It’s now on record. In a deeply disturbing moment captured on video, West Bengal Chief Minister Mamata Banerjee is seen referred to Hindus who vote for the BJP as “kafirs”—a term historically used in Islamic theology to denote non-believers, but in contemporary usage, often carries a pejorative, even inflammatory, edge. If this were said by a lesser-known leader, it might have sparked a local controversy. But coming from a sitting Chief Minister, it demands national attention—and accountability.
The silence from institutions such as the Election Commission and the Supreme Court has been deafening. This is not merely about political rhetoric anymore. It’s about the deliberate stoking of communal sentiments in a state that is already on edge.
While the national discourse is fixated on election rallies and manifesto promises, on the ground in Bengal, a quieter but more dangerous crisis is unfolding. There are reports—televised and otherwise—of Hindu families fleeing minority-dominated districts such as Murshidabad. Republic TV and a few other channels have drawn parallels with the horrors of Partition, and while that may seem hyperbolic to some, the visuals are hard to dismiss.
In areas where Hindus are in a numerical minority, reports of targeted violence and intimidation have surfaced repeatedly over the last few years. What is new—and chilling—is the suggestion from the highest political office in the state that those who vote a certain way should expect retribution.
A Dangerous Echo from History
This isn’t the first time Bengal has witnessed such demographic and ideological tensions. The 1946 Noakhali riots—marked by mass killings, forced conversions, and the displacement of Hindus—are still etched in the memory of many families. Mahatma Gandhi had visited Noakhali in its aftermath and made several controversial remarks about non-violence in the face of brutal attacks.
Quotes from his writings at the time reveal a deep belief in passive resistance. “Even a few individuals are enough to terrorise the whole mass, if the latter feel helpless,” he wrote. “The remedy lies with you.” But while these words may have inspired some, to many today they seem like cold comfort in the face of physical violence.
This ideology of stoic endurance has arguably led to a kind of inertia among Bengal’s Hindus—an unwillingness to confront persecution, lest they be accused of communalism or worse, “majoritarianism.”
Mamata Banerjee’s Dual Identity
Mamata Banerjee has long styled herself as a secular icon. Yet her political record shows a pattern of calculated appeasement. From promising stipends to imams, to refusing permission for Ram Navami processions while allowing Muharram processions during COVID lockdowns, the message has been clear: selective secularism.
Her recent remarks, using the word “kafir,” represent a dangerous escalation. While some Islamic scholars argue that “kafir” in its original Quranic context was used specifically for the Prophet’s contemporaries who rejected his message, the modern-day usage often strips it of nuance and weaponizes it. When such a term is used in a political speech, directed at a religious group, it is more than just offensive—it becomes incendiary.
The ‘Sar Tan Se Juda’ Syndrome
Another narrative that’s been quietly mainstreamed is the idea of death for blasphemy—”sar tan se juda.” While some academics claim this is a 19th-century innovation, others, like Dr. Anand Ranganathan, have argued that the ideology has theological roots and is reinforced through selective interpretations of scripture. Its chilling resurgence in recent years, including open slogans on Indian streets, cannot be ignored.
Given this backdrop, it’s fair to question Mamata Banerjee’s long-term vision. Her dramatic exit from Congress and formation of the Trinamool Congress was once seen as a regional pushback against the Left. But over time, her politics appears to have taken a sharper communal turn.
Is West Bengal being quietly turned into an ideological outpost that is drifting from the Indian mainstream? Is this an attempt to carve out a state within a state—functionally autonomous, ideologically distinct, and aligned more with the politics of its eastern neighbour than with the Indian Union?
These may sound like extreme questions, but when political leaders use theological slurs, when citizens flee in fear, and when democratic institutions look away—it’s time to start asking uncomfortable questions.
No, this is not a call for violence. Nor is it an endorsement of majoritarian retaliation. But it is a call—for civil society, the media, the judiciary, and yes, even the Election Commission—to wake up. Democracy cannot thrive when one section of citizens is warned they will “pay the price” for voting a certain way.
If we let this kind of rhetoric go unchecked, we normalize it. And once normalized, it’s only a matter of time before it turns into policy. The time has come for Hindus in West Bengal to ask themselves: Is Mamata Banerjee’s brand of political diktat acceptable? If not, shouldn’t they vote like their minority Muslim brothers—united, and for the party that promises to safeguard their interests?
West Bengal has always been a cauldron of ideas, revolutions, and intellectual ferment. It must not be reduced to a cautionary tale of communal polarization. The stakes are too high—for Bengal and for the idea of a new Bharat.
