Joya Chatterji’s Bengal Divided has long been praised as a landmark study of the 1947 partition of Bengal, but if one reads it with a less reverential eye, the cracks begin to show.
The book suffers from a tunnel vision so severe that it ends up collapsing a many-sided political tragedy into a monocausal story. Hindu communalism, for Chatterji, is the alpha and omega of Bengal’s vivisection. She brilliantly documents the anxieties of the Hindu bhadralok — their fear of Muslim demographic weight, their desperate manoeuvring to secure power in a changing electorate — but her relentless focus turns this into the whole story.
Muslim League mobilisation, peasant unrest, British strategies of divide and rule, and even the global context of the Second World War: all get pushed into the wings. The unintended suggestion is that Hindus partitioned Bengal all by themselves, while Muslims merely reaped the benefits — a caricature that history refuses to support.
The book is also deeply elitist in its orientation. Despite acknowledging the agrarian base of Bengal politics, the narrative is told almost entirely from Calcutta’s drawing rooms and courtrooms. It becomes less a history of Bengal than a bhadralok psychodrama.
The landholders, lawyers, and intellectuals worry, argue, and plot, while the Muslim peasantry — whose electoral mobilization after 1937 decisively altered Bengal politics — appear as a faceless mass. Peasant consciousness is treated as a statistical shift, not as a lived political culture with its own language and demands. For a work so invested in the politics of numbers, it curiously refuses to take seriously the people behind those numbers.
A deeper problem is methodological. Chatterji begins with the conclusion that Hindu communalism was decisive, and then constructs a prosecution brief to prove it. Everything the Hindu elites did is interpreted as evidence of partition’s inevitability, while moments of cross-communal alliance, or the fascinating but doomed “United Bengal” project, are brushed aside as irrelevant.
The effect is confirmation bias writ large. What we get is not a nuanced investigation into how Bengal unravelled but a tightly controlled thesis where the conclusion was baked in from page one.
The Cambridge School lineage shows clearly, for better and worse. On the plus side, there is meticulous archival work, a dazzling command of election data, and careful reconstruction of party strategies. But the weaknesses are just as glaring: a deep cynicism about ideology, an allergy to intellectual and cultural history, and a reduction of politics to raw self-interest.
Communalism in Bengal Divided is never a moral vision, a cultural identity, or an emotional community; it is simply vote banks and bargaining chips. The flattening may make for a neat analytic story, but it drains the human drama out of one of the bloodiest chapters of Bengal’s past.
The neatness itself is suspicious. Chatterji draws a straight line from Hindu fear to Hindu communalism to Hindu partition demand. But history is rarely that tidy. Muslim League radicalisation, Congress equivocations, British duplicity, the devastation of the 1943 famine, Subhas Bose’s counter-politics — all these strands complicate the tale. To ignore them is to risk distortion. Bengal Divided is elegant in design but guilty of oversimplification.
And then there is the style. The book reads like a Cambridge dissertation: brilliant in documentation, but painfully dry.
Electoral maps, official documents, and party resolutions dominate the pages. What’s missing is the lived Bengal of riots, songs, propaganda, and rumour — the voices that make partition history visceral. For a subject steeped in blood, displacement, and emotion, the prose is startlingly antiseptic. Partition becomes not a wound but a ledger.
Ironically, this very narrowness has given the book a potent afterlife. It has been eagerly adopted by those who want to lay the blame for Bengal’s vivisection squarely on Hindu communalism, and in polemical contexts, nuance quickly dies. In that sense, the book risks becoming less a work of history than an ideological weapon.
The verdict? Bengal Divided is pioneering in archival depth and courageous in its insistence on exposing Hindu elite insecurities.
But it is also blinkered, rigid, and elitist.
It gives us a sharp but lopsided history, brilliant in its detail yet impoverished in imagination. It explains much, but it leaves out more.