“My finger is empty, there is no ink on it… life feels empty too.” Sabera Chitrakar, 35, held out her hand and looked at the bare forefinger that, for the first time in nearly fifteen years, did not carry the dark mark of having voted. In a democracy, it is a small stain that disappears in days. But in the village of Pingla in West Midnapore, about 100 kms away from Kolkata - that missing mark has become a symbol of something much larger. Sabera is a Patachitra artist, a mother of two, and a woman who says she has always considered voting both a duty and a celebration. Every election season, she would finish household chores early, wear a clean sari, and walk to the polling booth with neighbours. This year, she stayed home. “I got everyone ready as usual,” she said softly. “My husband went. Others from the family went. But I could not. When they came back with ink on their fingers, I hid my hand.” Sabre has travelled to Paris and elsewhere representing the art and the nation using a valid Indian passport, yet she has been invalidated as an Indian voter. West Midnapore went to polling in the Phase 1 of Bengal assembly election on April 23.

In Pingla’s Naya village, where Patachitra artists are known across India and beyond for their scroll paintings and songs, the election passed with an unusual silence in several homes. For some families, the colours of art remained bright on their walls, but the mood was heavy. They say names were missing from the voter rolls, notices never came, and confusion replaced the usual excitement of polling day. Essentially in a village of barely 150 people, more than half couldn’t vote because they have been deleted from the voter list post the contentious Special Intensive Revision (SIR) exercise by the Election Commission of India.

Sabera says she still struggles to understand why her name was removed while others in the same household remained. “We live under one roof. We share the same address. We submitted documents when asked. Then why only me?” she asked.
Her home tells another story of loss. Rolled-up scrolls, painted masks, handcrafted souvenirs and unfinished pieces lie stacked in corners. Usually, some of these would be sold to tourists, buyers, or through exhibitions. But Sabera says work has slowed sharply.
“When the mind is disturbed, the hand cannot paint,” she said. “And now I feel scared going outside. If I am a deleted voter here, what will people think outside the village?” That fear may sound irrational to outsiders, but in villages where identity is tied to documents, lists and official recognition, the psychological blow can be immense. Sabera says she has begun avoiding markets and public gatherings. “People may ask questions. I have no answers,” she said. She even offered her creations to us at a much subsidised rate, a sense of desperation now rules the house which is otherwise home to positivity of colours.

A village of stories, now telling its own

Pingla is synonymous with Patachitra, one of Bengal’s oldest living storytelling traditions. On long scrolls of cloth or paper, artists paint vivid scenes from mythology, folklore, village life and current events. As the scroll unfurls panel by panel, the artist sings the story aloud. These artists are more than painters. They are singers, chroniclers, performers and oral historians. In homes where brushes, pigments and handmade paper are everyday objects, children grow up learning both melody and line. And yet, several artists here say that this election, they became the story themselves. All the families in the village are Muslim by faith, but generations have painted Hindu deities - Durga, Kali, Ram, Sita, Krishna - without contradiction. In Pingla, art has often dissolved boundaries that politics elsewhere hardens. That is why many residents say the pain of exclusion cuts deeper.

“I received honour from the country, but my family could not vote”

At 74, Bahar Chitrakar is better known in the village as Ranjit Chitrakar. His voice still carries force when he sings from a scroll, and his reputation extends far beyond Pingla. He is a recipient of a President’s award, honoured for his contribution to traditional art.
In his modest home, certificates and memories share space with brushes and pigments. Visitors come to meet the veteran artist, hear him sing, and watch the old form come alive in practiced hands. But this election season, pride sat beside hurt. “My whole life I painted stories of gods and justice,” Ranjit said. “I travelled, performed, received recognition. But what answer do I give when my own daughter cannot vote?”, he asked. According to the family, his daughter’s name was missing from the rolls. Two daughters-in-law also could not cast their votes. Ranjit says the contradiction is hard to accept. “The country gave me an honour. Yet my own family feels dishonoured,” he said. According to the ECI during the SIR scrutiny the first step needed was mapping with the 2002 voter list. Ranjit’s name is there in 2002 voter list, he holds a valid Indian passport. “My father received an award from the President of India and Election Commission of India deleted me. My father is still there on the voter list. So the father is Indian and his daughter isn’t?” asked Anoor Chitrkar, daughter of Ranjit. She is married to a man who too holds a passport and he too has been deleted without any explanation.

Ranjit pointed to his papers carefully preserved in a file - identity documents, travel records, certificates. “When people from outside come, they call us artists of India. On voting day, some in my family felt they belonged nowhere.” Ranjit has since turned his grief into what he knows best: song. Neighbours say he has begun composing verses about deletion, documents and dignity…another chapter in the living tradition of Patachitra, where current events are absorbed into art.

“Every paper says one thing. The list says another.”

If Ranjit represents legacy, 48-year-old Saniyur Chitrakar represents the present generation that has taken Pingla’s art to fairs, workshops and modern markets.
He has received recognition for his craft, including GI-linked acknowledgement associated with the tradition. He has travelled for exhibitions, demonstrated painting techniques to students, and helped sustain a local economy built around heritage. But he says none of that mattered when he discovered he could not vote.
“I have every document they ask for,” Saniyur said, holding a folder thick with laminated papers. “Every paper says I am who I say I am. Then one list says otherwise. Which one should I believe?” Unlike some older artists who express sorrow quietly, Saniyur speaks with frustration. He worries not only about voting rights but also about reputation. “We survive on trust,” he said. “Buyers invite us, institutions call us, schools ask us to teach children. If your name is missing from records, people begin to doubt you for no reason.” He says the uncertainty has distracted many artists from work during a crucial period. “Election time should be normal life. Instead, people are running after forms and offices.” The reason why he has been deleted is a so called ‘logical discrepancy’ - while his passport, house registration document, PAN Card, and every other certificate he has earned in his life read his name as Saniyur Rehman, his Aadhar card for some reason has an error - Saniyur became Saniwar. “So a ‘w’ instead of a ‘y’ led to ,my deletion. EC never wanted to accept Aadhar card for the SIR exercise. But now they used Aadhar and not any other document to deleted me from the voter list” Saniyur expressed frustration.

The women who came forward

Residents say one striking feature in the village was the number of women who complained of being unable to vote. Once cameras and reporters arrived, several women stepped out of their homes to narrate similar experiences - confusion, no clear notice, no understanding of what went wrong.
Some had married into the village years ago and adopted the family surname. Some had voted in previous elections. Many said male members in the same households remained on the rolls. For women in rural households, voting is often one of the few highly visible acts of equal citizenship. Being denied that moment carries a social sting. Sabera described the quiet of election afternoon in her courtyard. “Usually, women come back from voting and talk - who they met, how long the line was, what happened at the booth. This year, I heard those voices from far away. None came from my house.”

As evening fell over Pingla, children played outside homes where scrolls dried in the breeze. Somewhere in the village, a Patua sang of gods defeating injustice. Somewhere else, a family discussed missing names and what to do next. For Sabera and many like her, the memory of polling day remains fixed on a single image. She looked again at her finger. “No ink,” she said. “It will sound strange to city people. But that little mark tells you that you count.” Then she paused. “This year, my finger was empty. That is why life felt empty too.”