subversive war was at its peak: between 1955 and 1959, the Army Staff recorded 179 assaults, 152 sabotages and a hundred other unsuccessful attempts—resulting in 30 Portuguese and 73 Indian deaths.
The Goa State Police headquarters occupied the same building in Panaji. The Portuguese coat-of-arms had been erased from the door, only the construction date—1832—remaining. The exterior, painted a bold yellow, was the target of a restoration project subsidised by the Fundação Oriente.
The receptionist was a woman police officer in brown uniform and a black beret pulled backwards, to allow a bindi—the red mark Hindus wear between the eyebrows—to show. At the front stood one sentry, moustached, with rifle and bayonet. Cars and jeeps, police and civilians, came and went.
The old alarm bell, made of the same bronze as the cannons, reminded you that the empire was built on a peculiar association of clergymen and military. Polished but silent, there had been times when it rang furiously—against fire, against attacks by Muslims and Maharajas.
The interior parade ground was practically unchanged. The same mango trees, gigantic and majestic. The unmistakable crows, bluish-black with a nasal caw. Even the lawn, used for drill and training, seemed to preserve the same football goalposts from 40 years ago. The only difference was a roof to protect vehicles from sun and rain, and the slender Ashoka pillar.
The square in front was unrecognisable. The name had changed from Sete Janelas to Azad Maidan—Field of Independence. The huge bronze statue of Vasco da Gama had been removed to the museum at Old Goa. In its place stood a monument—in an ugly combination of blue, white, black and gold—containing the mortal remains of Tristão de Braganza Cunha, who died in 1958. He was the founder of the Goa Congress Committee, the first of the Goan nationalist organisations, among which the radical Azad Gomantak Dal was prominent.
In a corner of the square, another memorial honoured “the martyrs in the fight for liberty and against colonialism in India.” Dated 1973, financed by the Goan Freedom Fighters Association, it records 67 combatants inscribed on stone—in English and Hindi. Some were native Goans, others from Maharashtra, Madhya Pradesh, Punjab and even Bangladesh. Between the two monuments, schoolchildren practised cricket—the chief sport of India and Goa.
The Azaredo family settled in a house near the headquarters. “I never knew the name of the road.” The landlord was a rich Goan merchant, of the shop Velho e Filhos, who supplied troops and other clients with wine and dried cod (bacalhau). They rented the first floor at the rear of the Medical School Hospital. “Sometimes we witnessed macabre sights: Muslim cadavers being washed in the mortuary before burial, facing Mecca.” It was a house with a large veranda and windows with carepas—fish scales instead of glass. The neighbour was a friendly doctor named Almeida, who had studied in Lisbon and, with eleven children, always had his house full.
The road still had no visible name, but had lost its tranquillity and charm—so much noise and fumes from buses, cars and rickshaws. The house, however, was much the same. At the entrance on the ground floor, the glazed tile still bore the landlord’s name: “Velho.” The descendants of old Velho now lived there and received the general with open arms, a cup of tea and homemade cakes.
Cheerfully, Loretta Dias Velho showed everything to the unexpected visitor: dining room, bedrooms, kitchen, bathroom. As in all Christian homes in Goa, there was no shortage of religious motifs—the statue of Our Lady of Fátima, a photograph of Pope John Paul II. A china plate from Alcobaça guaranteed that “with three letters only can one write the word Mum.” Built in 1952, the house had always had military tenants—Portuguese first, Indian later. “We only managed to get it back in 1991.” Azaredo said, “After the invasion, they attacked it and threw practically everything out of the window. I was left with nothing.”
In the adjoining apartment, Dr. Almeida still lived. Romualdo António de Jesus Almeida would turn 90. Bed-ridden, he received his former neighbour with a happy smile. All his eleven children “still live.” Three were triplets, but memory failed and he could only name two: Mário and Arnaldo. On the wall proudly hung his diploma in Medicine, dated 1936.
The Last Prisoner
On July 30, the Panjim Police took another prisoner: Ravindra Kelecar, one of the “Freedom Fighters.” “I was the last Goan to be imprisoned by the Portuguese.” Ravindra had been one of the rare Hindus of his generation to attend the Liceu Nacional Afonso de Albuquerque.
“There was a sort of apartheid between the Portuguese and the Hindus,” he revealed. “Reason why these [Hindus] never had a good impression of the others.”
His life was marked by an unforgettable date: June 18, 1948, when Ram Manohar Lohia, the Indian socialist leader, went to Margão to hold a rally. “Some six or seven hundred people gathered to listen to him. One could never imagine it would be possible to gather so many people.” The police obstructed the session, but the message got through: “Without struggle, Goans will never be able to liberate their country.” Ravindra took it to heart.
The non-violence theorised by Gandhi and practised by the satyagrahis wasn’t the only tactic. “I went about with bombs, revolvers and all,” Ravindra recalled. When asked for exact details, he stopped with an enigmatic, “They were unimportant things, dictated by youth and enthusiasm.” Things he did not repent, because, he stressed, “I did not kill anyone.”
Ravindra Kelecar, 76, received us in his house near Mardol. A Brahmin, he was a respected intellectual. He dressed in a fine white cotton Hindu suit reaching to his feet; the few hairs, left long and white, were pushed backwards; his small, vivid eyes peered behind thick lenses. He offered hot tea and apologised for his Portuguese—which was surprisingly excellent.
Ravindra and Azaredo did not recognise each other, in spite of the former having been imprisoned in the headquarters of the latter.
The Goan remembered that at the time of his detention, “the Police commandant was Pinto Brás.” Insisted by the Portuguese, he remembered being “well treated.” “The problem,” he added, “was that I was never questioned, nor tried, let alone condemned.”
Isolated in a cell, his family visited on Saturdays. “One day, they did not allow me to receive any visits. I wrote to Pinto Brás in protest, who sent a reply that he did not know why I was imprisoned—and there I was for three months! Four hours later, a corporal set me free.” An unusual ending to an arbitrary imprisonment.
Since 1962, Ravindra devoted himself to winning autonomy for Goa. A battle that lasted five years and which “was worth being imprisoned another 26 times.” Disappointed and retired from politics, he wrote his memoirs, which have unfortunately not been translated into English. In his final years, he discovered Fernando Pessoa and his Livro de Desassossego (Book of Restlessness), “one of the saddest and profoundest books in the literary world.”
The Monsoon and the Gathering Storm
The monsoon of 1961, unleashing itself between May and September, was not placid. A typhoon swept the southern coast between Margão and Canacona. General Vassalo e Silva had been governor of Goa since 1958.
Doing justice to his qualifications as an engineer, the governor devoted himself to rebuilding the poor local residences. He called Azaredo to the Palácio do Idalcão (Adil Khan Palace), which served as the seat of government.
“He requested me to make an inventory of the damage. I don’t know how he remembered me—it’s a mystery. I visited the whole affected region, advised by an engineering officer experienced in construction and works. I handed in the report in December. It gave a survey of the damage and the material required: bricks, beams, tiles, galvanised sheets.”
The collaboration between Governor-General and captain grew closer. The former appreciated the latter’s initiative, earnestness and promptness. Azaredo valued the general’s seriousness and his passion for Goa and the Goans. At the Idalcão, near the Mandovi river, a friendship that would last a lifetime was born.
The Idalcão is older than the Portuguese conquest. The former palace of Adil Khan, the Muslim ruler defeated by Albuquerque, was converted into the official residence of the Viceroys in 1759.
The palace continued to be the seat of power. The Chief Minister—a sort of Prime Minister of Goa—worked there. Manohar Parrikar belonged to the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), the same party that governed in New Delhi and which many accused of being Hindu fundamentalist. In Goa, it was in power for its second year, thanks to a conglomerate parliamentary unity.
The age-old building was in need of complete restoration, inside and out. The noble old hall was a pallid shadow of what it had been. The portraits of Governors and Viceroys had gone to the Museum. In their place, photographs, oils and pictures of high Indian dignitaries hung: the famous Maharaja Shivaji, the ex-Prime Minister Indira Gandhi, her son Rajiv, and others.
Of the long table, the plush carpets, the rich candlesticks and porcelain—there was no sign. The skylight, which once lit the ample hall, no longer allowed a single ray of sunlight through. The “maples” of the waiting room were dirty and worn from overuse; on the white walls hung a clock (10 minutes fast) and a paper calendar.
Outside, on the other side of the road, was the Flagstaff of Sovereignty. The Portuguese flag used to flutter at its summit for centuries. Now it was the Indian tricolour, first hoisted on December 19, 1961.
The Inevitable
In early October, New Delhi hosted a seminar on the Portuguese colonies. The surgeon P.D. Gaitonde, an influential Goan politician imprisoned in Portugal, had initiated the idea. Nehru hosted the liberation movements of Angola, Mozambique, Guiné and Cabo Verde—and Goa.
The Indian leader asked what assistance was most required: diplomatic? financial? military? The reply was unanimous: terminate colonialism in his own country by liberating Goa, Damão and Diu. Nehru committed himself: “I don’t doubt that Goa will be free shortly.” Without losing time, he asked J.N. Chauduri to scrutinise the military situation in Goa.
Perceptibly at the same time, the military commandant of Goa returned to Panjim. Brigadier António Leitão had been on a two-month holiday in Portugal and used it to try to obtain reinforcements: armament, ammunition, transporters, communication equipment.
Vassalo e Silva had been making the same request, unsuccessfully. Most of the armament was obsolete. Some had nothing better than the Kropatcheq rifle, dating from before the First World War.
“If it wasn’t so tense, the situation would have been quite comic,” Azaredo admitted. “The police vehicles no longer had armoured bottoms. Rotten, the iron sheets had been replaced with thick planks of wood used to transport bacalhau.”
As if this weren’t enough, the military presence continued to thin out. First, to assist Luanda, capital of Angola, where a rebellion would break out in February, with Salazar decreeing “To Angola and in force!” Then to Timor, where problems also arose.
The brigadier presented himself dolefully to the Ministry of Defence. Since April, following the failed coup d’état of General Botelho Moniz, the minister was Salazar himself, who added this to his Presidential duties. “But the Toninho da Calçada [Salazar’s nickname] did not receive him. To Salazar, there was no war in India, and no need for reinforcements.”
With a wave of the hand, there was only one solution: improve on the Plano Sentinela (Sentry Plan). A plan of resistance to any foreseen aggression. The strategy concentrated forces on the Mormugão peninsula, to defend at all costs.
“It was a totally unrealistic and unachievable plan, quite incomplete,” Azaredo observed. “It was based on exchanging ground for time. But for that, portable communication equipment was necessary. There was none.”
Meanwhile, the “Freedom Fighters” continued. “Contrary to what is being said, the most evolved guerrilla warfare our Armed Forces encountered was in Goa. I know what I’m talking about, because I also fought in Angola and in Guiné. In 1961 alone, until December, around 80 policemen died.” Azaredo added: “The major part of the terrorists of Azad Gomantak Dal were not Goans. Many had fought in the British Army, under General Montgomery, against the Germans. And the majority of the satyagrahis were not peasants and poor rural people, hungry in search of something to eat.”
The eastern frontier was the easiest to penetrate. Delimited by the Western Ghats, it was a zone of high contours, and the police means were ill-suited to the terrain. During the monarchy, horses had handled such situations. Why not make use of the experience?
“In November, we went to Pakistan to buy horses.” A group of officers, accompanied by a veterinary doctor, journeyed to Lahore, Rawalpindi and Peshawar. The idea was to purchase 30 mounts for a platoon in Valpoi. “The British had selected a fantastic pure-blooded breed. We even made a purchase, but it was too late.”
The Spark
On November 17, an incident on the island of Angediva, south of Goa, changed everything. The Portuguese garrison opened fire on the passenger ship Sabarmati.
Angediva was an enchanting place, which had received the ships of Vasco da Gama on his first voyage to India, and would come into history as the famous “isle of love” sung by Camões in Os Lusiadas. Now the luxuriant isle had become an eager pretext for military intervention. As one reads in the introduction to the Indian Military report, “the tension exploded” at Angediva, “and India decided to liberate the territories by force.”
New Delhi ordered the Army Staff to finalise the attack plan. The liberation of Goa from colonialism was a trump card capable of alleviating pressure on Nehru, who had serious problems with China in Tibet and Pakistan in Kashmir. The military option was particularly cherished by the Defence Minister, Krishna Menon, a radical preparing to contest elections in his constituency.
“Operation Vijay” was the code name. Of the Army, the 17th Division and the 50th Paratroop Brigade were mobilised. Naval resources included the aircraft carrier Vikrant, three frigates, two cruisers, many torpedo boats and a submarine. We are certainly unaware of the air support used, but the aircraft carrier had 21 aircraft: fighters (Hunter, Vampire, Mystere) and bombers (Liberators and Canberra).
The foreseen strategy of New Delhi was that combat should last a maximum of three days—meanwhile Lisbon would ask Vassalo e Silva to resist for a minimum of eight.
The Commander-in-Chief of Operation Vijay was Major-General Chaudhuri, while General K.P. Kandeth directed operations in Goa. The Air Force command went to a Goan, Vice-Marshal Pinto do Rosário. Another Goan was Francis Rodrigues, 28, who had attended the Military Academy north of Delhi and accompanied the operation, though he did not participate in it.
A gentleman of remarkable background, Rodrigues would attain generalship, holding the post of Chief of Staff of the Army between 1990 and 1993—the highest post in the Indian military hierarchy. From a Catholic family “that provided five priests but only one general,” he never learnt Portuguese. The family, like many others, had retreated to Bombay. “My father was a journalist who wrote some articles against the Portuguese and was denied entry into Goa. At this time I was only nine years old.” The general only came to settle in Goa when he retired, aged 60.
The ex-Chief of Staff of the Indian Army received us at his residence in Alto de Porvorim. The two generals, both retired, wished each other with courtesy and respect. The Portuguese was from the Cavalry, the Indian from Artillery.
The dialogue was in English. Azaredo, always a gentleman, had words of praise for the behaviour of the Indian Armed Forces during the invasion. Rodrigues preferred to speak of liberation and, surprised by the praise, gave a hearty laugh with a mixture of satisfaction and pride. “Really, the Indian Army is a good Army.”
A conceited Francis Rodrigues preferred to talk of himself and his achievements, not forgetting his meetings with Pope John Paul II and Colin Powell. At leave-taking, a photograph was taken of the enemies of forty years ago.
December
December arrived with one doubt: the date of the invasion. Preparations were dramatic. On the 12th, women and children of the military personnel were evacuated. The operation was not approved by Lisbon, being against national interest, but Vassalo e Silva did not forgo the need to look after his men’s families. The ship India, with a capacity of 105 passengers, departed Mormugão with 650 on board.
Having declared a state of emergency, the Governor-General received a radio message from Salazar on the 14th. It was a text destined for the History of the Empire.
“I advise and expect,” wrote Salazar, “total sacrifice, the only way by which we can maintain the height of our traditions and provide the greatest service to the future of the Nation.”
The dictator wanted no doubt: “I do not foresee the possibility of any truce, nor Portuguese prisoners, as there will not be any ships surrendered, since I feel that there can only be victorious soldiers and sailors or those killed in battle.”
The message surpassed the previous command dispatch, according to which resistance should be “conducted until all ammunition and provisions are exhausted.” With the end in sight, Salazar demanded destruction and prepared for a turn of the page.
Orders came from the Ministry for Overseas Affairs to transfer the relics of St. Francis Xavier to Lisbon. Another message recommended the destruction of the varied non-military heritage, including the palace. Vassalo refused both orders, which Azaredo attributed “to the criminal unscrupulousness and the insanity of Salazar, who preferred the politics of a country in flames—as had happened months before, in São João Baptista de Ajudá.”
“No! I cannot destroy the evidence of our greatness in the Orient,” he told Azaredo when he ordered him to remove the petrol containers near the Idalcão.
On December 17, the territories of Goa, Damão and Diu were surrounded by Indian armed forces. The imbalance was shocking.
A comparison by Col. Carlos Morais in A Queda da Índia Portuguesa is eloquent: on the Indian side, “a total of 45,000 men plus 25,000 reservists, using combat vehicles of the latest model, artillery, air-transported troops, amphibious units, technical support, modern aviation, etc”; on the Portuguese side, “around 3,500 men ill-equipped with arms and ammunition, without armoured cars or anti-tank weapons, no air support, and practically without any artillery.”
Knowing the great advantage of his aircraft, Vice-Marshal Pinto do Rosário bet he would have a drink of Portuguese beer in the main market of Panjim on the day following the attack. The bet was partially won: “When they reached the market, all the shops were closed and there wasn’t a single bottle of beer available.”
The 36 Hours
In the morning, Azaredo was called to the governor, who nominated him coordinating officer of the Security Forces (Inspection Guards and Police). The rest of the day was spent at headquarters.
“I slept in a semblance of emergency mode. All of us slept. We were on alert since the 11th or 12th.” Early in the night, a TAP plane landed at Dabolim airport, having come from Karachi. It was expected to bring an urgent order of “Instalaza” grenades to reinforce the poorly equipped anti-tank artillery. The boxes were opened anxiously, but no one could believe the incredible sight: sausages, instead of grenades, sent by Lisbon in the spirit of the campaigning “The Soldier’s Christmas.”
The invasion began in the first minutes of December 18. From the North, South and East, it was quickly announced by All India Radio.
“It must have been around 6:30am when I presented myself at the Palace.” Soon after, the telecommunications centre at Bambolim was targeted by aerial bombardment. “As there were no transmissions, the governor sent me there to find out what was happening. I went in a black Volkswagen. The centre and the generators had been attacked with bombs and rockets. They killed an ensign—I even saw him, with brains spilling out of his head.” Goa would be cut off from the exterior—neither Lisbon, nor Damão, nor Diu.
With the invasion in progress, the Commander-in-Chief activated the Plano Sentinela. A few minutes after 8:00am, the Governor abandoned the capital and headed towards the naval shipyards on the Mormugão peninsula.
“Having been dispensed with, I went to take command of the troops forming the second line of defence.” The formation stretched from the isle of São Jacinto to Issoroim, cutting across the isthmus of the peninsula, selected as the last bastion of resistance.
“It was 10:30am when I arrived. In all, I would have around 500 men under my command—troops coming from other positions, in retreat. We dug some trenches rapidly, which we strengthened with coconut trunks.” The weapons were almost ridiculous: two light Lewis machine guns and ancient rifles. Ahead, the first line was composed of forces from the Light Infantry Company 3.
Now and then, due to lack of communications equipment, Azaredo went by car to the Commander-in-Chief, “some two kilometres behind.” During one of these incursions, from a high position, he witnessed the combat between the Afonso de Albuquerque and the Indian Navy—three frigates and two torpedo boats.
“Our vessel was at anchor at Dona Paula, the other side of the Zuari river. By around midday, being targeted, it left its moorings and manoeuvred with the intention of taking to the high seas. The enemy artillery was using anti-personnel shrapnel bombs. One could distinctly hear the explosions and see the clouds they left. One exploded directly above the ship,” killing a cabin boy and seriously injuring the commander, Cunha Aragão. The ship then “swerved 180 degrees and ran aground by the bows on Bambolim beach. I saw the crew set fire to it and disembark directly onto the beach.” The official version, maintained for years, would exalt the heroic stand of the Afonso de Albuquerque—to the extent of stating it was sunk. “All tales,” Azaredo stated. “I state this with the authority of one who directly witnessed the hostilities.”
At 15:00, another setback. The small garrison remaining in Panjim surrendered without further ado. Having attained the other side of the Mandovi river, “the enemy placed various battle tanks with their cannons pointing to the city, whilst the air force was circling overhead, threateningly. On the other hand, we did not have a single piece of artillery. The older officers got together and decided to surrender.” Vassalo found out later. “He was furious.”
Night fell, with the end of the war virtually planned out. Worn out, Captain Azaredo could not reconcile himself to sleep. “I thought countless times that, for many of us, it would be the last night.” Thinking of his wife and three children, somewhere on the way to Lisbon, he could not hold back tears. Then he retreated into prayer. “In the peace of the night, I raised my thoughts to the Creator and prepared my soul for a death.”
At 4:30am on the 19th, the Governor inspected the lines of defence. “He confirmed our weakest positions. Even then, he gave me a friendly pat on my shoulder: ‘Azaredo, everything is alright.’”
He did not speak of surrendering and proceeded towards the first line. The destruction of many strategic bridges was incapable of halting the unstoppable advance. The centres of resistance fled and reduced themselves to little more than the fort at Aguada, the island of Angediva and the post at Doromarogo.
The General Headquarters, set up at the shipyards, was almost constantly receiving discouraging news: defeats, casualties, surrenders, running out of ammunition, desertions. The Patriarch for the Indies, D. José Vieira Alvernaz, insisted with the Governor to prevent the massacre of military and civilian personnel, and made a desperate appeal to surrender. Vassalo e Silva evaluated the military picture.
Situated at Mormugão, he was literally surrounded by land, sea and air. Without resources or men, a counter-offensive would be absolutely suicidal. Simple resistance would offer an opportunity for useless carnage.
Surrender was inevitable. Colonel Carlos Morais, in his book, records the historic moment: 12:15 of December 19. The commanders present were informed of the decision, which was transmitted at 14:00, in writing, to the Indian commander: “I request your Excellency for a cease-fire between our forces, as of this moment.”
At 15:00, Azaredo was called to the command post. “Profoundly dejected, the Governor ordered me to assemble the troops at the headquarters at Alparqueiros, the entrance to the city of Vasco da Gama, because there was a truce to hold talks.”
Returning to his position, “I handed over command of the S. Jacinto sector to Lt Máximo, sat in my Volkswagen to go to Issoroim to inform Lt Melo Gomes of the order to retreat.” On his return to S. Jacinto, he was taken by surprise on the road by an enemy patrol commanded by an officer who ordered him to stop. Alone and unable to resist, he gave himself up.
“A sergeant took possession of my pistol, a 9mm Parabellum, and the officer sat in the car, with me driving and two armed soldiers behind.” On arriving at Alparqueiros, already under control of Indian troops, Azaredo got out of the car in which his captor disappeared. “The first thing I saw on entering the Headquarters was a mound of weapons on the ground, on which the Portuguese soldiers were placing them as soon as they were taken prisoner.” The formal surrender of Vassalo e Silva was received at 18:00 by Brig K.S. Dhillon of the 6th Brigade of the Sikh Infantry.
In all, 4,668 prisoners were taken, including military and civilian personnel—Portuguese, Africans and Indians (Goans)—3,412 in Goa, 853 in Damão, 403 in Diu. Concentrated in Goa, they were divided into four camps: Navelim (subsequently closed, so bad it was), Aguada, Pondá and Alparqueiros. This was the largest, with almost 2,000 detainees, among whom was Vassalo e Silva.
The Camp
It was here that the now ex-Governor received, on the 20th, a visit from the enemy commander, General Chaudhury. “He came by helicopter—it was the first time I saw one, I believe it was an Alouette II.” Azaredo was in the General’s room. “He had asked to borrow a washed shirt—the only one I had slipped into my canvas bag. He wanted to present himself properly. As he was broader than me, the shirt was a bit tight.” The General did not speak English and requested the captain to be interpreter.
Chaudhury made it a point to enter alone into the cell. “Vassalo wanted to stand up to compliment the Indian, but the latter rested his hand on his shoulder and did not let him. He pulled up a chair and sat down.” The Portuguese refused preferential treatment offered to him and thanked the victor for the courtesy shown regarding the well-being of his wife.
“Then, Chaudhury congratulated the ex-Governor for the action of the Portuguese troops in the ‘valiant skirmishes’ engaged in Mapuça, Bicholim, Damão and Diu, where they reacted very well.” At the end, the victor put himself at the disposal of the vanquished “for whatever was necessary. He gave a cordial handshake and withdrew.”
Azaredo stayed at Alparqueiros and Vassalo was thereafter transferred to Pondá. While they were at the same camp, they had long conversations. “The general would call me now and then. He was a profoundly drained man. He used to say that an officer is not the master of his men’s lives, to the extent of sending them to their deaths unnecessarily. He would never accept the destruction of Goa, which was also built by the Goans.”
In the prison, Azaredo shared a room with four other captains. For a mattress he had “a bit of corrugated cardboard, on top of the cement floor.” Having only one uniform, “I always had it washed and stretched. I would make it a point to present myself every day at the review, orderly and strict. And I had my shoes polished—even when, at the end, they did not even have a sole.” The rest of the day he “went about in his underwear.” The food was insufficient. “I even lost a good number of kilos.”
Of the prison wardens, he had no particular reason to complain. “Apart from the first days, they were absolutely correct with me.” The daily routine was the same: reading, chess, mail (“in spite of being censored”), physical exercises, volleyball or basketball games. He had less than a hundred men under him—“what remained of three squadrons of the Cavalry.” Every day they carried out a session of “falling to order,” even without weapons, lasting five to ten minutes, “to maintain discipline and order.”
They had an unexpected companion: a langur monkey. “It was caught by an ensign at Bicholim, who gave it to me. It was silver and had a white chest. It was called Krishna, after one of the Hindu gods. I took him to Lisbon with me and later on to Cabinda.” One of its jobs was editing the reports of the last operations. The order came from Vassalo e Silva, transmitted by the Jesuit priest Joaquim Ferreira da Silva.
Alparqueiros is situated on a small peninsula at the mouth of the Zuari, squeezed between the naval shipyards, the city of Vasco da Gama and the Mormugão dock, from where rich iron ore is exported—the main raw material of Goa. Belonging to the Navy, the headquarters had gained in strategic scope and importance. There was only one entrance and it was strictly prohibited to foreigners—as one notes, badly guarded, with just one guard. It was only from the dirty fishermen’s beach, to the west, that it was possible to have a view, and even then partially, of the former Quartel do Batalhão de Infantaria de Vasco da Gama. As at all military bases, the authorisation to visit the former prisoner-of-war camp was not granted in time.
The hard life at the camp was made more pleasant by visits—Goan friends, acquaintances, or simply anonymous persons. “In the early days, there were hundreds, even thousands, who displayed all their kindness and love.” Surprised, the military authorities limited visits to twice a week and then to the Red Cross only.
Adélia Costa was one of the rare persons authorised to visit Alparqueiros. She was the Director of the Psychiatric Hospital Abade Faria. Graduated in Lisbon, she would be the first woman in Portugal to specialise in Neurology. “When I started to work, it used to be called the Mental Hospital. It was a horrible thing, they used to beat up the patients and all. I encountered various Goan political prisoners, with orders from the Police to be interned! I stopped all this, with total support from Vassalo e Silva.”
As Azaredo’s neighbour, she went apprehensively to wish the captain’s family goodbye when they were evacuated. It was a time when she still had illusions. “I cannot forget my father, an optimist who would never believe that India would invade Goa.” At the dawn of the 18th, Adélia woke up with the first explosions and an unexpected visit.
“It was four or five in the morning when Carlos knocked at the door. In full uniform, he had come to wish me goodbye. ‘If I die, I would like you to hand these over to my wife,’ he said, when he thrust two parcels into my hands—a book and a transistor radio, I think.” It was a very emotional moment.
The doctor only remembers the officer saying, “This is our work—we only really work when there is war.” And the war had started. Without losing time, the Director rushed to the hospital to protect her patients. She only calmed down after covering the roof with white bed-sheets painted with large red crosses.
The doctor and the captain met on Christmas Day. “It was the first time I could go to Alparqueiros. There was a huge crowd! The people of Goa, poor as they were, were giving what they could: cigarettes, biscuits, tea, medicines, money.” The great solidarity was followed by prohibition of visits. “As only the Red Cross was allowed into the camps, I signed up immediately.”
Adélia Costa continues to live in Goa. At Panaji, she much prefers to spend weekends with her brothers and nephews in the enormous manor of “Quadros and Costa.” It is there that she tells us of the unforgettable days, sitting on a comfortable wooden chair, between an aromatic coffee and a tasty coconut cake baked by her sister. Time seems to have come to a standstill at the old manor at Loutolim. From the huge columns to the magnificent couch, crossing to the astonishing Indo-Portuguese prayer-room, they all evoke a rich but distant past.
With respect to repatriation, Adélia’s parents convinced her to go to Lisbon. “I made use of it, and in five months I specialised in Psychiatry.” The doctor did not rest easy whilst she was away from her parents, who were left alone. “I returned on February 22, 1963.” Going back to work at the hospital was out of the question. “I started a consulting room where I still practice.” She also left the Red Cross. Instead of a Portuguese passport, she now carries an Indian one. “This is my country, and this is where I want to live,” she explains. “It does not stop me from visiting Lisbon.”
The Beating and the Release
On January 17, a group of prisoners tried an escape, foiled by an unclassified rumour. Furious, the 2nd Camp Commander, Captain Naik, called for an emergency assembly for a special counting of the prisoners, to ensure there were no other escapes.
“When I went slowly past Naik, on the way to the assembly, he ordered me: ‘Run! Run!’ I grumbled and sent him to hell.” In Portuguese or English, he doesn’t know for certain—the truth is that the Sikh officer did not like it. “He ordered five privates to beat me up. When one was pointing a gun at me, the others started to hit me, some with the butts of their rifles.”
Fallen to the ground, he only remembers waking up the next morning, full of contusions. “I admit that perhaps I deserved the thrashing, but at least I had the rare pleasure of sending him to hell!” The incident remained in the annals of the camp. Many saluted the courage of the brave Captain Azaredo, who does not hesitate to disclose: “It is true that Naik was punished—that only goes in favour of the Indian Army, which always respected the articles of the Geneva Convention.”
The captivity lasted six months, “thanks to the stupid stubbornness of Lisbon.” The negotiations dragged on, even because Salazar ordered the detention of 12,000 Indians in Mozambique, who came to form an exchange commodity.
Finally, on May 6, repatriation began: an aerial bridge to Karachi, and then on one of three ships sent by the Government. “I left the camp on May 12, on board a French plane, with my canvas bag and my monkey.”
When he reached Pakistan, he embarked on the Patria, where he received a shirt, a vest and a pair of trousers, “for which later they requested payment or their return.”
The dictatorship, which had not shown any haste in liberating the prisoners, also did not show any satisfaction in welcoming them. “We arrived at the shallows of Tejo at 16:00. We anchored and we were only allowed to enter at 2:00 in the morning. In the meanwhile, they filled up the ship with Military Police pointing machine-pistols at us.”
Astounded, the ex-prisoners could not understand the justification. “They told us that it was to defend us from the ire of the populace, who wanted to lynch us for our cowardice.”
At Rocha do Conde de Bobos, however, there was neither violence nor recrimination. There were only hugs and tears, from family members and friends, who filled the dock to welcome the ex-prisoners. The same that the Press of the regime lamented for not being heroes killed in combat.
The Aftermath
A settlement of accounts was inevitable. As a scapegoat for the loss of the imperial jewel, the behaviour of the military garrison was analysed in light of a mere Disciplinary Regulation. Instead of tribunals, lawyers and judges, the case was handed over to generals and bureaucrats, without any rights to defence.
The verdict came in March 1963. The sanctions were severe: 10 officers were expelled from the Armed Forces, starting with Vassalo e Silva; compulsory retirement for five; half a year’s suspension from military service for nine. There was no appeal. The heavy hand of punishment almost made other officers ignore possible citations and promotions, some being posthumous.
Azaredo has never forgotten the humiliation and the arbitrariness of it all. “All this increased a feeling in me of profound revolt against Salazar and against his narrow and anti-national politics”—and that leads him to participate in the coup of April 25, 1974.
In September 1974, Carlos Azaredo came across Goa again, this time to preside over the commission to review the “case of India.” In his direct and fearless manner, he proposed the annulment, pure and simple, of all the punishment imposed and the reintegration of the military personnel. “It was the only form of applying justice rapidly.” The proposal was approved by the democratic agencies in power. The legal decree was published on December 19, 1974—exactly 13 years after the end of the Portuguese State of India.
Notes: The military terms used are approximate as they are unfamiliar to the translator. Any corrections are welcome.