In India, political parties are both the architects and adversaries of democracy. Since independence, governance has been dominated by ruling parties, while the voices of ordinary citizens have been drowned out by partisan agendas. Every party pursues its own power games, often at the expense of democratic ideals.
The result is a democracy where oppression grows daily. The marginalized and disadvantaged classes multiply in number and intensity of suffering. Elections, once envisioned as the cornerstone of people’s power, have devolved into a circus. Parties proclaim their concern for the oppressed, yet the lived reality of those citizens is one of deepening hardship.
Nowhere is this contradiction more visible than in West Bengal. The Trinamool Congress (TMC), entrenched in power for over a decade, has built its rule on populist schemes—Kanyashree, Rupashree, Sabuj Sathi, Shramashree, and cash transfers like Lakshmi Bhandar. These programs, while loudly advertised, rarely address the structural inequities that perpetuate oppression. Instead, they serve as instruments of patronage and political control.
Corruption has become synonymous with governance in the state. From grassroots workers to senior leaders, bribery permeates every level—whether in selecting beneficiaries of welfare schemes, issuing job cards under MGNREGA, or even selling school appointments. The education system itself has been shaken by scandals. Corruption is no longer incidental; it is institutionalized.
Legal battles play out in courts from the High Court to the Supreme Court, as the ruling party seeks to dismiss allegations and preserve its image. Yet on the streets, the people protest, facing police crackdowns, false cases, and custodial harassment. This recurring cycle of repression resembles a grim theatre—where the oppressed are both actors and victims, performing their anguish before a state that refuses to listen.
The chief minister, rather than confronting corruption, deflects blame onto the BJP-led central government. In doing so, she appears complicit in shielding her party’s wrongdoers. Her rhetoric, often dismissive and manipulative, raises troubling questions about empathy and accountability in leadership.
Psychologists describe alexithymia as the inability to recognize and articulate one’s own emotions, a condition that impairs empathy. When combined with sociopathic tendencies—pathological lying, manipulation, and disregard for responsibility—it creates a dangerous political personality. The leader of West Bengal, critics argue, embodies this profile: adept at mimicry of normal emotion, yet fundamentally detached from the suffering of her people.
Her hunger for power and wealth erodes the social fabric. Citizens face monumental challenges in education, employment, and justice, while the ruling party insists the state is free of problems. This denial deepens the crisis.
The theatre of the oppressed continues, staged daily on Bengal’s streets. But the final act will not be written by politicians—it will be judged by society at large, which must decide how long it will tolerate corruption, manipulation, and the betrayal of democratic ideals.
Comments