jobs-can-wait-but-religion-must-be-saved

A scene from a history class in an eighth-grade classroom in Delhi captures the disturbing reality of our times. The teacher announces “good news” to a room full of cheerful students: they will not be required to study the chapter on the Sultanate era. No questions will be asked from it in the exam. On the surface, it may seem like a reprieve for overburdened children, but dig deeper, and it becomes symptomatic of a far more dangerous rot—the politicisation of education.

 

Shift the lens from Delhi to a girls' school in South Bengal, where a meeting between teachers and district administrators is underway. Officially, the discussion revolves around scholarships, digital tabs and government schemes like Aikyashree. But once the microphones are off, the message becomes clear: no eligible name should be left out from the beneficiary lists. Every student from the minority community must be brought under the umbrella of government benefits—an effort cloaked in benevolence, but reeking of political calculation.

 

These are not isolated vignettes. They are representative of a broader, systemic crisis: education in India is being dismantled, repurposed not as a tool of enlightenment but as a means of electoral engineering. In both the Centre and the state, political forces have weaponised schools to serve their vote-bank agendas.

 

At the national level, the BJP seeks to cultivate a Hindu vote base through curriculum sanitisation. The removal of the Sultanate and Mughal eras from textbooks, the exclusion of Darwin’s theory and the erasure of Gandhi’s warning against a Hindu-only India from Class 12 textbook—all signal a systematic rewriting of history to align with majoritarian ideology.

 

Meanwhile, in West Bengal, the ruling Trinamool Congress has transformed education into a sprawling welfare enterprise—ranging from Kanyashree to Rupashree, Aikyashree to Taruner Swapno. These projects, noble in conception, have often been reduced to instruments of electoral appeasement.

 

In the aftermath of the Supreme Court’s recent verdict invalidating the appointments of nearly 26,000 teachers in Bengal, the corruption embedded in the state’s recruitment machinery was laid bare. The court’s intervention exposed how merit had been sacrificed at the altar of nepotism and the School Service Commission (SSC) itself failed to differentiate between deserving candidates and tainted appointees.

 

This ruling should have electrified the state’s political opposition. Instead, what followed was a shift in narrative. The BJP, after a brief show of concern, pivoted back to its comfort zone—religious polarisation.

 

Instead of mobilising a sustained protest against the government’s gross failure in education, the BJP leadership chose to prioritise Hindu-Muslim tensions in Murshidabad district. From announcing the celebration of “Hindu Martyrs' Day” to staging street theatrics with saffron flags, the party’s leaders made it clear: jobs can wait, but religion must be ‘saved.’

 

This diversion has played straight into the hands of Mamata Banerjee. The more BJP indulges in polarising rhetoric, the more it consolidates Trinamool’s minority vote bank.

 

Knowing the fragility of her government’s credibility post-recruitment scam, the Bengal Chief Minister has rushed to declare that the amended Waqf Act will not be implemented in Bengal—an unmistakable signal to her Muslim constituents. The Trinamool Congress’s strategy is clear: secure minority votes, retain support from welfare beneficiaries and secular Hindus disenchanted with BJP’s communal politics and secure a fourth term in 2026.

 

Yet, amid these political manoeuvres, the real casualty is the future of West Bengal’s children.

 

How can one expect a student to respect the authority of a teacher they believe paid a bribe to get the job? How can a teacher, unsure of their employment security, dedicate themselves to the classroom? How can colleagues collaborate in good faith when some suspect others of corrupt appointments?

 

Welfare schemes like Kanyashree, Sabuj Sathi, and Rupashree were conceived with good intentions—to prevent early marriage and school dropouts among girls. But today, the very teachers entrusted with executing these projects report widespread misuse. Underage girls arrive at school wearing vermilion to feign eligibility for grants. Local leaders issue fraudulent certificates. And the teachers? Their hands are tied by political pressure and bureaucratic indifference.

 

Despite this crumbling edifice, the BJP appears more preoccupied with branding Bengal as a religious battleground than rescuing its broken education system. Murshidabad’s communal flare-ups receive more political attention than the voices of unemployed, qualified teachers.

 

Also read: Congress defends Gandhis ahead of crucial court hearing

 

BJP leaders seem to believe that fostering communal resentment is a shortcut to electoral victory. Disillusioned Trinamool Congress’s voters, frustrated by corruption and appeasement, may be lured toward a party that promises strong-arm governance—never mind the cost to social harmony or educational integrity.

 

This zero-sum game is slowly erasing the very foundation of a healthy society: equitable, quality education. The children of Bengal are being taught not to think critically or engage meaningfully with their history and science, but to navigate a politicised landscape where textbooks shift with party manifestos and classrooms serve as frontlines in a cultural war.

 

What’s most distressing is that there is no credible third force in sight. The Left and Congress—once formidable voices in policy and ideology—are now little more than bystanders, still trying to emerge from the shadows of irrelevance.

 

West Bengal deserves better than a false binary between communalism and corruption. It deserves leaders who see schools not as sites of transaction but as temples of transformation. Until that day comes, the children of this state remain hostages to a political game that has little regard for their dreams—and even less for their dignity.

 

By Pranab Mondal