In the fertile floodplains of West Bengal, where the Ganges breaks into countless distributaries before meeting the Bay of Bengal, a profound transformation has been unfolding for decades.
The state’s cultural, political, and social fabric is being reshaped by persistent illegal infiltration across the Indo-Bangladesh border—an issue that now sits at the heart of Bengal’s identity and stability.
The numbers themselves tell a compelling story. In 1951, Hindus accounted for nearly 78% of Bengal’s population; by 2011, that share had dropped to around 70%.
Muslims, who formed just under 20% at Independence, rose to more than 27%, with projections suggesting the community could make up 30–35% by the mid-2020s.
In districts such as Murshidabad (now two-thirds Muslim) and Malda (over half Muslim), the demographic tilt is even more dramatic.
For political parties, this demographic weight translates into an electoral force. Muslims now comprise close to 30% of Bengal’s electorate—around 2.25 crore voters—with significant influence in more than 100 assembly constituencies.
In many of these seats, their votes decide winners. Critics allege that migrants who secure voting rights through forged identities have become a decisive bloc, turning elections into a contest of appeasement politics.
The Trinamool Congress (TMC), in particular, is accused of cultivating this vote bank by shielding vulnerable groups from deportation while mobilising them as both loyal voters and ground-level enforcers during campaigns.
The 2024 Kaliganj bypoll underscored these realities. With Muslims forming nearly 60% of the electorate, the TMC candidate triumphed despite the BJP sweeping Hindu-majority booths.
Analysts noted that migrant returnees—facilitated with travel, funds, and temporary jobs—tilted the balance, reinforcing charges of manipulation.
The Election Commission’s ongoing 2025 voter roll revision, which seeks to delete names of long-term outmigrants, is seen by the BJP as a chance to curb these distortions.
The TMC, however, has branded the exercise “disenfranchisement” and challenged it in court.
But the impact of infiltration extends well beyond the ballot box. In towns like Baduria and Sandeshkhali, once Hindu-majority communities now face steady decline.
Locals recount how land transfers, harassment, and festival restrictions have driven many families to sell property and move inland.
Testimonies speak of Rohingyas arriving in the past decade under political patronage, first as labourers, then as enforcers for powerful leaders.
A retired teacher in Basirhat recalled how newcomers were provided food and shelter, only to later seize land and intimidate residents. Such accounts echo a pattern many describe as “land jihad.”
The story is not limited to Bengal. Outmigration of Hindus—fleeing harassment and economic pressure—has seeded new communities in states like Assam and Odisha.
Sambalpur in Odisha, for instance, has seen the rise of Bangladeshi-origin Muslim settlements over the past 20 years, sparking tensions and even violent clashes, such as during the 2023 Rath Yatra.
Environmental and political instability in Bangladesh—rising seas, cyclones, and persecution—continue to feed these flows, particularly across the 963 unfenced kilometres of Bengal’s 4,096-km border.
These demographic and cultural shifts have heightened communal volatility. Bengal has repeatedly witnessed riots tied to infiltrator-heavy regions: from the 2017 Baduria unrest to the 2023 Ram Navami violence in Howrah and the 2025 Murshidabad Waqf protests.
Investigators often link these flare-ups to orchestrated mobilisations, sometimes involving Bangladeshi nationals.
Local madrassas, accused of spreading radical teachings, add to fears of growing extremism. Arrests like that of Tania Parveen in 2023 for alleged Lashkar-e-Taiba links deepen the unease.
Political rhetoric has further inflamed matters.
TMC leader Firhad Hakim’s controversial remarks—ranging from dubbing Kolkata’s Garden Reach a “mini-Pakistan” to urging Muslims to “become a majority” for justice—have been seized upon by the opposition as evidence of deliberate demographic engineering.
Though often defended as misquoted or misinterpreted, such statements resonate in a climate already tense with communal distrust.
For Bengal’s Hindus, the consequences feel deeply personal.
From vandalised temples in Murshidabad to disrupted festivals in Nadia, many see themselves as shrinking into a minority in their ancestral land.
Former Vice President Jagdeep Dhankhar, during a 2025 visit, warned that “demographic engineering” posed a grave threat to national unity, citing Bengal as a prime example. Local voices echo this alarm: “We are refugees in our own homeland,” wrote one displaced resident from Murshidabad, capturing the growing sentiment of siege.
Experts and security officials argue that the crisis is no longer simply a question of population growth.
It is about sovereignty, resources, and the future of Bengal’s plural identity. While the BJP demands stricter border enforcement, deportations, and a crackdown on forged documents, the TMC continues to stress welfare and inclusion, rejecting what it calls “divisive politics.”
Civil society groups, meanwhile, urge bipartisan solutions—fortified fencing, better coordination with Dhaka, and policies that balance humanitarian concerns with national security.
As the 2026 assembly elections draw closer, Bengal finds itself at a crossroads. Will its legacy of cultural synthesis endure, or will unchecked demographic shifts fracture its foundations?
The answer may determine not only the fate of the state but also the contours of India’s future politics.
