Mario Miranda birth centenary: The people of Goa who lived forever in his drawings

5 min readNew DelhiJun 6, 2026 02:14 PM IST

First published on: Jun 6, 2026 at 01:10 PM IST

Dressed in his long checkered T-shirt and Bermuda shorts, the poder (baker) cycles through the narrow lanes of the small town. He begins his journey early in the morning, a little after the crack of dawn — before the rush of the day begins — carrying freshly baked pao in the blue tarp-covered carrier on the back of his bicycle. He presses the familiar horn attached to the steel handle of his old-school bicycle. And stops at a doorstep even before the bicycle comes to a halt. He props it on its stand and honks twice, to announce his arrival. But it’s not just his arrival, it is the arrival of a new day.

Goa has always had its own way of waking up. Slowly, taking its own sweet time. Before all the hustle begins in the city, the villages and the smaller towns are a place where the morning does not arrive in a rush. It arrives in fragments — in the splash of a bucket being emptied at the gate after the morning cleaning, in the smell of the freshly baked bread, in a neighbour calling out to another from behind a half-open window.

That is the Goa Mario Miranda knew and drew.

Born in Loutolim in 1926, Mario did not turn Goan life into postcard scenery. He turned it into a crowd. The frames of his sketches filled with poders, fisherwomen, tavern regulars, market women, priests, porters, children and gossiping neighbours, all caught in a state of motion. He had an eye for the kind of details that most people overlooked — the tilt of a head, the roundness of a belly, the careful way a woman balances a basket on her head, the tired swagger of a man with a drink in hand. Nobody stands still for long in his world. Everyone is doing something.

In Mario’s drawing, Goa is more than just a destination. The humour in his lines comes from familiarity. These are not invented figures but people one has seen in the market in Margao, on a village road in Saligao, at the counter of an old tavern in Panaji or outside a chapel after the

Sunday Mass.

Village Bus (Photo: Mario Gallery, Goa)

The poder is one of those recurring presences in the Goan life. He is not glamorous. The blue tarp covering the bread carrier flaps lightly in the wind and the lanes seem to recognise his passage.

Mario’s drawings bring to life the authority the fisherwoman holds. She walks door to door, in her satin dress, carrying a bamboo basket on her head, hawking out, “Bai, nuste zai go? (Lady, do you want fish?).” She is efficient. She struts unhurriedly, in the way only people who know their worth can. And a fisherwoman never forgets her customer. Fish in Goa is about livelihood, bargaining, taste, smell, argument and memory.

This is what makes Mario’s Goa feel intimate. He did not separate women from the scene or tuck them into the edges. They occupied the frame fully, with the same assurance as men. His market women stand with their hands on their hips, their mouths mid-sentence, their bodies turned towards the business of living. The tavern men are equally vivid, their faces round with time, drink and their expression full of opinion. Nobody is idealised. Nobody is reduced. Everyone is observed with affection and a clear eye.

Goa has often been described from the outside through its beaches, churches and old Portuguese houses but the real texture of a place can be found in its people. That is why the way Mario looked at Goa mattered. His frames were often full and brimming — a reminder that Goan life is full of noise, neighbours, rituals, small economies, habit and improvisation. That is why his work endures. For those who grew up in Goa, his art often feels less like illustration and more recognition. A person can look at a Mario sketch and find a cousin, an aunt, a man who always sits on the same bar stool and a fisherwoman who knows every household on her route. His art does not merely resemble the people of Goa. It remembers them.