Unmasking Bengal’s Dark Past
While reflecting on The Bengal Files (TBF), I considered whether the title should reference “Clouds of Truth” or “Clouds of Untruth.” Both fit. Untruth underscores how history was distorted, while truth highlights the film’s role in restoring what was denied to us for decades. I chose to keep “Clearing the Clouds of Truth” for it signals not only the exposure of lies but also the clarity of vision Hindus must embrace moving forward.
We have already lost decades since the Hindu genocide in Bengal and the seeds of a divided Bharat, which still haunt us in 2025. The optics in TBF are no different from the ugly truths in The Kashmir Files: stone pelting, beheadings, brutal murders, and rapes—atrocities then and now.
At its core, TBF recounts communal violence during the 1940s in Bengal, especially the 1946 Great Calcutta Killings (Direct Action Day) and the Noakhali riots. It is graphic, gruesome, and disturbing, but necessary. The bitter truth of history, buried too long, needed to be out.
For generations, Partition memories were shaped by Punjab—its burning trains, migrations, and horror stories. Schoolbooks and political narratives rarely acknowledged the atrocities in Bengal. The Bengal Files breaks that silence, daring to portray the forgotten carnage of 1946–47, a history no less brutal or defining for the soul of Bharat.
When I went to see TBF in Minneapolis on September 10, I expected a larger turnout. I was disappointed that only 46 tickets were sold over four days—less than 0.1% of Indians in greater Minnesota.
I had not gone to TBF for entertainment but to witness a story erased from our conscience. At nearly 3.5 hours, the film felt long but justified: the blood-soaked streets of Calcutta, organized mobs, fear for every Hindu, men, women, and children, and the scale of human suffering could not be told in less. This was not chaos but systematic violence, sanctioned and executed with precision and impunity.
Direct Action Day – A planned carnage
The most chilling portion of TBF is the reconstruction of Direct Action Day, August 16, 1946. Under the Bengal Muslim League government, Hindu police officers were deliberately transferred away. What followed was no spontaneous riot but a large-scale operation of Hindu genocide. Armed mobs hacked, burned, and lynched men, women, and children. Bodies piled up, homes and shops torched, and women violated.
The message was unmistakable: Hindus could be massacred with impunity. The architect was Muhammad Ali Jinnah, who had already declared that Hindus and Muslims “cannot be one.” Yet Gandhi’s conscience did not wake up. He continued to preach non-violence as if it did not apply to Muslims butchering Hindus indiscriminately on Calcutta streets. He told a Hindu that women should fast or die rather than resist. This was Gandhi’s moral failure—shielding Muslims while Hindus were slaughtered. Why did he not demand Jinnah stop the killings or insist that if Partition was inevitable, Bharat must be free of Muslims?
Characters as symbols
The film conveys these truths through memorable characters:
Bharati Banerjee, a young girl scarred by the carnage, grows into an elderly woman with dementia who still trembles when asked to name perpetrators. Her silence symbolizes the scars Hindus carry—repeatedly taught that survival means silence. She portrays dignity and courage.
Amar, the Sikh soldier, serves as the moral compass, reminding us that survival is not submission but dignity and resistance. His brutal death—pulled apart by two motorcycles—was nearly unbearable to watch, but unforgettable. He embodies the courage Hindus must embrace.
H.S. Suhrawardy, Bengal’s Prime Minister in 1946, epitomizes betrayal. By transferring Hindu officers, he cleared the path for the massacre. His role showed how political power can corrupt and sanction atrocities, then and now.
The past mirrors the present
The brilliance of TBF lies in bridging 1946 to the present. The narrative shifts between Partition-era Bengal and today’s Bengal, where corruption, lawlessness, and selective justice still prevail. A young CBI officer, Shiva Pandit, investigates the disappearance of journalist Gita Mandal but is silenced by the powerful MLA Sarwar Husseini. When Mandal is murdered, Pandit’s outrage culminates in his killing Husseini. Abrupt though it seems, the ending is a moral reminder: do we want a Bharat with “two constitutions”—one for the nation and another for Bengal under corrupt, hateful leaders?
This is why, perhaps, West Bengal’s current Chief Minister, Mamata Banerjee, has yet to allow the film’s screening in her state.
Breaking the silence
What makes TBF remarkable and impressive is its refusal to soften. The producers and director did not flinch from corpses piled high, women desecrated, and entire communities terrorized. Watching was emotionally draining, but necessary. Forgotten history repeats itself.
For decades, we were told that the Partition violence was spontaneous or simply the price of freedom. TBF confronts us with a harsher truth: Hindu killings were organized, ideological, and genocidal. If we refuse to recognize this, Hindus remain as vulnerable today as then.
Lessons for Hindu unity
The deepest lesson of the film is for Hindus to wake up. Time and again, from Bengal to Kashmir, from Godhra to Sandeshkhali, the pattern repeats: ideological hate, political complicity, Hindu silence. Bharati Banerjee’s trembling refusal to name perpetrators is Hindu society’s tragedy writ large. We have chosen silence over truth, compromise over courage, and disunity over solidarity.
The Sikh soldier’s counsel must be our takeaway: Hindus cannot survive by dying quietly. Unity, courage, and readiness to fight—not with weapons alone but with truth, organization, and political will—are essential.
Conclusion
The Bengal Files is not just a film; it is a mirror. It forces us to ask why our history and the truth were suppressed for too long. Thanks are due to the third of Vivek Agnihotri’s “files” trilogy that he gathered the courage to let us face the bitter truth. Learning from it is the next crucial step to ensure that every Hindu man, woman, and child is secure and not vulnerable to the atrocities of the past. For Hindu unity, remembrance is the first step, and speaking the truth, however bitter, the second.
Note:
1. Text in Blue points to additional data on the topic.
2. The views expressed here are those of the author and do not necessarily represent or reflect the views of PGurus.
3. The author acknowledges the use of ChatGPT in researching topics and the meaningful improvement of content.
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Formerly, a researcher in Italy, Japan, and France, he has widely travelled and came to the US in 1978. He was a faculty and academic administrator in several different universities in PA, TX, NJ, MN, WI, and NY, and an Executive Fellow in the White House S&T Policy during the Clinton administration.
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