Why Bengal’s Vernacular Populism Matters?

 

By Asis Mistry 

As Hindutva seeks to recast India in a singular image, Bengal pushes back with its vernacular populism—blending pride, religion, and politics into a volatile new sub-nationalism.

 

When Mamata Banerjee’s Trinamool Congress (TMC) decisively defeated the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) in the 2021 West Bengal assembly elections, it was more than a regional political victory. It marked the return of sub-nationalism in Indian politics—not in the form of secessionist rhetoric, but as a cultural and affective resistance to the centralising thrust of Hindutva. At the heart of this new assertion is not just the defence of federal rights or administrative autonomy, but a symbolic re-articulation of Bengali identity as distinct, plural, and electorally mobilisable.

Unlike the linguistic regionalism of the 1960s or the ideological sub-nationalism of the Left era, the current wave is rooted in a populist vernacular grammar. It speaks through symbols—Durga, Jagannath, matri-bhasha (mother tongue), “Banglar meye” (Bengal’s daughter)—that turn cultural pride into political loyalty. But does this counter-populism offer a real alternative to Hindutva’s majoritarianism, or merely replicate its affective logics under a different banner?

Cultural Belonging vs Political Uniformity

The BJP’s expansion into Bengal was never simply an electoral project. It was—and remains—a cultural offensive. By advancing a Ram-centric Hindu nationalism, the party sought to discipline Bengal’s historically plural religiosity and vernacular spiritual traditions. Public chanting of “Jai Shri Ram,” the promotion of Hindi over Bengali, and the stigmatisation of Bengali-speaking Muslims as “infiltrators” formed part of a broader attempt to recast Bengal as a frontier to be ideologically aligned with the Hindi-Hindu-Hindustan triad.

In response, the TMC developed an emotionally charged symbolic repertoire rooted in Bengali tradition. Durga became not just a goddess, but the maternal guardian of Bengali civilisation. Jagannath—a deity with deep roots in Eastern India—was invoked as a regional counter-icon to Ram. Campaign slogans like “Bangla nijer meyekei chay” reframed Banerjee herself as the embodiment of Bengali resistance—a leader who is not only local, but familial.

This is not a mere cultural performance. It is a form of political belonging that seeks to retain Hindu voters without surrendering to Hindutva. It affirms that one can be Hindu, Bengali, plural, and Indian—all at once.

A Double-Edged Sword

Yet, the TMC’s resistance is fraught with contradictions. On one hand, it reclaims Bengali cultural pride from nationalist homogenisation. On the other hand, it risks re-inscribing exclusionary binaries: Bengali vs outsider, matri-bhasha vs Hindi imposition, daughter vs invader. Much like the BJP’s populism, it constructs a moral majority by emotionally charging identity and drawing boundaries around cultural authenticity.

This mirroring is not incidental—it is structural. Both Hindutva and Bengal’s vernacular populism operate through affect, symbolism, and the construction of internal enemies. The key difference lies in the scale: one is national, the other regional. But both rely on emotional majorities rather than institutional pluralism.

This is where sub-nationalism becomes slippery. It can either push India toward a more plural federalism or collapse into a regional variant of majoritarianism.

The Migration Blind Spot

Nowhere are these contradictions more visible than in the TMC’s treatment of Bengali migrant labour. While the party celebrates Bengali culture within the state, it has been largely silent about the rising harassment and profiling of Bengali-speaking workers in other parts of India—particularly in Gujarat, Karnataka, and Maharashtra. For many of these migrants, “Bengali” becomes a stand-in for “Bangladeshi,” turning Indian citizens into internal foreigners.

These workers—mostly from economically distressed districts like Malda, Murshidabad, and North 24 Parganas—labour in precarious jobs across India’s informal economy. Their disposability is not cultural alone, but economic. Yet, even as the TMC invokes their symbolic value during elections, it offers little in terms of concrete protection or interstate advocacy. Subnational pride, in this sense, becomes bound by territory, blind to the classed geographies of Indian federalism.

This raises a fundamental question: can a politics that claims to defend Bengali identity ignore the vulnerabilities of Bengali bodies on the move?

Towards a Pluralist Federalism

The rise of sub-nationalism in Bengal must not be dismissed as parochialism or cultural chauvinism. In a centralising republic, it speaks to a legitimate need for recognition, parity, and dignity within the Indian Union. It challenges the idea that cultural uniformity is a prerequisite for national belonging. But this challenge must be deepened, not just dramatised.

If subnational assertions are to play a constructive role in India’s federal future, they must move beyond symbolic binaries. They must stand not only for cultural memory but for mobility rights, linguistic justice, and economic dignity. This requires extending solidarity to migrants, resisting caste invisibilisation, and acknowledging the internal hierarchies within Bengal itself—including between urban and rural, upper caste and Dalit, Hindu and Muslim.

Populist counter-narratives alone will not suffice. What is needed is a robust rethinking of federalism—one that is not imposed from above, but imagined from below through everyday struggles for recognition, shelter, and voice.

The Stakes of Belonging

At stake is not merely the electoral future of Bengal or the cultural integrity of Bengali identity. What is at stake is the very grammar of citizenship in India. Will it be defined by a
centralised authority and homogenising nationalism? Or can it be shaped by a genuinely plural imagination—where regions speak not from the margins, but as equal participants in a shared democratic experiment?

The return of sub-nationalism offers a moment of opportunity—but only if it can transcend its populist form and speak to the deeper crises of belonging in today’s India.

 

@ The author is Assistant Professor of Political Science, University of Calcutta

Nepali GenZ: The OG Rizzer

 

By Angela Mahapatra 

The term Gen Z captures a dynamic group of young individuals who are tech-savvy, entrepreneurial, and committed to genuine values. While often labelled as lazy, entitled, or overly sensitive, Nepal’s youth are breaking those stereotypes. They are stepping up as responsible citizens—politically aware, thought-provoking, and fearless in holding leaders accountable. This generation is not just scrolling through life; they’re actively engaging with the world and demanding change!

Stressy depressy

The drama kicked off on September 4, 2025, when the government decided to pull the plug on 26 major social media platforms, including heavy-hitters like Facebook, Instagram, WhatsApp, YouTube, and Twitter/X. Their reason? They claimed it was all about making sure these platforms registered with the Ministry of Communication and Information Technology for some supposed regulatory compliance and to shield us from the menace of fake accounts spreading misleading info. But honestly, this feels like a major ‘delulu’ moment for Gen Z in Nepal.

 

The real story behind this social media ban isn’t about protecting the mass; it’s a smokescreen for the rampant corruption, nepotism, and political frustrations simmering beneath the surface due to the lack of accountability. Lately, the “Nepo kid” trend has been lighting up TikTok, showcasing the lavish lifestyles of the children of powerful political figures. It raises the question: how are they living so large on government salaries? This spotlight on deep-rooted corruption resonates with the masses, especially when they’re juggling unemployment, poor governance, and a stagnant system. It's a wake-up call that can't be ignored!

Democracy isn’t democracying

Democracy is often celebrated as a governance system where power lies with the people, enabling them to engage in political matters directly or through chosen representatives. This model champions transparency and encourages public involvement, ensuring that the government reflects the will and interests of its citizens.

The post-World War era marked a significant victory for democracy, particularly after the defeat of Nazism and Fascism. The establishment of the United Nations helped solidify democratic principles globally. Following the collapse of the USSR in 1991, liberal democracy gained traction around the world. As we moved into the 21st century, democracy emerged as the dominant ideology, embraced by many established powers, with notable exceptions being Russia and China.

In South Asia, countries like Sri Lanka and Bangladesh (2022 & 2024) have grappled with the decline of democratic governance, plagued by civil liberties issues and rampant human rights violations, often exacerbated by military and bureaucratic influence, particularly in Pakistan. Deep-seated corruption and cronyism continue to undermine government transparency, along with challenges such as population pressures and majoritarianism.

Post-2008, democracy played a crucial role in shaping Nepal, but by 2015, authoritarian tendencies began to emerge, leading to the politicisation of institutions, a fragile rule of law, and parliamentary dissolutions that hindered press freedom. This erosion of trust in political entities sparked public discontent and civil unrest, culminating in the dissolution of parliament amid frustrations over corruption and unemployment.

India, the world’s largest democracy, now finds itself amidst neighbouring nations experiencing democratic declines, raising concerns for border security. The potential shift towards authoritarianism in Nepal, particularly if it leans towards Chinese influence, could disrupt diplomatic relations and create regional instability. This shift poses risks to India’s projects in Nepal, especially those focused on infrastructure, threatening bilateral agreements and trade.

The shared historical, religious, and cultural ties between India and Nepal are at risk, as the decline of democracy in Nepal could portray India as an intrusive neighbour. This narrative may empower Hindu nationalist sentiments within Nepal, complicating their relationship with India, despite their common heritage. Furthermore, regional collaborations through initiatives like SAARC and BBIN might falter in the face of this civic instability, hindering cooperation on critical issues such as climate, trade, and security. Hence, the trajectory of democracy in South Asia, especially in Nepal, holds significant implications not only for the countries involved but also for regional dynamics on a broader scale.

Rebel kids

Social movements have evolved significantly over time, adapting to the context and technology of their eras. In the pre and mid-20th century, movements like the abolition, suffrage, labour, and anti-colonial movements were often spearheaded by charismatic leaders, relying on traditional methods such as petitions, marches, strikes, and boycotts. Communication was primarily through radio, newspapers, and pamphlets, which served to promote their causes, albeit in a more understated manner.

Today’s movements, such as #BlackLivesMatter, the #MeToo movement, Climate Strikes (Fridays for Future), and the Arab Spring, take on a different nature. They often lack a central leadership, feature decentralised structures, and employ horizontal decision-making processes. This allows such movements to emerge spontaneously, spreading rapidly across networks.

A striking example is the Gen Z uprising in Nepal, characterised by its digital activism and youthful mobilisation. This generation, often labelled as “reel addicts,” not only scrolls through social media but also critically analyses content, calling out issues like nepotism. During protests, Gen Z members voiced their concerns over the stark disparities among the youth within their nation, driven by corruption, negligence, and a lack of accountability in their government. This reluctance to accept the status quo transformed them from feeling “saddie” to becoming “baddies” who fight for change.

The movement is notably documented on social media, which fuels its momentum and spreads awareness of the underlying truths. Unlike earlier protests that relied on traditional media—which sometimes distorted information—today’s activism benefits from an opportunity to reveal authentic narratives directly to the masses. The fearless spirit of Gen Z is so potent that it compelled the resignation of the prime minister and led the finance minister to flee. Even in the wake of tragic events, such as the military's killing of 19 protesters, their determination remains unshaken as they stand resolutely for their beliefs.

Vibe Check

The Nepali Gen Z is stepping up as a powerful force, making waves not just in Nepal but resonating with youth around the globe. They're blending their rich Nepali cultural values with global ideals like equality, justice, innovation, and freedom. This generation's heightened social awareness is captivating attention worldwide, as movements like #enoughisenough and other digital protests across South Asia highlight that issues such as gender equality, mental health stigma, corruption, and poor governance resonate universally.

People are eager for leaders who reflect diverse backgrounds. Sushila Karki, the former chief justice of Nepal's Supreme Court, could potentially become the first female prime minister. Then there's Balendra “Balen” Shah, the young mayor of Kathmandu, who transitioned from being an engineer and rapper to a politician. His rise signifies a refreshing move away from traditional political elites, advocating for principles and visibility in local governance. Kulman Ghising, the former managing director of the Nepal Electricity Authority, is well-known for his role in ending long power outages and is celebrated as a popular technocrat.

The diverse leadership emerging in Nepal emphasises a shift away from monarchical or elite dominance. Thus, Nepal stands out as a democratic hero among South Asian nations, except for India, already recognised as the world's largest democracy.

@ The author is an independent scholar.

 

From Ban to Bloodshed: Nepal’s Gen Z and the Unfinished Republic

 The Gen Z uprising in Nepal reveals not confusion but clarity: democracy without delivery is no democracy at all.

Asis Mistry

In the past few days, Nepal has witnessed the most intense civil unrest in years. The death toll has climbed to thirty, with over a thousand injured — figures that far exceed earlier counts. The streets of Kathmandu and other cities bore witness to torched government offices, burning hotels, and smoke rising beside landmarks of power. In response to mounting pressure, the military and Gen Z protesters have entered into negotiations for an interim government. The youth movement has nominated former Chief Justice Sushila Karki, who has accepted, as the interim prime minister. Though curfews remain, the reopening of Kathmandu’s international airport and easing of some restrictions signal a fragile, uneasy return to order. Yet beneath the calm, the demand is louder: this is not about restoring social media access alone — it is about dignity, accountability, and transformation.

Yet to read this as a dispute over social media would be to mistake the symptom for the cause. The protests were not simply about access to platforms but about the structural failures of Nepal’s post-monarchy democracy. They expose the profound disillusionment of a generation—Nepal’s so-called Gen Z—who have come of age amid insurgency, corruption, and the hollowness of political promises. Four arguments illustrate why this revolt matters, not just for Nepal, but as part of a global crisis of democratic legitimacy.

In Nepal, as in many parts of the world, governments today are being overthrown less through electoral contests than through mass protests. The Arab Spring in 2011, Sri Lanka’s Aragalaya in 2022, and Pakistan’s youth-driven rallies in support of Imran Khan, the overthrow of the Awami League government in Bangladesh—all highlight this pattern: elected regimes lose legitimacy not at the ballot box but in the streets.

Nepal’s September uprising fits this mould. The Oli government, facing no immediate electoral challenge, suddenly confronted a legitimacy crisis it could not manage. Hashtags became battle cries, online discontent spilt onto the streets, and the state’s reflex was repression. In the end, the ballot mattered less than the body—youth occupying squares, clashing with police, and refusing to be silenced.

The deeper crisis lies in Nepal’s post-monarchy state-building. The 2015 Constitution was meant to consolidate the republic after a decade of insurgency and transition. Yet it has failed to secure the loyalty or trust of citizens. Formally, Nepal has all the trappings of a federal democratic republic. Substantively, the “nerve system” of politics—institutions that connect citizens with the state—remains weak.

This is partly because political elites are embedded in networks of patronage, corruption, and party cartelisation. Instead of investing in responsive governance, they have treated the Constitution as an end in itself. The state exists on paper but struggles to mediate conflicts, deliver services, or generate affective attachment. The result is a hollow democracy: legal structures without legitimacy, institutions without credibility.

If the Constitution has been hollow, so too have Nepal’s political parties. Once vibrant with ideological struggle, they have, over the past two decades, withered into clientelist machines. The Maoists, who once fought for radical transformation, now resemble a managerial party concerned with office-sharing. The communists have diluted their ideological commitments, while centrist parties trade in promises they cannot keep.

This erosion of ideology has profound consequences. Political parties no longer provide citizens with a grammar of meaning; they no longer connect everyday life to broader visions of justice, equality, or sovereignty. Instead, citizens encounter only the cynicism of power-brokers. The alienation is not just political but existential: ordinary people no longer see themselves reflected in the symbolic order of politics.

For Gen Z, this vacuum has been particularly stark. Growing up amid the disintegration of ideological politics, they have been left with a sense of betrayal—promised democracy, they encounter only dysfunction.

Perhaps the most striking feature of Nepal’s Gen Z is their emergence as what might be called “organic radicals.” Unlike earlier generations, their childhood was marked not by stability but by insurgency (1996–2006). Violence, displacement, and uncertainty were part of the texture of their formative years. As they matured, they faced unemployment, mass migration, and shrinking opportunities.

At the same time, they have lived under a state characterised by too much government and too little governance: rules, restrictions, and bureaucratic control, but little delivery of justice, employment, or services. In this context, protest becomes not simply an option but the default mode of political expression. For a generation disenchanted with electoral promises, the streets are the only space where voice feels possible.

The September uprising is thus not an accident. It is the logical outcome of a generation raised amid insurgency, betrayed by elites, and abandoned by institutions.

The state’s response to this youth mobilisation reveals its own anxieties. Prime Minister Oli described the unrest as a result of “ambiguity in thinking” among young people—a telling phrase that casts dissent as immaturity. In effect, the state views youth as unruly children: familiar yet alien, its own citizens yet strangers to its order. Psychoanalytically, this is a displacement of the state’s own failure onto the figure of the disorderly youth.

But repression does not resolve the crisis. It repeats it. Nepal’s resort to curfews, bullets, and bans echoes a long pattern—from the monarchy’s suppression of the Jana Andolan to the state’s violent handling of the Madhes uprisings. Violence becomes a compulsion, a symptom of a state unable to generate legitimacy through inclusion.

Nepal’s Gen Z protest is not only a national crisis. It speaks to global anxieties about the future of democracy. Across contexts, youth who are digitally networked, borderless in aspiration, and impatient with institutional decay are challenging the state in unprecedented ways. For states, their presence is uncanny: simultaneously intimate and alien, both the children of the nation and its most disruptive challengers.

What Nepal reveals is that censorship, repression, and moralising rhetoric cannot contain this generational force. Even after the ban was lifted, protests continued, signalling that the wound runs deeper than social media. It is about corruption, legitimacy, and the demand for dignity.

The Gen Z protests should, therefore, be read as more than an episodic outburst. They are a warning: Nepal’s democracy cannot survive on empty constitutionalism, hollow party politics, and elite patronage networks. Unless it can address corruption, deliver governance, and restore ideological meaning to politics, it will continue to face eruptions from below.

Gen Z’s revolt is the return of the repressed future: the demand of a generation that refuses to be silenced, infantilised, or excluded. Nepal’s challenge is not simply to lift bans or reshuffle ministers but to confront this generational discontent head-on. Otherwise, the cycle of repression and revolt will persist, with ever greater costs for a fragile democracy still searching for its nerve system.

The author is Faculty of Political Science, University of Calcutta.