Cultural Legacy and Symbolic Politics in Bengal

Submitted By: Sam

When the Delhi Police referred to Bengali as the “Bangladeshi language” earlier this year, it was more than a bureaucratic slip. For many in Bengal, it was a wound — the latest in a long series of moments where identity was felt to be under siege. From the “bohiragoto” (outsider) rhetoric of 2019 to calls for Bengali migrant workers to return home in 2025, Bengal’s cultural legacy has been repeatedly drawn into the theatre of symbolic politics.

Benedict Anderson once described nations as imagined communities, bound not just by territory but by shared memory. In Bengal, that memory is thick — woven from Tagore’s verse, Netaji’s defiance, till the rhythms of Durga Puja. But in the last few years, politics has not simply celebrated this heritage rather, it has repeatedly mobilized it as a political weapon. As Stuart Hall argued, cultural identity is constantly reconstructed under pressure, and here it was recast explicitly in opposition to an imagined cultural other. The bohiragoto campaign was not just a catchy slogan, rather it was the first major framing of Bengal’s political discourse through cultural belonging. By casting rivals as “outsiders”, it transformed elections into referendums on who truly belonged to this piece of historical land. One’s identity became the core currency of political legitimacy, where every subsequent cultural dispute from festivals to films would be interpreted through the very same lens.

The template evolved into full-scale performance when Durga Puja, Bengal’s grandeur celebration, turned into a political stage. Pandal themes, sponsorships, and public appearances became subtle and sometimes overt statements of allegiance. Parallel debates on making bangla compulsory in schools exposed an underlying anxiety: the fear that the mother tongue might become ornamental in its own homeland. This period showed symbolic politics not only as reactive but as proactive, embedding identity defence into celebratory cultural spaces. Yet as these symbols gained political currency, the lines between celebration and contestation began to blur. What once served to unite through shared pride now risked dividing through competitive ownership of heritage. Over the next few years, these performances gradually hardened into confrontation language slights and administrative neglect whether in interstate relations or day-to-day governance, it began to be read not as isolated incidents but as part of a larger pattern of disrespect. Bengal started to live through what Frantz Fanon might describe as defensive crystallisation, where repeated perceived affronts sharpen “us” versus “them” boundaries, and even minor slights acquire historical weight. It is in this stage that symbolic politics shifted from festive assertion to protective vigilance.

The terrain widened, when cinema entered the fray. Controversies over films that downplayed Bengal’s role in the freedom struggle sparked debates about narrative ownership. Pierre Nora’s notion of lieux de mémoire comes alive, as disputes over screen portrayals of historical films like Kesari 2 which got accused of sidelining Bengal’s contribution to the freedom struggle. For many Bengalis, such omissions felt like a rewriting of national memory itself. Things took wilder turns when The Delhi Police’s “Bangladeshi language” remark triggered outrage among the Bengalis and the Trinamool Congress framed it as an insult to the language who gave the nation it’s national anthem demanding an apology from the Union Home Minister. This was not mere linguistic pedantry, in Charles Taylor’s terms, it’s a demand for moral recognition. Around the same time, Mamata Banerjee called on Bengali-speaking migrant workers in BJP-ruled states to return, offering rations, jobs, and voter list protection.

The recurring pattern of symbolic politics raises a pressing question: does this defence of culture strengthen unity or deepen fault lines? The answer, perhaps, lies in how these narratives are balanced. Identity can be a source of pride without becoming a wall; heritage can be celebrated without being weaponized. Bengal’s cultural heritage is not fragile, it has endured colonialism, partition, and political upheaval. But its vitality depends on remaining a bridge, not a barricade. The real political challenge is to keep Ghalib’s line as a compliment, not a prophecy — a Bengal that can honour its past and imagine its future without becoming trapped between the two.