I am an original Kolkata Bengali, born and brought up in the era of Left-dominated West Bengal. My childhood and teenage years unfolded in Bengal, where the Communist Party of India (Marxist) and the Left Front were deeply woven into the social and political fabric of everyday life. Later, during my early college years, I witnessed the dramatic rise of Mamata Banerjee and the All India Trinamool Congress as they slowly transformed from an opposition force into Bengal’s dominant political power.
I have voted only once in my life, and that too during the historic 2011 election when Mamata Banerjee finally ended the Left Front’s uninterrupted 34-year rule in Bengal. Raised in a deeply Left-supporting household, my political leanings at the time naturally mirrored those of my parents. I voted for the CPI(M), believing in the ideology I had grown up around. Looking back now, that single vote feels symbolic — just as symbolic as my absence from this year’s election.
It was against this backdrop that my husband and I returned to Kolkata last week, only days after the BJP achieved what once seemed politically impossible: capturing Bengal and bringing the saffron wave into the heart of a state long considered resistant to Hindutva politics.
For the first time in years, I was travelling home with more apprehension than excitement.
The change was visible almost immediately after stepping out of the airport. The Kolkata I had always known looked politically transformed.
The massive posters of Mamata Banerjee that once greeted travellers across the city had vanished. For years, her smiling face had become a permanent feature of Kolkata’s visual identity. Instead, giant hoardings now carried images of Prime Minister Narendra Modi, BJP chief Nitin Nabin, BJP Bengal president Samik Bhattacharya, newly appointed Chief Minister Suvendu Adhikari, and even Chirag Paswan.
As our cab drove through the roads, countless BJP flags tied along the divider railings blurred past the windows. It was a visual shift difficult to ignore.
The deeper we moved into the city, the more visible the transformation became. Huge hoardings carrying Modi’s face and the word “Abhinandan” appeared across different parts of Kolkata — east, central, and south. It felt like the city had suddenly been redesigned with a completely different political aesthetic.
At the same time, the once-ubiquitous TMC flags that had dominated Kolkata for years had become noticeably fewer. Strangely enough, old Left offices that I had either forgotten or stopped noticing now seemed visible again. Several localities were filled with red flags, transporting me instantly back to the Bengal of the 1990s and early 2000s, when Left slogans regularly echoed across the streets.
Yet beneath the political makeover, much of the city itself remained unchanged.
The same crowded bus stands still exist. The same zigzagging flyovers cut through traffic. Shopping malls bustled as always. Street food stalls overflowed with customers. The massive statue of Lionel Messi still stood proudly. Traffic jams continued as usual. Markets remained noisy and alive.
But something in the atmosphere felt unmistakably different.
The city no longer felt weighed down in the same way. There was a strange looseness in the air, as though Kolkata had exhaled after holding its breath for years. I initially tried convincing myself that this was simply ordinary post-election excitement. But then I saw my parents.
For weeks before our visit, my mother had repeatedly told me over phone calls that a change in Bengal had become inevitable.
“We are fed up,” she had said more than once.
My father had added, “We haven’t voted in such peace for the longest time.”
When I finally met them, I immediately sensed something unusual. My father was casually humming a slogan I did not recognise. My mother later explained that it was a mocking chant coined by a newly elected BJP MLA targeting Mamata Banerjee and her nephew Abhishek Banerjee.
“Maach chor, pishi chor, bhaipo chor,” they laughed — a phrase accusing them of corruption.
The scene felt surreal.
My parents, lifelong ideological Left supporters, were casually laughing over BJP slogans inside our home. They had never supported the BJP and had never voted for Mamata Banerjee either, but her removal from power clearly brought them relief.
Seeing my confusion, my mother simply said, “You have no idea how bad things have gotten.”
What struck me most was that this sentiment was not limited to BJP supporters.
Friends, relatives, neighbours — many of whom were not saffron voters — all expressed some version of the same emotion: relief that Mamata Banerjee was finally gone after fifteen years in power.
When we met friends settled outside Kolkata like us, the reaction was almost identical everywhere.
“Didi geche bole shobai khushi,” they kept saying. Everybody seemed happy simply because Didi had lost power.
My mother-in-law even praised Suvendu Adhikari, calling him the image of a proper Bengali bhodrolok. “Dekha jak ki kore ei sarkar,” she told me — let’s see what this government actually does.
Travelling across Kolkata revealed more subtle but undeniable changes.
I noticed countless “Jai Shri Ram” flags hanging outside shops and autorickshaws, something once associated primarily with North India rather than Bengal. These were not isolated images. They seemed everywhere.
Television news channels continuously broadcast reports about investigations and crackdowns on TMC leaders over long-pending corruption allegations. Among the names repeatedly discussed was Sujit Bose, widely known in Kolkata for organising the extravagant Sreebhumi Durga Puja, where idols are decorated with gold worth lakhs of rupees.
Family members and friends also told us about crowds gathering outside the residences of Mamata Banerjee and Abhishek Banerjee, shouting “chor” and filming videos for social media.
Yet beneath the visible excitement, there was also anxiety.
Several people spoke of names allegedly being removed during the SIR process despite valid documentation being submitted. Others feared what the new political climate could bring.
One Muslim cab driver told us he had stayed inside his home for five days after the election results because he was terrified after hearing about “bulldozer action” beginning in his locality.
Listening to him describe his fear made the transformation feel even more real.
For years, Bengal’s self-image was built around intellectualism and resistance to BJP politics. Many Bengalis proudly distanced themselves from Hindutva narratives and associated the BJP with an alien political culture.
Mamata Banerjee herself rose to prominence through movements like the Singur movement and the Nandigram movement, presenting herself as a fighter for ordinary people.
But over time, allegations of corruption, violence, intimidation, political excess, and scams increasingly damaged that image.
For me personally, the RG Kar rape-murder case became the breaking point. It triggered outrage in Bengal, unlike anything I had seen in years.
The hope and excitement that accompanied Mamata Banerjee’s 2011 victory gradually faded over fifteen years and, for many people, transformed into exhaustion and fear.
Even professionally, Bengal increasingly felt stagnant. I tried several times to move back to Kolkata and build a life there again,n but repeatedly failed to find opportunities until eventually I stopped trying.
Now, returning after this election, the city felt emotionally unfamiliar.
On the flight back to Delhi, I realised I was struggling to reconcile the Kolkata I grew up in with the Bengal I had just witnessed.
What the BJP government ultimately does remains uncertain. Bengal’s future is still unpredictable.
But one thing remains unchanged for me despite everything political: no matter how much Kolkata evolves, transforms, or surprises me, it will always remain home.
