From hearing Syama Prasad Mukherjee as a child to witnessing a new chapter in Bengal today — history felt personal. For me, this moment symbolised cultural confidence, free expression, and hope for better governance while preserving Bengal’s spirit of harmony.

Yesterday, I witnessed what many in Bengal would describe as a historic political moment—the oath-taking ceremony of Suvendu Adhikari as Chief Minister of West Bengal. For me, the occasion carried emotions far deeper than a routine change of government. It reflected, in the minds of many Bengalis, an awakening of Hindu identity and cultural confidence after years of political tension, allegations of appeasement politics, and growing unease over law and order in parts of the state.

The backdrop to this sentiment cannot be ignored. News and stories emerging from Bangladesh regarding attacks on Hindu minorities have disturbed many families in Bengal who still carry memories and emotional links across the border. Simultaneously, incidents involving strongmen and local syndicates in parts of Bengal—figures like Shahjahan Sheikh becoming symbols of alleged lawlessness—created a perception among many ordinary citizens that political patronage had weakened governance and emboldened criminal elements. Whether entirely true or politically amplified, this perception spread widely across urban and rural Bengal alike.

During my long walk toward the venue, I noticed large portraits of Syama Prasad Mukherjee. Seeing his image stirred old memories within me. In post-Independence Bengal, Mukherjee was often portrayed by his critics merely as a Hindu nationalist figure, while many of his contributions remained underemphasized in mainstream political discourse. Yet history records that he played a major role during Partition negotiations in ensuring that Kolkata, Malda, and parts of Murshidabad remained within India. To countless Bengali Hindus displaced during Partition, his role carried enormous emotional significance.

My late father, R. N. Roy, quietly admired M. S. Golwalkar during the turbulent years after 1947. I still remember him taking me, as a small boy of perhaps seven, to the Kali Bari in New Delhi to hear Syama Prasad Mukherjee speak. I understood little of the speech then, but I remember clapping enthusiastically with the crowd. Those childhood impressions remained somewhere deep within me, and yesterday they resurfaced with unexpected force.

At the same time, Bengal’s political reality is more complex than simple binaries of Hindu versus Muslim. I have personally never believed in discrimination based on religion, caste, or language. Throughout my professional life, while promoting officers, helping workers, or assisting the poor, I never asked whether someone was Hindu or Muslim. Those who worked with me know this well.

I have prayed in temples, visited the great mosque of Bhopal after taking charge there, and attended churches during Christmas. During my tenure in BHEL Bhopal, I renovated the Hanuman temple inside the factory premises and often visited it during difficult phases of plant operations along with my officers. Even today, many Muslim workers around me—barbers, attendants, club staff like Razzab and Iliyas—receive affection and generosity from me not because of their religion, but because they are fellow human beings with whom I share warmth and familiarity.

That is why my support for this political transition does not arise from hatred toward another community. Rather, it comes from a feeling shared by many Bengalis that Hindu cultural expressions had increasingly become hesitant or defensive under competitive vote-bank politics. Stories circulated—some verified, some perhaps exaggerated—about restrictions on blowing the conch shell during evening prayers, or objections to building temples in housing complexes. Such incidents created among many Hindus a perception that their traditions were being treated as negotiable while political parties remained excessively cautious in confronting communal sensitivities.

Similarly, debates over language and terminology—such as replacing Sanskrit-origin Bengali words with more Persianised alternatives in official usage—were interpreted by many as symbolic appeasement, even when ordinary Muslims themselves may not have demanded such changes. In politics, perception often becomes more powerful than policy itself.

The rise of the BJP in Bengal therefore represents, for many supporters, not merely electoral change but a psychological shift—the feeling that one can openly express civilizational and cultural identity without fear of ridicule, intimidation, or political harassment. Many believe that under previous conditions, criticism of ruling-party excesses could invite pressure from local political networks or administrative machinery.

Yet Bengal’s greatest strength has always been its pluralism. The Bengal of Rabindranath Tagore, Kazi Nazrul Islam, and Syama Prasad Mukherjee cannot flourish through hatred or revenge. If this new political awakening is to have lasting meaning, it must combine cultural confidence with fairness, strong governance with compassion, and majority self-respect with equal protection for minorities.

Only then can Bengal truly rediscover both its spine and its soul.