When a sitting Chief Minister asks voters to “take revenge,” it is no longer mere political rhetoric—it is a chilling signal of how dangerously unhinged the electoral discourse has become in West Bengal. Mamata Banerjee, addressing a rally in Samserganj, did precisely that. Her words were not a slip of the tongue; they were deliberate, calculated, and deeply irresponsible.
But the obvious question she chose not to answer is this: revenge against whom?
Against the Election Commission of India for carrying out a Special Intensive Revision of electoral rolls? Against the Supreme Court of India, whose directives guide such processes? Or against the Bharatiya Janata Party, her principal political rival?
The ambiguity is not accidental—it is dangerous. In a state already scarred by decades of electoral violence, such language is not metaphorical; it is incendiary.
West Bengal is not new to pre- and post-poll bloodshed. From booth capturing to targeted intimidation, elections here have often resembled battlegrounds rather than democratic exercises. Samserganj itself, where Banerjee made these remarks, was the epicentre of violence during protests over the Waqf (Amendment) Act in 2025—violence that claimed innocent lives, including a father and son brutally hacked to death. To invoke “revenge” in such a volatile atmosphere is not just reckless—it is an open invitation to chaos.
Banerjee’s attempt to paint the revision of electoral rolls as a conspiracy is equally troubling. Electoral roll verification is not an act of vendetta; it is a constitutional necessity. If names have been deleted, there exists a due process—appeals before tribunals, documentation, and verification. But instead of strengthening faith in institutions, she seeks to undermine them, casting aspersions and sowing distrust.
Let us be blunt: if illegal migrants—particularly those unable to establish legitimate citizenship—have lost their voting rights, that is not an injustice. That is the law taking its course. West Bengal has long grappled with the issue of illegal infiltration from Bangladesh, a reality acknowledged even in security assessments. Turning this into a political grievance only reinforces suspicions that vote-bank politics is taking precedence over constitutional integrity.
Even more alarming is Banerjee’s instruction to party workers to obstruct Election Commission officials from repairing malfunctioning EVMs and instead demand replacements. This is not vigilance; this is obstruction. It undermines the very machinery of free and fair elections.
Her accusations against Amit Shah and claims of mass deletions—40,000 names in her own constituency—come without verifiable evidence. At the same time, she paradoxically asserts that even BJP supporters will vote for her party. If that were truly the case, why the desperation? Why the need to inflame passions and manufacture a siege narrative?
Because the truth is far less flattering: the All India Trinamool Congress senses vulnerability. Anti-incumbency, governance fatigue, and growing scrutiny over law and order have created cracks in what once seemed an invincible political fortress.
And then comes the most disturbing dimension—signals, subtle or otherwise, that embolden hostile narratives beyond India’s borders. When rhetoric within West Bengal begins to echo narratives that find resonance in Pakistan’s hostile posturing, it raises uncomfortable questions. What message does it send when internal political battles are framed in a manner that external adversaries can exploit?
Democracy is not a theatre for vendetta. It is a system built on trust—trust in institutions, trust in processes, and above all, trust in the people’s wisdom. By reducing it to a call for revenge, Banerjee risks eroding that very foundation.
Equally troubling is the convergence of desperation among opposition forces. The Indian National Congress and TMC, despite their ideological posturing, appear united in one aspect: a willingness to delegitimise institutions when electoral outcomes seem uncertain. This is not opposition—it is opportunism at the cost of democratic stability.
West Bengal stands at a critical juncture. The choice before its people is stark: succumb to the politics of fear and revenge, or reaffirm their faith in the ballot. The power of democracy lies not in street violence but in the quiet authority of the vote.
The people of Bengal must reject this dangerous descent into anarchy. They must send a clear message that elections are not wars to be avenged but mandates to be earned.
If the Trinamool Congress fears defeat, let it face it democratically. If it believes in its record, let it defend it with facts, not fury.
Because once the language of revenge replaces the language of democracy, the cost is not borne by political parties—it is paid by the people.
