Set in undivided Bengal, The Struggle shifts the lens of history away from political leaders and toward peasants, widows and landless labourers. It is not concerned with speeches or slogans, but with survival, land rights and dignity. More than seven decades after Independence, its concerns remain unsettlingly relevant.
Who were sharecroppers, and why did owning two bullocks matter so deeply in Bengal? Who benefited from marrying a widow? Why were women blamed when couples had no children? Why did peasants show little enthusiasm for the freedom struggle? How did communism enter India, and why did it find such firm roots in Bengal? Was Partition truly about religion, or was it also driven by greed for land and power? These are the uncomfortable questions the novel raises—and refuses to answer simplistically.
Structured in three parts, the novel begins with Phulomati, a young peasant widow fighting for dignity, survival and her late husband’s property. With a small son, Abedali, to protect from those who would dispossess—or even kill—him, her battle is both personal and political. The first section chronicles her grit as she safeguards her child and claims her rightful place in a hostile world.
The second part turns to rebuilding. With the support of Qutubali, an orphaned man who becomes her ally in both work and life, Phulomati creates a home and a family. This section quietly celebrates companionship born out of shared hardship and mutual respect.
The third part widens the frame. It confronts the reality that many landless labourers in Bengal were largely indifferent to the freedom struggle, to the British, and even to the formation of East Pakistan. For them, political change at the top did not promise change at the bottom. Replacing the British Raj with what they mockingly called “Gandhi Raj” did not alter the fundamental question: who owned the land?
Communism, in that context, made practical sense. Peasant unions offered collective bargaining power and a measure of dignity. Landlords often refused to negotiate, sometimes hiring guards from Bihar and allowing crops to rot rather than concede fair wages to Bengali labourers. Ideology thus emerged not as abstract theory but as a response to lived injustice.
The novel also complicates conventional narratives of the freedom movement. Both the Muslim League and the Congress were seen by landless peasants as parties dominated by landlords—men with property and political ambition. Independence, therefore, seemed unlikely to improve their lot. For those who tilled land they did not own and survived on meagre earnings, freedom appeared distant and abstract.
It also explores the social psychology of the time. Among Bengali Muslims—even those with property—there existed an inferiority complex: Hindus were perceived as doctors, lawyers and professionals in addition to being landlords, while Muslims were “only” landlords. Yet cultural life often transcended such divisions. Bengalis across faiths celebrated Durga Puja as a shared cultural highlight, rising above caste, creed and class.
At its core, The Struggle is a tribute to the resilience and intelligence of Bengali women. Through Phulomati and others, the novel shows how women quietly uphold families and communities. Their foresight, humour, diligence and practical wisdom form the invisible backbone of society.
The prose is crisp and fluid, blending humour with frustration. Sensitive yet bold, the narrative ends on a note of longing. It leaves the reader wondering whether history might have unfolded differently had the freedom struggle prioritised fair wages and land reform before ousting the British. Political independence was achieved—but economic justice, the novel suggests, remains an unfinished battle.