With thousands of men from these areas working in places like Kerala, Delhi, Mumbai, Bengaluru, and the Gulf, women are managing households, handling banks and government offices, and for the first time, making their own political decisions.
This shift has gained importance, especially after approximately 92,000 names were removed from the electoral rolls in Samserganj and nearly 69,000 in Lalgola during the Special Intensive Revision exercise.
The removals have sparked widespread concern among women, many of whom now carry Aadhaar cards, ration cards, and voter cards to booth-level offices while their husbands and sons are away.
The TMC is aiming to unite women and minority voters by depicting the deletions as an effort to intimidate impoverished Muslim families. The BJP is intensifying its campaign focused on infiltration and fictitious names. Meanwhile, the Congress is working to regain support by arguing that both parties exploit fear while neglecting the severe unemployment and migration crisis in Murshidabad.
“Every election, they ask us if we are Hindus or Muslims. No one asks why my husband is washing dishes in Kerala,” said Rehana Bibi from Samserganj, whose husband works in Kochi.
Rehana now manages the household and the bank account receiving monthly remittances, and she has made numerous visits to the BLO office after finding out that several names have been eliminated from the voter list.
“Before, I simply listened. This time, I told him to come home and wait in the ration line,” she recounted.
In another village in Samserganj, 38-year-old Hasina Khatun used to heed her husband’s political directives from Mumbai but now believes women are more informed than men about local issues.
“Earlier, he instructed me to vote for a particular party because he earned money. But when names disappear from the voter list or ration supplies fall short, we confront the problems head-on. Nobody asks why my son has to clean hotel rooms in Dubai,” she stated.
Her son’s name remains on the rolls, but hers has been flagged for deletion.
“Officials tell us to return tomorrow with more documents and another photocopy. If my name is removed, who am I? My husband has died. My son is away. This household survives because I do,” Khatun said.
For years, women in these villages voted as instructed by men. Traditionally, husbands returned from Kerala or Mumbai before elections, and families voted collectively, keeping politics a male-centric affair.
However, migration has gradually transformed this dynamic. Men are returning home less frequently, with some unable to come back even for elections due to high train fares or restrictions from contractors. The women remain, and as they increasingly manage finances, paperwork, and government bureaucracy, they are growing less inclined to simply comply.
In Lalgola, Shabnam Khatun mentioned that her husband, who works at a construction site in Bengaluru, called last week to tell her how to vote.
“Previously, I followed his instructions. This time I told him that he stays in Bengaluru, while I remain here. I’ll vote for the person who aids us here,” she asserted.
Her frustration isn’t ideological; it is practical. She has spent the last two weeks making multiple trips to an office after learning that nearly 69,000 names were removed from Lalgola’s electoral rolls.
Outside a booth-level office in Samserganj, long lines of women clutch Aadhaar cards, ration cards, photocopies, and worn voter slips.
Many admit they don’t fully grasp the legal procedures. They only recognize that if their names disappear, something greater may be lost with it.
“Before asking for my vote, first confirm whether my name still exists,” said a woman in Samserganj whose migrant husband’s name remains on the list despite being in Kerala for nine months.
“My husband is not even here, yet his name stays. I am the one standing in line. Why does my name disappear? Does that mean I count for less?” she questioned.
In these villages, women are starting to form opinions independent of the absent men. They are also increasingly weary of identity politics.
“They come and inquire if we are Hindus or Muslims,” stated a woman in Lalgola whose two sons work in Mumbai.
“No one asks why both my sons had to leave the village for work. Nobody asks why I borrow money each month while waiting for their remittances,” she said.
The TMC is attempting to convert the controversy surrounding the deleted names into a rallying point for women and minority voters. District leader Abu Taher Khan accused the BJP and the Election Commission of instilling fear in vulnerable Muslim women.
“They know the men are away and the women are susceptible, so they create anxiety through deleted names,” he explained.
“Those with proper documentation will remain. The TMC is emotionally exploiting these women to protect fictitious names,” a BJP leader countered.
A Congress leader noted that both parties are “capitalizing on the worries of women while ignoring migration and unemployment.”
The men still communicate about identity from afar, through phone calls from Kerala and Dubai. In contrast, the women, left in empty yards and locked homes, are discussing ration cards, deleted names, remittances, loneliness, and survival.
This year in Murshidabad, such quieter conversations may wield greater influence than the loud slogans. Political operatives privately acknowledge that in villages emptied by migration, women might determine the election outcomes.
The elections for the 294-member West Bengal assembly will take place in two phases – April 23 and 29. Votes will be counted on May 4.
