What unfolded in Murshidabad this April was not a spontaneous communal riot—it was a meticulously orchestrated act of violence, camouflaged as public protest but driven by a deeper, more sinister architecture of radical mobilisation, political collusion, and administrative failure. As per the report by India Today, Operation Murshidabad, has blown the lid off a vast underground network of banned radical groups, shadow NGOs, and indoctrinated youth armies—engineered to trigger unrest and disrupt societal harmony in the heart of Bengal.
This isn’t just a story of religious tension. It’s a case study in the manufacture of riot machinery—with NGOs acting as operational arms, radical clerics as ideological factories, and the police machinery either complicit or paralysed. And at the centre of it all, political actors playing puppeteers, immune to legal consequences.
The April 8 flashpoint in Jangipur, where police preemptively restricted Waqf-related protests, should have diffused tensions. Instead, it became the launchpad for deception. A strategically disguised protest under the guise of discontent over the SSC teacher recruitment verdict was staged on April 10. But soon, banners, slogans, and speeches veered toward Waqf issues—paving the way for a full-blown confrontation on April 11.
An exclusive footage was secured from both protests, revealing a chilling continuity: the same groups of youth, armed with sticks and pamphlets, attended both events. The absence of police permission for the April 11 protest was rendered irrelevant, as mobilisation occurred openly and unhindered.
At the epicentre of this mobilisation was a banner: “All NGOs United.” But in reality, the entire front was orchestrated by just two key organisations—Asomoyer Alor Bati and Golden Star Group. These entities, claiming to be community welfare organisations, are now under the scanner for radical indoctrination and mobilisation.
The identified three main coordinators of the violence: Kausar, Mostakin, and Rajesh Sheikh. While all are officially “absconding,” ground intelligence and on-site reporting indicate they are moving freely, shielded by political connections and local administrative indifference.
Notably, Rajesh Sheikh, a known Trinamool Yubo Block Committee member, has deep-rooted links to PFI and SDPI, and is believed to have campaigned for an SDPI candidate in 2018. Dr Bashir Sheikh, a former SIMI member, has also been identified as a key architect of the protests.
Local DIB Inspector Rajib confirmed their role on hidden camera: “Yes, they are involved in communal provocation. They are absconding.” The brazenness of these actors is matched only by the silence of those tasked with maintaining law and order.
From Blood banks to Radical banks: How minors became the mob
Perhaps the most disturbing revelation is the systematic grooming of minors. Several so-called NGOs had earlier held blood donation camps in Samserganj and nearby areas—activities which won them local goodwill. But behind this mask of philanthropy was a darker design: to radicalise and recruit local youth, especially from impoverished madrasa backgrounds.
Multiple minors told India Today that they were summoned by Kausar and Mostakin and handed pamphlets urging protest. Most chilling was the admission that they didn’t even understand what Waqf meant. They couldn’t recite namaz. Yet they were incited into arson and stone-pelting, believing their religion was under threat.
One of them revealed, “They said Hindus were abusing our religion. Everyone was going, so I went too.” Worse still, one boy claimed local police encouraged them to retaliate after being heckled while crossing the Hindu-dominated Ghosh Para locality.
Samserganj officially lists only 18 registered NGOs. But the ground reality is alarming: dozens of unregistered “NGOs” have cropped up, many of them launched by youths barely out of school. Investigators fear these entities function as incubators for radical thought, funded without oversight, and designed to escape scrutiny under the garb of social welfare.
Financial appeals were made during rallies and jalsas, framed as community contributions. No audit, no accountability, no oversight—just a blank cheque for chaos.
Two local imams revealed on record that they were approached by unknown individuals and asked to use the mosque loudspeakers to urge congregants to protest against Waqf decisions—strategically timed just before Friday prayers. The aim? Maximum footfall, maximum outrage.
One imam said, “I didn’t know who they were. But they said it’s about our land, our religion. They wanted us to announce the protest.” This calculated use of the religious pulpit as a tool of political provocation represents an alarming trend—one that blurs the line between religious leadership and radical incitement.
Further, India today found strong digital fingerprints linking the violence to radical networks based across the border. Five days before the riot, a Bangladeshi Islamic preacher addressed a jalsa in Samserganj. Soon after, communal content flooded local WhatsApp and Facebook groups.
One video urged Muslims to “pick up guns.” Another post instructed people to “put children in the frontlines.” These messages, traced to Beldanga and Bangladeshi accounts, mirror a well-oiled machine of digital radicalisation.
Literature and speeches from SDPI, Jamaat-e-Islami Hind, and Jamat-e-Ahl-e-Hadees also circulated, fanning the flames of outrage around the Waqf narrative. By April 12, the writing was on the wall. Footage reveals students leaving madrasas with schoolbags filled not with books—but with stones. Videos from Duk Bungalow show police outnumbered, then inactive, as mobs ran amok.
Inspector Rajib admitted, “Sleeper cells are active here. Radicalisation is happening inside madrasas. We don’t know what’s discussed during jalsas.”
Three people died: Haragobindo Das, his son Chandan, and a Muslim youth Ejaz, killed in police firing. The state declared the riot contained by April 12, but was confirmed that violence continued through April 13 in pockets—arson, intimidation, stone pelting—suggesting the embers of unrest were far from extinguished.
Bengal’s ruling party blamed “outsiders” from Bihar and Bangladesh. But a leaked intelligence note tells a different story. Of the 306 arrested so far, most are locals. The supposed “outsiders” were residents of Jharkhand border villages like Chanchki, Ajna, and Chandpur, all closely connected to the flashpoint zones in Murshidabad.
This was no cross-border invasion. This was local radicalism weaponised by political inertia.
At the heart of the unrest lies a bitter cocktail of anti-incumbency, infighting within the ruling party, and strategic provocation. District officials privately admitted to media that several known radicals—like Rajesh Sheikh—enjoy political immunity. MLC Mehboob Alam has also been linked to protest organisers. As one senior investigating officer put it: “These NGOs are just boots on the ground. The real players sit in power, untouched.”
