In the tapestry of Indian culture, the Bengali woman stands out, not as a mere silhouette bound by age-old traditions, but as something far more vivid: a force, a figure of strength, a bearer of brazen light. In Bengal, the women are not simply daughters, wives, mothers; they are embodiments of the fierce mother goddesses themselves, the revered Maa Durga and the terrifying protector Maa Kali. They walk boldly into space, voice raised, questions sharp, aura intense. Their identity is rooted in a tradition of female power, of outspokenness, of refusing to merely accept things as they are.
This essay explores how the Bengali woman reflects that duality - fierce and tender, independent and relational; how in many modern Bengali homes she shares or even takes the lead in the family’s financial or decision-making spheres, and how that distinguishes her from the more constricted roles women may be expected to play in some other Indian communities. But it also takes a sober look at the darker underside: in recent years, incidents in Bengal suggest that the state, which once boasted educational superiority and cultural confidence, is now witnessing troubling declines in safety for women, and cracks in its educational edifice. The Bengali woman, as representative of her culture, now contends not only with external prejudice being labelled as “black magic-practising” by neighbouring communities, for instance, but with an internal reality of institutional lapse and social regression.
There is something unmistakable about the Bengali woman: she inherits the legacy of Durga’s trident and Kali’s fearless roar. In her upbringing, in many homes, she is encouraged, implicitly or explicitly, to have an opinion. She asks questions of scripture and society in equal measure. She corrects grammar, she debates politics, she celebrates literature. She is not content to bow her head in acquiescence when things feel unjust; more likely, she will turn the mirror back on the world and say: “Explain to me why this is fair.” She was born into a culture that worships that sort of boldness - the goddess who slays the demon, the mother who holds the reins of power while also spinning the thread of creation. The very act of worshipping Durga and Kali in Bengal is itself a metaphor for this female energy: un-timid, divine in its ferocity, nurturing in its grace.
In the Bengali household of decades ago, and increasingly in modern ones, the woman has claimed her space. In contrast to more rigid patriarchies in certain North Indian states, where the man remains the undisputed head of family and the decision-maker, many modern Bengali homes see women playing dominant or at least equal roles when it comes to finances, education, and household decision-making. She may be the one keeping the books of the family shop, deciding which school the children go to, or calling the shots on a large family purchase. She is not apologetic for this. She is not quiet about it. And that, in itself, sets her apart.
It’s no wonder then that neighbouring communities have, on occasion, cast her in the role of the “other” mistrustful of her voice, suspicious of her boldness. She has sometimes been caricatured in popular film and folklore as practising “kaala jaadu” (black magic), an ugly reflection of fear, ignorance, and a regressive mindset. But what this label actually betrays is not anything of her doing, but of their fear of her. Of a woman who will speak back, who will demand answers, who will not simply accept the status quo. Her independence, her intense gaze, her refusal to be sidelined, all of these become imagined threats in places where patriarchal norms remain rigid, and when the female voice is expected to fold itself and become compliant. The portrayal of the Bengali woman as mystical or dangerous is less about truth and more about anxiety; it reveals how much her difference unsettles those who prefer the familiar script of gendered passivity.
And yet, it is this very brazenness and radiance that endears the Bengali woman to her own community. Visit Bengal during the Durga Puja, witness the pandals, the lights, the rhythms of dhak, the women walking with pooja thalis in hand, their saris blinding white with red borders, their bangles ringing in the air. She is part of a joyous culture of celebration, debate, creativity, and conviviality. Her voice belongs in intellectual salons even as it belongs in household kitchens. She is fearless in the face of tradition but also rooted in it, because in Bengal, to be rooted is not the opposite of flying; one must have deep water before one can leap.
And yet, and yet. This image, though shimmering and bold, cannot remain untouched by the broader societal currents. It is in the shadows of the same land that question marks are growing. If the Bengali woman is to fully live the promise of Durga and Kali, her society must live up to that promise too in safety, in education, in equal access, and in institutional integrity. Here, the picture grows complicated.
Let us first look at safety. Though the city of Kolkata has been ranked by the National Crime Records Bureau (NCRB) as one of the safest Indian cities for the fourth consecutive year, recording the lowest number of cognizable offences per lakh population among 19 major cities in 2023. The data indicates a drop in the overall crime rate in the city. Yet, this city-level safety metric masks a far grimmer reality for women across the state of West Bengal. In 2023, the state reported 34,691 cases of crimes against women under the IPC and SLL, with a rate of 71.3 cases per lakh female population, higher than the national average of 65.3 for that year. Moreover, acid attacks in West Bengal - 57 cases in 2023, made up over a quarter of all such incidents in India (207) under Section 326A. What do these figures tell us? That the surface sheen of “safe city” or “cultural haven” can co-exist with deep structural inequality and vulnerability.
One of the most disquieting features is how many of the offenders are known to the victims, how many incidents happen on campuses and in places presumed to be safe. A recent article about campus violence noted that female students feel unsafe in West Bengal, referencing cases like the gang rape of a medical student in Durgapur and earlier at RG Kar Medical College hostel. That the Bengali woman is increasingly vulnerable even in sacred spaces of learning and growth is a betrayal of the cultural promise that once seemed assured.
In the field of education, once a realm in which Bengal claimed proudly to lead, troubling signs are emerging. While for the academic year 2023-24, Bengal reported a zero per cent dropout rate at primary (I-V) and upper‐primary (VI-VIII) levels, the secondary level dropout rate remained high: 17.8 %. But more alarming are more recent figures: according to the UDISE+ 2024-25 report, the state has nearly 3,812 schools with zero enrolment and 17,965 teachers placed in those empty schools, nearly half of all such schools in India.
Additionally, enrolments in government and aided schools have fallen significantly from 1.65 crore (2021-22) to 1.49 crore (2024-25), a drop of over 10 lakh students in just a year. Even the mid-day meal scheme, a lifeline for many children, saw alarmingly low uptake: over 40 % of enrolled students in 15 districts did not receive a meal in 2024-25. These are not subtle cracks; they hint at a serious erosion of schooling infrastructure, retention, and quality.
What does this mean for the Bengali woman? It means that even as she navigates household decisions, enters the workforce, and asserts voice and agency, the society around her may not always support the conditions she needs to flourish. The very foundations of education and safety - key enablers of independent female choice are faltering. When school corridors are empty, when mid-day meals go missing, when brands of violence escalate even as city indices claim improvement, then the promise of empowerment begins to falter.
One may argue: but wait, the Bengali woman is still powerful. Indeed, she is. Many are entrepreneurs, professionals, and cultural icons. She still debates politics, drives social change, and raises her voice. And so, the contrast becomes sharper: the internal cultural ethos of Bengal celebrates female force, while the structural ecosystem - education, safety, state institutions shows signs of weakening. The fruit of cultural encouragement is still there, but the soil quality may be declining.
In fact, one might say the Bengali woman embodies a tension: between tradition and modernity, between rootedness and flight, between roaring independence and relational responsibility. She is not free of constraint; patriarchy still exists, old habits still linger, but compared to many other Indian cultural spaces, she has a louder voice, greater latitude. That latitude, that voice, is precisely what sets her apart. She debates, she challenges, she does not rely silently. She is often glossed by others as “practising black magic” simply because she refuses to stay quiet, questions, and argues. But it is this refusal to accept things at face value that marks her difference. To celebrate her is to celebrate not just her fierceness, but the culture which allowed, encouraged, and worshipped that fierceness, the culture of Durga’s triumph, of Kali’s dance.
Yet for that culture to continue to be meaningful in 21st-century Bengal, the state must protect her, empower her, educate her, and keep her safe. The festival seasons of Bengal - the Durga Pujas, the Kali pujas - the thundering drums, the lacquered idols, the crowds of women in patuas walking the streets- reflect a communal joy of women’s presence. But outside those glittering nights, the everyday must be secure. The corridors of schools must be full. The classrooms must be vibrant. The chances for girls and young women must be real. The community must safeguard not just their rituals but their rights.
In talking about the Bengali woman, one cannot ignore her contradictions. On one hand, she is powerful; on the other, she is vulnerable. On one hand, she is celebrated; on the other, she is misunderstood. She is rooted in ritual and myth, yet she lives in the modern world. She fights for a place at the table and still often has to fight for her safety at night. So the story of the Bengali woman is not a story of unqualified triumph; it is a story of living momentum, of struggle and assertion.
Some may say: Why single out the Bengali woman? The truth is that she symbolises a cultural promise of female force and freedom that is as ancient as the Bengal soil and as modern as the city’s skyline. In her lies the memory of the past, the expectation of the future. And when that promise is threatened by rising crime, by degrading education, by a complacent state, it concerns us all, not just Bengalis, not just women.
If the Bengali woman is to continue to walk like Kali and speak like Durga, then Bengal must walk alongside her, secure her, educate her, honour her voice, and guarantee her future. Because when she thrives, the whole community blossoms; when she is betrayed, the whole community is diminished. And so, this essay ends not with a bow, but with an invocation: may the Bengali woman continue to roar, may the Bengali society continue to build the infrastructure of her freedom; may her fire not be dimmed, may her voice never be silenced, may she remain unapologetic, brilliant, forceful, as she always was, as she always deserves to be.