West Bengal has often been described, namely by ruling Trinamool and chief minister Mamata Banerjee,  as “the sweetest part of India”. The sobriquet could have been conferred on the eastern state not just because it boasts some of the best desserts in the entire country (including the delectable “roshogolla”, that spongy ball of cottage cheese marinated in sugar syrup which have often inspired rhymes and poems), but its people, language, culture, etc. are supposed to exude a kind of sophisticated, well, “sweetness”.

But currently parts of this sweet state are gripped in the throes of bitter violence.

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I have been to Murshidadab and Malda many many times as a reporter covering various issues, including communal feelings. I have invariably found that the common people do not differentiate between religions and prefer to live harmoniously with each other. In fact, I found that it comes so naturally to them that they don’t even think about it.

Two farmers were taking a break by a roadside paddy field. The green and yellow paddy swayed in the gentle afternoon breeze. I stopped my car and hopped off. They were smoking bidis and chatting. Only their names, Raju and Rahim, gave away their religions. Though I was on a mission to gauge communal tension, I did not have the heart to ask whether there was any in their region. Clearly there was none, no tension, between the two friends. If anything, my question would have possible put a divisive wedge between them.

This is the thing. The divide does not exist. The divide is created by vested interests. Because by dividing people, religions, caste, race, we can control and rule.

We all know that this is done. We all know that the British practiced the “divide and rule” policy. It is indeed a shame that like sheep, we continue with their sordid saga.

That’s because power is an addiction. Those who gain it will do anything to hold on to it. As a reporter I have interviewed politicians before they gained power and have witnessed their changed attitudes after they gained it. The flattery, the buttering up that came with the package called power, got to them, grew on them. It is too good to give up. To eschew it for the sake of standing up for what is correct, would be too much to ask for. The high that you feel when you are surrounded by sycophants is too precious, too heady to do away with. The swag with which you can walk when you are important has a great feel to it. And so it is convenient to keep looking the other way as divisive wedges are driven deep. Politicians don’t want to do anything about it. Other than fan it, of course.

But I refuse to ask that question, “Are there communal feelings?….”

The sun beats down over a school at noon. As the bell rings giggling children run out. Two girls tell me their names, Najma and Namita, and they tell me that they are best friends.

Hell no, I am not going to ask them about religion. These girls, bright and bold, will lead their sweet Bengal into a future where they are not known by their religions but by their humanity….not for hatred towards one another but love for each another.

They both agree that they love sweets like “roshogollas”.

The writer is Editor, Features