“One of us” figures emerged in states across the country through the late ’80s and ’90s, at about the same time that Mamata was throwing shawls in Parliament and addressing rebel rallies on the Maidan. Yet most of them have matured, and almost all of them have had a shot at governance. Mamata, clearly, is different.

Perhaps the most likely explanation for this is that Calcutta, and Bengal, are different from those other states. Bengal had never been dominated, like Andhra, and so did not need an NTR to fight back against the Centre. Social cleavages were never sufficiently severe to merit a Lalu Prasad Yadav. Bengali identity, given the mess that Bengal was, remained surprisingly resilient, and did not need a political champion. Defending the Bengali language against Hindi could be left to novelists like Sunil Gangopadhyay — and in any case was something the Left was willing to do. What remained? Perhaps nothing but the desire to recognise aspects of an imagined Bengali character in a leader: and the aspects that came to the fore with Mamata were, unfortunately, sentimentality and reflexive negationism.

The first might seem less problematic overall than the second. After all, a bit of drama, of shrill speech-making, is part of the experience, surely? Certainly, passion fits Bengal’s conception of politics — giant rallies on the Maidan or roadblocks in the suburbs — more than, say, the measured tones of Pranab Mukherjee. Yet, sometime towards the end of the ’90s, people began to think that Mamata took it too far. When she resigned theatrically from post after post, the insidious question began to be asked: was she doing so because she was so much better at resigning than governing? Would nothing in office become her like the leaving of it?

... contd.