A satirical take on Bengal polls, power, spectacle and political stakes.
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A satirical take on Bengal polls, power, spectacle and political stakes
Kallol Dey
In what may go down as the most "nationalised" state election in Indian history, the 2026 Bengal polls saw Narendra Modi and Amit Shah turn the state into a fully functional eastern extension of Delhi — presumably mistaking South and North Bengal for Seva Teerth and Kartavya Bhavan.
Never before had a state election been treated with such… constitutional creativity. Never before had a state election inspired such logistical enthusiasm. Observers did note, albeit cautiously, that such excess appeared to deter the excesses of Mamata's boisterous party workers.
Central forces blanketed the state with such enthusiasm that even Google Maps reportedly began showing polling booths as "high-security zones." Observers — including one encounter specialist — watched with professional dedication, and agencies hovered with the quiet confidence of people who knew exactly why they were there, even if voters occasionally did not. Somewhere in the distance, the concept of "state autonomy" quietly updated its résumé.
Ministers from across the country descended upon constituencies they had previously encountered only on maps, delivering speeches that were equal parts campaign and cultural discovery. Pronunciations of local names achieved a level of creativity usually reserved for experimental poetry.
How could Bengalis be involved and fish not be on the plate? Only in Bengal can a fish become a campaign symbol — not policy, not ideology, but culinary diplomacy. Processions featured fish with the solemnity usually reserved for party flags, as if electoral success might depend on omega-3 levels. Bengal was embraced by the BJP one fish at a time — jhaal-muri included.
And then came the gaffes — because no high-budget production is complete without a blooper reel.
Yogi Adityanath offered perhaps the most memorable moment by attributing Netaji's iconic call — "Give me blood, and I will give you freedom" — to Swami Vivekananda instead of Subhas Chandra Bose. It was a rare historical remix: part nationalism, part spirituality, and entirely confusing.
Elsewhere, speeches leaned heavily on familiar themes — of a Bengal "ruined," "destroyed," or "in need of rescue." The metaphors varied, but the message remained consistent: the state was in urgent need of repair, preferably via a change in government and a well-timed slogan.
Of course, the ruling establishment had its own long-running subplot. Under Didi, critics continued to invoke the now-legendary "Syndicate Raj" and "cut-money" — a system so frequently discussed that it had achieved the status of urban folklore. Didi's party, naturally, dismissed such claims as exaggerated fiction, pointing instead to welfare schemes and development metrics. Yet the "syndicate" narrative proved remarkably durable.
Then there was the matter of polarisation — handled with the care of a chef adding spice, except the chef occasionally forgot when to stop.
Identity, religion, and belonging were unpacked, debated, and repackaged until even casual conversations began to sound like panel discussions.
Among the many motivations cited by voters, one stood out for its poetic simplicity: the right to chant "Jai Shri Ram" without looking over one's shoulder. For some, the ballot was less about roads or rations and more about reclaiming the freedom to raise a slogan at full volume — preferably in a public space and ideally within earshot of those practising a different faith.
Opponents, predictably, saw this as less a matter of freedom and more a carefully curated provocation. What followed was less a political debate and more a contest over who got to define Bengal's soundscape — and how loudly.
And through it all stood the curious asymmetry of the contest: on one side, a national leadership that appeared to have invested everything short of relocating Parliament; on the other, a regional leadership that campaigned as if it had seen this movie before and knew how it ended — except that this time, the movie apparently had a fixed runtime.
By the final phase, the campaign had acquired a certain air of inevitability — not about victory, but about investment. So much had been poured into the effort by Modi and Shah that the election began to feel less like a contest and more like a high-stakes project with very little tolerance for write-offs. So much had been committed that losing felt less like a democratic outcome and more like an accounting problem.
Which is why, in tea stalls and living rooms, a polite but persistent question has emerged: when so much is at stake, can uncertainty still be trusted to do its job? It isn't being shouted — it rarely is in Bengal. It simply lingers, like Kolkata humidity: in a contest where one side seems unable to afford defeat, can the process still convincingly afford surprise? When you have invested this much political capital, can you really afford the market to fluctuate?
Not an accusation. Not even a conclusion. Just a doubt with good manners — one that coughs and knocks before entering, and asks: "Everything is fair, of course… but just out of curiosity, who's keeping score?"
As the moment of truth — if it can be called that — approaches, attention has now turned to the most critical question facing the defeated: not why they lost, but what ointment they should apply. This is not a case for Burnol — the classic remedy for minor burns, routinely recommended in political circles for ego-related injuries.
Whichever side loses — be it the resource-heavy campaign machinery of the BJP or the battle-hardened incumbency of the TMC — will likely discover that the electorate has prescribed something gentler, slower, and unmistakably local.
The state, with its characteristic mix of practicality and poetry, recommends Boroline — Bongo jiboner ongo (a part of Bengali life). Referred to as "Bengali philosophy in a tube," it is not merely a remedy; it represents resilience, identity, and a sense of Bengal.
In Bengal, defeat is rarely just a moment — it is an experience. It seeps in slowly, settles, and then lingers long enough to be examined, re-examined, and occasionally turned into a cultural anecdote. Which is why Boroline fits. It does not promise instant relief. It promises recovery — with reflection.
Political analysts have already begun decoding the symbolism. "Burnol is what you use when TV debates hurt your feelings," explained one observer. "Boroline is what you use when Bengal's voters teach you a lesson."
The outcome of the Bengal elections will not simply be a state-level win — be it Mamata, or the Modi-Shah duo. It is going to be epic, a genuine game-changer. And that, indeed, would be a Burnol moment… for Rahul Gandhi.
(The writer, Kallol Dey, is a senior journalist based in Dimapur with over two decades of experience in national, regional and local publications.)