In a startling revelation that could flip over one of West Bengal’s most foetid political narratives, Kolkata-based renowned artist Somenath Chowdhury has alleged that the Trinamool Congress’s (TMC) iconic ‘Jora Ghas Phul’ party symbol—long credited to Mamata Banerjee—was, in fact, designed by him in 1998, and subsequently politically embezzled by her. The fiery claim has elicited a vicious debate over artistic ownership, political wont, and the genesis of one of India’s most recognisable party motifs.
Thank you for reading this post, don't forget to subscribe!Chowdhury claims that the logo, which has for decades served as the visual cornerstone of the TMC’s political identity, was designed around 1997-98 and was allegedly appropriated into the party’s mythology without acknowledgement or credit.
The allegation has detonated like a political projectile in Bengal, raising uneasy questions about authorship, power, and the making of political legends. If Chowdhury’s account is accurate, one of India’s most recognisable party symbols may owe its origins not to a celebrated tale of grassroots political creativity, but to a forgotten artist whose contribution was eclipsed by a far more powerful narrative. What was once presented as a story of political ingenuity is now being recast by critics as a cautionary tale about influence, ownership, and the extraordinary ability of politics to rewrite history in its own image.
For nearly three decades, TMC’s iconic twin-flower party symbol—the ‘Jora Ghas Phul’ — has remained one of the most instantly recognisable political insignias in India. More than just a party logo, it evolved into the visual heartbeat of Mamata’s political movement, symbolising her transformation from a fervent street-level agitator into Bengal’s most powerful and enduring political figure. Splashed across rallies, election posters, party flags, and television screens for years, the logo became inseparable from the TMC’s identity and emotional appeal.
But that carefully preserved political storyline is now facing an unprecedented challenge. In a revelation that could trigger one of the most scandalous political authorship controversies in recent memory, Chowdhury has come forward with the vexing claim that he—not Mamata—was the original creator of the famous ‘Jora Ghas Phul’ logo. His allegations threaten to open a can of worms about artistic ownership and the alleged erasure of the real creator behind one of India’s most powerful political symbols.
In an emotionally charged and deeply personal outburst, Chowdhury claims that the iconic TMC’s ‘Jora Ghas Phul’ logo was not designed by Banerjee, as the party has maintained for years, but by him during the turbulent political transition that led to the birth of the TMC around 1997-98.
Chowdhury alleges that his artwork was taken, repackaged under the identity of a rising political movement, and publicly attributed to Mamata, while he was left uncredited and silenced by fear. What unfolds is more than a bicker over artistic recognition. It is a story of power, obliterated authorship, and the edgy relationship between creativity and control in Indian politics.
The blistering claim has ripped open allegations of what Chowdhury describes as a calculated political pilfering of artistic labour. Speaking in an emotionally charged discussion, the veteran artist claims he designed the now-famous twin flower logo during the volatile political churn of 1998, after being approached through senior political circles linked to former TMC Minister Ajit Kumar Panja.
According to Chowdhury, the design was selected, weaponised as a mass political identity, broadcast across the country, and transformed into one of India’s most recognisable electoral symbols—while the artist behind it was silenced.
For nearly three decades, the official narrative surrounding TMC maintained that Mamata personally conceptualised and sketched the party symbol herself during the party’s dramatic split from the Congress in 1997.
Chowdhury’s allegations now strike directly at that foundational piece of TMC folklore, raising disturbing questions about political image-making, manufactured dogmas, and the alleged theft of creative ownership at the highest levels of power.
“In an emotionally charged and deeply personal outburst, Chowdhury claims that the iconic TMC’s ‘Jora Ghas Phul’ logo was not designed by Banerjee, as the party has maintained for years, but by him during the turbulent political transition that led to the birth of the TMC around 1997-98”
In his account, the treachery was not merely professional but deeply personal. Chowdhury alleges that fear, political intimidation, and an atmosphere of silent coercion prevented him from speaking publicly for nearly three decades as he stoically watched his work become inseparable from the identity of the then-Bengal’s ruling party. He claims the logo’s authorship was systematically rewritten while his contribution was buried beneath a politically convenient legend that elevated Mamata as both the architect and artistic soul of the movement.
The scandal has also revived memories of earlier controversies surrounding TMC-linked branding exercises, including the bitter dispute over the ‘Biswa Bangla’ logo and allegations surrounding trademark ownership linked to Mamata’s nephew Abhishek Banerjee.
Critics now argue that Chowdhury’s claims point toward a broader culture in which political power absorbs artistic and intellectual labour while the original creators vanish into obscurity.
Chowdhury says he spent years carrying the humiliation of seeing his creation celebrated across India under somebody else’s name. His voice, once muted by fear, has now detonated with extraordinary force into Bengal’s political discourse. And with every new revelation, the controversy is rapidly shifting from a dispute over artistic credit to a far darker accusation—that one of India’s most iconic symbols may itself rest on the foundations of anonymous political larceny.
In a tête-à-tête with News Trajectory, Chowdhury leads our viewers deep into a spellbinding and fast-moving account of what he describes as one of the most brazen political symbol heists in recent memory, unravelling a scandalous and unscrupulous saga through a raw and emotionally charged anecdote that dares the very origin of the TMC’s iconic ‘Jora Ghas Phul’ logo. Excerpts:
Q: For nearly three decades, the public has believed Mamata Banerjee personally designed the TMC’s iconic ‘Jora Ghas Phul’ symbol. What made you finally decide to break your silence now?
A: For years, I convinced myself that silence was safer than truth. Bengal’s political atmosphere in those days was not forgiving, especially for ordinary people without power or protection. I watched my artwork become one of the most recognisable political symbols in India while my own name disappeared from history. That pain never left me.
At this stage of my life, I no longer fear losing anything. I have spent decades teaching art, building my institution, and earning respect through my work. I felt the truth deserved to be recorded before it died with me. This is not about revenge. It is about restoring authorship to an artist whose work was taken and politically absorbed without acknowledgement.
Q: Take us back to the moment this logo was conceived. Who approached you, what exactly were you told, and how did the first sketch of the twin flowers come into existence?
A: I was approached through political circles connected to former TMC co-founder Ajit Panja during the turbulent period when Mamata was preparing to chart a separate political path after an official split from the Indian National Congress (INC) in December 1997 due to ideological differences with the then-West Bengal Pradesh Congress Committee leadership helmed by Somendra Nath Mitra.
Panja wanted a symbol that would feel rooted in Bengal’s soil—nostalgic, simple, pastoral and instantly identifiable to ordinary people. I remember sketching multiple concepts. The twin flowers emerging from the grass came naturally because Bengal’s political language has always revolved around land, soil, and grassroots emotion. The final design was intentionally uncomplicated because political symbols must communicate instantly, even to people who cannot read.
At the time, I treated it as professional creative work. I never imagined that one day the symbol would become central to an entire political movement while the artist behind it vanished from the story.
Q: You have alleged that former Union Minister Ajit Panja played a key role in commissioning the design. Can you describe those meetings and explain how your artwork eventually reached the party’s top leadership?
A: Ajit Panja was deeply involved in the discussions around presentation and political identity during 1997-98. There were conversations about creating something fresh that would visually separate the emerging party from the Congress while still appearing emotionally familiar to Bengali voters.
My designs were shown to influential leaders. Eventually, one concept moved ahead—the twin flowers. After that, things moved quickly. Suddenly, the symbol was everywhere: banners, television broadcasts, campaign material. But somewhere in that transition, the artist disappeared, and the politician became the ‘creator.’
That was the first moment I understood how power operates. In politics, authorship belongs not to the person who creates, but to the person powerful enough to claim creation.
Q: Did you ever receive any written acknowledgement, payment, correspondence, drafts, or witnesses that could support your claim that the logo originated from your drawing board?
A: Artists of that generation often worked through trust and verbal understanding. Political work, especially, was rarely documented formally the way corporate branding is today. But there are people from that period who know I was involved. Some saw the sketches. Some knew the discussions taking place around logo concepts.
The tragedy is that when politics enters the picture, memory suddenly becomes selective. People become afraid, and others prefer convenience over truth. But I know what I created. An artist never forgets his own lines and his own visual language. You can erase the signature, but you cannot erase the hand that drew it.
Q: You have termed this episode as a ‘theft.’ That is a very serious accusation against one of India’s most powerful political figures, like Mamata. Why do you believe your work was deliberately arrogated rather than simply forgotten or overlooked?
A: Because this was not an inadvertent omission. This was a complete rewriting of authorship. Over the years, a public myth was carefully built that Mamata personally conceived and sketched the logo herself. That narrative elevated her image from just a political leader to an emotive architect of the movement.
When somebody else publicly impounds ownership of your creation for decades—and the system buttresses that version repeatedly—what else should an artist call it?
If a painting is displayed in a gallery under another person’s name, the world calls it theft. Why should art be treated differently?
Q: You also claim you were muzzled through fear and intimidation for years. What exactly happened after the logo became publicly associated with Mamata Banerjee and the Trinamool Congress?
A: There was never one dramatic threat delivered in a dark room. Fear in politics operates differently. It comes through warnings, through suggestions, through people advising you not to ‘create trouble.’ You begin to understand that speaking openly could affect your livelihood, your institution, your peace, and even your family.
Back then, the party was rapidly growing in power. I was an artist and teacher, not a political fighter. I chose survival over confrontation. But silence has a psychological sequel. Every election season, every rally, every flag carrying that symbol reminded me that my work had been politically purloined while I remained invisible.
Q: When you first saw the ‘Jora Ghas Phul’ symbol broadcast nationally as the official emblem of the party, what went through your mind as an artist watching your work credited to someone else?
A: It felt surreal at first. There was a sense of pride because an artist naturally feels emotional seeing his work reach millions of people. But that pride quickly turned into hollowness.
I remember watching television coverage and hearing stories about how the logo had supposedly been personally designed by Mamata. I sat there stunned. I kept waiting for someone to acknowledge the truth. Nobody did. That was the moment I fathomed that history is often written not by creators, but by those who control the prolegomenon.
Q: As a portrait painter, educator, and founder of Tulika Art & Culture in Hatibagan, how deeply has this alleged denial of credit affected you personally and professionally over the years?
A: People assume artists only seek money. That is not true. Recognition matters because creative work is deeply personal. A logo is not just ink on paper—it is imagination, symbolism, labour and instinct.
Professionally, I carried on with my life. I built Tulika, trained students, painted portraits, and continued working. But emotionally, there was always an unresolved wound. Imagine seeing your creation become immortal while your own role is expunged from public memory. For an artist, invisibility can become a lifelong punishment.
Q: The Trinamool Congress has long projected the logo as a symbol personally envisioned by Mamata Banerjee during the party’s split from the Congress in 1997. Do you believe this narrative was intentionally constructed to strengthen her political image?
A: Politics thrives on parables and leaders are often presented not just as administrators but as symbols themselves—creators, visionaries and edifying figures. The story of Mamata personally designing the logo strengthened her emotional connection to the party’s grassroots identity.
Whether that narrative was consciously manufactured or bit by bit institutionalised, I cannot say with certainty. But I can say publicly that once a political myth becomes expedient, nobody inside the system has any spine to throw down the gauntlet.
Q: The TMC has previously faced branding controversies, including the dispute surrounding the ‘Biswa Bangla’ logo and allegations tied to trademark ownership. Do you think your revelation points to a larger culture of political ownership over artistic work?
A: Absolutely. Political systems often treat creative professionals as invisible technicians rather than intellectual contributors. Once artwork enters politics, power takes control over authorship.
Designers, artists, slogan writers, photographers—many contribute to political identity, but very few receive the desired acclaim unless they themselves possess influence. My case is not isolated. It reflects a broader culture in which creative labour becomes politically expendable property.
Q: Critics may ask why you waited until 2026 to make such an explosive claim public. What would you say to people who question the timing or credibility of your allegations?
A: People who ask that question have probably never lived under political fear. It is easy to demand courage from a safe distance. I had responsibilities—students, family and an institution built over decades. I was not prepared to invite conflict with a growing political machine.
But age changes a person. You begin valuing truth over comfort. I realised that if I remained silent forever, history would permanently record a falsehood. Even if people doubt me today, I would rather speak late than carry this silence to my grave.
Q: At this stage of your life and career, what are you seeking most—public recognition, historical correction, legal acknowledgement, or something more personal after years of silence?
A: I am not seeking political relevance. I am not joining any campaign. I am seeking dignity. An artist’s identity is tied to their creations. When that identity is erased, something fundamental is stolen from him. I want future generations to know that behind one of Bengal’s most famous political symbols stood an artist whose name was pushed into darkness. History should belong to truth—not merely to power.
For now, the raging hullabaloo surrounding the ‘Jora Ghas Phul’ symbol also revives an old and provocative idea often associated with artistic evolution itself. Famous Spanish painter and sculptor Pablo Ruiz Picasso once famously remarked: “Good artists copy; great artists steal” —a line that has long been interpreted as a reminiscence on how creativity frequently draws from existing influences, symbols, and inherited ideas before reshaping them into something powerful and original.
In today’s hyper-visible digital backdrop, artists accusing powerful figures of annexing their work often no longer choose quiet legal battles fought behind closed doors. Instead, many creators take their grievances directly into the public arena—using sharp acerbity, emotionally charged statements, and pointed public callouts to uncover what they believe is the theft of their creative identity. These confrontations are designed not merely to seek recognition but to publicly challenge the inequity of power between influential institutions and independent artists.
Chowdhury’s scathing allegations against Mamata echo that same defiant resistance. Rather than remaining confined to whispers within artistic circles, his claims have erupted into the political mainstream with striking emotional force.
Through media interviews and public statements, the veteran Kolkata artist has sought to confront what he describes as the erasure of his authorship from one of India’s most recognisable political symbols—the TMC’s iconic ‘Jora Ghas Phul’ logo.
What has now emerged is a far larger and more piquant debate about authorship, ownership, legacy, and power. It raises unhinging questions about whether political narratives, repeated often enough and protected by influence, can eventually overshadow the truth of artistic creation. In challenging the origins of one of Bengal’s most expressively charged political symbols, Chowdhury has transformed his personal claim into a broader confrontation between bygone memory and political storytelling—a battle over who gets reminisced, who gets effaced, and who ultimately controls the subplot.
