The images emerging from West Bengal in recent weeks are troubling not merely because they show political workers being assaulted, humiliated or paraded through the streets, but because they reveal something deeper about the state of democratic culture in India.
Whatever the immediate provocation, however intense the public anger, the spectacle of mob justice replacing due process should concern every citizen. A democracy governed by laws cannot permit individuals or groups to assume the role of judge, jury and executioner. Yet, increasingly, political violence is not only being tolerated but also celebrated. Social media platforms amplify such incidents, supporters of rival camps cheer them on, and public discourse becomes a contest of who deserves humiliation rather than who deserves justice. The danger lies not merely in the violence itself, but in the growing acceptance of violence as a legitimate political language. When political opponents are reduced to enemies and public humiliation becomes a form of entertainment, democratic institutions begin to erode from within.
West Bengal's political history offers ample warning about where such trends lead. Political violence did not begin with the current dispensation, nor was it absent during previous regimes. The state has long carried the burden of a confrontational political culture. The turbulent years of the Naxalite movement in the late 1960s and early 1970s witnessed intense clashes between the state and radical groups. Subsequent decades under the Left Front were often marked by allegations of cadre dominance and political intimidation, particularly in rural areas. The violent events at places such as Nandigram and Singur became defining moments in Bengal's political consciousness. When the Trinamool Congress replaced the Left Front in 2011, many hoped that a new political culture would emerge. Instead, accusations of political violence merely shifted direction. Election-related clashes, local turf wars and attacks on party workers continued to be reported with alarming regularity. The political colours changed, but the methods often remained depressingly familiar. This continuity should force a difficult question: has Bengal normalised political violence to such an extent that every new government simply inherits and perpetuates the same machinery?
The temptation to justify such behaviour is understandable but dangerous. Every political camp possesses its catalogue of grievances. Supporters of one party point to past excesses committed by another. Opponents respond with their own list of victims and injustices. In this environment, violence acquires a veneer of legitimacy because it is portrayed as payback rather than wrongdoing. Yet retribution is not justice. Justice operates through institutions, evidence, courts and due process. Retribution operates through emotion, anger and collective punishment. Democracies survive because they insist on the former even when the latter appears more satisfying. The moment a society begins to excuse assaults, public shaming or mob action because the victim "deserves it", it abandons the principle of equal protection under law. What remains is a hierarchy of rights determined by political affiliation. Such a system inevitably turns against everyone. Those who celebrate the humiliation of opponents today may discover tomorrow that political winds have shifted and the same methods are being used against them. History repeatedly demonstrates that the cycle of vengeance rarely ends with one side's victory; it merely changes targets.
The role of public discourse in encouraging this cycle deserves scrutiny. Social media has transformed political conflict into a form of mass entertainment. Images of assaults, confrontations and public humiliation circulate with remarkable speed, often accompanied by triumphant commentary. Many users who would never engage in violence themselves nonetheless become enthusiastic spectators. Political outrage is rewarded with visibility, while calls for restraint are dismissed as weakness or false equivalence. The result is a culture in which democratic norms gradually lose their moral authority. This phenomenon is not unique to Bengal. Across India and indeed across many democracies, political polarisation has encouraged citizens to view institutions with suspicion and opponents with contempt. But Bengal's history makes it particularly vulnerable. A society accustomed to treating politics as a zero-sum battle risks becoming trapped in a permanent state of conflict where every election resembles a transfer of power between rival camps rather than a peaceful expression of democratic choice.
The challenge, therefore, extends beyond any single party or government. Law enforcement agencies must act firmly against political violence regardless of the victim's affiliation. Political leadership across the spectrum must reject the language of vengeance and resist the temptation to exploit public anger for short-term gain. Equally important, citizens must abandon the habit of applauding behaviour they would condemn if directed at their own side. Democracy demands consistency. If mob intimidation is wrong when one's supporters are targeted, it is equally wrong when one's opponents are targeted. West Bengal's tragedy is not simply that political violence recurs; it is that each generation convinces itself that this time the violence is justified. The state deserves better than an endless cycle of retaliation. It deserves institutions strong enough to enforce accountability, politics mature enough to tolerate dissent and citizens wise enough to recognise that jungle raj does not disappear when power changes hands. It merely acquires a new set of occupants. The true test of democracy is not how it treats its friends, but how it treats its adversaries. Bengal, and indeed India, would do well to remember that distinction.