The Village That Resurrects: Curdi, Goa’s Atlantis of Memory
Every May, in the belly of South Goa, a theatrical miracle unfurls — not on a stage, but from beneath the silent surface of water. As summer blazes across the state, drying up the Salaulim reservoir, the sunken village of Curdi rises again. Not forever, but just for a fleeting encore. Two months. That’s all it gets.
But in those two months — April and May — Curdi becomes a living museum, an artifact of time that you can walk through. It is both a wonder and a wound, and its brief resurrection every year tugs at something deep within those who witness it.
The Atlantis of the Western Ghats
Tucked in the Sanguem taluka, the lost village of Curdi isn’t just a curiosity; it is a tale of displacement, resilience, and remembrance. Before 1986, Curdi was a vibrant settlement nestled between two hills in the Western Ghats. The Salaulim River ran through it like a lifeline. With fertile land bursting with coconut, cashew, jackfruit, and mango trees, the village was home to over 3,000 people.
That was before development came knocking — or rather, bulldozing.
After Goa’s liberation from Portuguese rule in 1961, its first chief minister, Dayanand Bandodkar, envisioned the Salaulim Dam. Its waters would serve South Goa with drinking and irrigation supply — a leap toward progress. But progress, as history repeatedly shows, often comes at a price. And Curdi paid that price.
In 1986, the dam was completed, and waters from the Salaulim reservoir swallowed the village whole. Residents — around 600 families — were promised land and compensation. They left behind not just their homes but ancestral memories, temples, stories, childhoods.
And yet, every summer, when the waters recede, Curdi returns — a ghost village not content with being forgotten.
Bittersweet Pilgrimage
For many Goans, and visitors from around the country, the reappearance of Curdi is more than a visual treat. It’s a pilgrimage.
Eish Kakodkar, who leads offbeat explorations for the travel initiative Soul Travelling, calls his journeys to Curdi “bittersweet.”
“In summer, we finally get to see Curdi. It’s like unearthing a secret. But when you start piecing together the ruins — broken homes with terracotta tiles, crumbling wells — it hits you. This was someone’s world,” Eish says.
On these expeditions, imagination becomes a companion. Visitors walk the dry bed, tracing the outlines of old homes, schools, temples. Stories bubble up like spring water — from the guides, from the soil, from ex-residents who return to pay homage.
“You start building lives in your mind,” Eish adds. “What must it have felt like to grow up here? What games were played in these courtyards? What festivals were celebrated?”
A Journey Through Time
Soul Travelling’s Curdi experience begins at sunrise — 7 am from Panjim and 7:45 from Margao — with a hearty traditional Goan breakfast. From there, the day unfolds like a treasure hunt through history.
Come May, the village hosts the Someshwar Zatra, a religious celebration in honor of Lord Shiva, whose temple still stands tall amidst the ruins. During this time, Curdi echoes with life once more — folk songs, prayers, home-cooked meals, and laughter bring warmth to its cracked soil.
There’s also a mass at the Sacred Heart of Jesus Chapel, another hauntingly beautiful relic of the village’s multi-religious harmony.
Guides like Eish lean on the memories of ex-residents — oral histories passed down with tears and pride. You learn about Mogubai Kurdikar, the legendary classical singer who once lived here, and her daughter Kishori Amonkar, whose voice would one day echo across the country.
Then there’s the curious moon dial, a device that once helped villagers tell time using moonlight — a poetic reminder that time, here, was once read in shadows.
A Dip, A Toast, A Memory
The excursion doesn’t end with ruins. After the walk, guests are taken to a neighboring plantation for a refreshing dip in a stream, and served Urak — a heady, fermented cashew apple drink that sings of summer. A traditional Goan lunch follows, served by local families who now live in nearby villages.
It’s not just a tour. It’s a homecoming — even for those who never belonged here.
The Silence That Speaks
Walking through Curdi, you’ll notice more than just empty foundations and dry riverbeds. There are fissures in the ground, yes. But also in the voices of those who speak about the past.
You’ll hear the silence of interrupted childhoods, the echo of faith that remains rooted in temples, and the ghost of a village that refused to stay buried.
As you stand under the blazing Goan sun, with dust on your shoes and the past at your feet, you realize that Curdi isn’t lost. It’s simply waiting — for water to recede, for someone to remember, for a story to be told again.
Book Your Encounter With Curdi
If you’re planning to be in Goa this summer, don’t just chase beaches. Chase history. Walk through a village that time couldn’t drown entirely.
Curdi rises — not to haunt us, but to remind us. Of sacrifice. Of memory. Of the fragile balance between progress and preservation.
Because some stories, even when submerged, refuse to be forgotten.