Written by: Neelatphal Chanda, Ishayu Gupta
In early July, images from Mumbai flashed across television screens and social media: a Marathi-speaking protester being forcibly detained while yelling into a news microphone, amid growing tensions over the Maharashtra government’s controversial push to mandate Hindi in schools. What began as a policy tweak spiralled into a state-wide language identity crisis, bringing together estranged political cousins and reigniting age-old anxieties about cultural hegemony. But Maharashtra is not alone. As India approaches the Assembly elections, similar linguistic tinderboxes are being poked—if not lit—in West Bengal, Assam, and Bihar.
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In these eastern and northeastern states, where linguistic identity has historically served as both a rallying point and a wedge issue, political parties are once again mining mother tongues for votes. Whether it’s asserting regional pride, vilifying linguistic outsiders, or redefining administrative language policies, language has become a weapon as much as a badge. And while the rhetoric surges, the people caught in its wake are often left divided, anxious, or even endangered.
West Bengal: Bengali Pride or Political Provocation?
In West Bengal, the language debate is hardly new, but it has been reignited with fresh urgency. The state has long seen linguistic assertion as a marker of cultural sophistication. But in the run-up to the 2026 elections, political narratives around Bengali identity are intensifying, particularly in response to what the Trinamool Congress (TMC) frames as the “Hindi imposition” agenda of the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP).
Chief Minister Mamata Banerjee has made multiple references to protecting “Bangla bhasha” (Bengali language) from cultural encroachment. The TMC’s media campaigns increasingly emphasize West Bengal’s distinct literary, cinematic, and linguistic legacy. Slogans like “Bangla nijer meyekei chay” (“Bengal wants its own daughter”) from the 2021 campaign are being adapted for fresh use, tapping into anxieties that an ascendant BJP—driven by Hindi-heartland leaders—might dilute regional culture.
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Meanwhile, the BJP is walking a fine line. While it has tried to portray itself as inclusive by issuing campaign material in Bengali, it has also faced backlash for leaders making speeches predominantly in Hindi during rallies. Grassroots workers in North Bengal—where a significant population speaks Hindi or Nepali—report feeling caught between two identities.
Language is thus becoming both a proxy for resisting centralization and a tool for emotional mobilization, and as TMC seeks a third consecutive term, it is banking on Bengali pride to secure its cultural and electoral fortress.
Assam: The Multilingual Minefield
Assam presents perhaps the most complex case. Unlike Bengal or Bihar, where the linguistic battle is largely bipolar, Assam is a tapestry of languages—Assamese, Bengali, Bodo, and several tribal tongues. The politics of language here is inextricably tied to questions of identity, indigeneity, and survival.
In 2020, the Assam government sparked controversy by proposing that Assamese be made a compulsory subject in schools across the state. The move triggered widespread protests, particularly in Barak Valley, where the majority speaks Bengali.
Though the plan was rolled back partially due to resistance from the Bengali-speaking population, language continues to divide. Ahead of the 2026 elections, the ruling BJP, under Chief Minister Himanta Biswa Sarma, is pushing a narrative of “One Assam, One Identity,” which implicitly prioritizes Assamese.
This push is being met with unease. A recent row erupted when Assamese was mandated as the official language in select government notices in Barak Valley. Civil society groups staged sit-ins, and one protest turned violent, with clashes between pro-Bengali and pro-Assamese demonstrators.
The opposition Congress and All India United Democratic Front (AIUDF) are capitalizing on this unease. “Language is a right, not a privilege,” said AIUDF leader Badruddin Ajmal during a rally in Karimganj. “You cannot build an Assamese Assam by excluding Assamese citizens who speak Bengali.”
But the real danger, experts warn, is the fracturing of communal harmony.
Bihar: The Silent Language Battle Within Hindi
On the surface, Bihar doesn’t appear to be engaged in a language war—after all, Hindi is the official state language and is widely spoken. But dig a little deeper, and you’ll find a more subtle battle being fought between Hindi and regional dialects like Bhojpuri, Maithili, and Magahi.
In the lead-up to 2025, regional parties like the Rashtriya Janata Dal (RJD) and Janata Dal (United) are increasingly using local dialects in campaign materials, speeches, and social media content. RJD leader Tejashwi Yadav’s Bhojpuri slogans, such as “Bihar ke beta, samajhi le baat” (Bihar’s sons, understand the message), are being seen as a move to connect with rural voters more intimately than standard Hindi allows.
This renewed attention to dialects is not accidental. There is a growing sentiment among Bihar’s youth and cultural activists that their regional languages are being ignored. While Bhojpuri boasts over 50 million speakers and Maithili is constitutionally recognized, neither has adequate state support in terms of education or administration. Activists have petitioned for including Bhojpuri and Magahi in the Eighth Schedule of the Indian Constitution, which would afford them official status.
Interestingly, the BJP in Bihar has remained relatively neutral in the dialect debate, likely to avoid alienating its core Hindi-speaking voter base. However, in urban areas like Patna and Gaya, a quiet discomfort persists over the erasure of dialectal identity. Language, in Bihar’s case, has become an undercurrent—a non-verbal signal of cultural affiliation that increasingly determines political leanings.
When Politics Speaks Louder Than People
Across Maharashtra, Bengal, Assam, and Bihar, one theme persists: language is never just about communication—it’s about control, culture, and community. Political parties have long known this. Whether it’s a push to teach a language in school, a protest over a billboard, or a rallying cry delivered in a dialect, linguistic identity is being shaped, sharpened, and weaponized in the pursuit of votes.
But the human cost of this politics is often overlooked. In Maharashtra, recent assaults on non-Marathi speakers for refusing to speak the language exposed the ugly extremities of cultural nationalism. In Assam, linguistic conflict has at times led to violence and migration, with residents fearing cultural alienation in their own homeland. In West Bengal and Bihar, the anxiety may be less violent but no less potent, manifesting as a slow erosion of self-worth when one’s mother tongue is treated as politically inconvenient.
The National Education Policy (NEP), often cited as the federal rationale behind language policy reforms, also becomes a political scapegoat. While the NEP proposes a three-language formula, it remains vague on implementation, allowing state governments to interpret it through partisan lenses. One state’s emphasis on multilingual education becomes another’s attempt at perceived imposition.
Yet, for ordinary citizens, especially students, daily wagers, and migrant workers, these shifts in policy rarely offer clarity. Instead, they breed confusion: Will my child be taught in a language they understand? Will I be denied services if I don’t speak the dominant tongue? Will I lose a job opportunity because I speak the wrong language?
Language as Bridge, Not Barrier
The assembly elections in West Bengal, Assam, and Bihar promise to be intensely fought, with identity politics playing a decisive role. But amid the chants and counter-chants, it is crucial to ask: can language politics evolve from a tool of exclusion to one of inclusion?
Political analyst Abhay Deshpande believes it can—if there is intent. “The answer lies in plurality. Recognize all languages, fund their education, and let identity be a matter of pride, not paranoia.”
For that to happen, both governments and voters must demand accountability, not just in the form of catchy slogans, but in inclusive policies that reflect India’s extraordinary linguistic diversity. Because in a country that speaks 22 scheduled languages and hundreds of dialects, unity cannot come through uniformity. It must come through respect.
As the battle for ballots begins, the question remains: Will political tongues finally speak for the people, or continue to speak over them?
Neelatphal Chanda is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Media Studies at Christ University, Bangalore, and Ishayu Gupta is a postgraduate student in Political Communication at the University of Leeds, UK.