Ahead of Operation Sindoor, the Ministry of Home Affairs ordered a nationwide mock drill simulating wartime conditions. Sirens were expected to ring out across India—an alarm for readiness. But in Bengal, particularly Kolkata, the silence was stark.
Years of neglect have rendered most civil defence sirens non-functional, their rusted frames now symbolic of forgotten preparedness.
Amidst the silence, one siren in Kolkata still functions—and it has for 80 years. A relic from World War II, this working siren is not housed in a museum. Instead, it sounds without fail every January 23 to mark the birth anniversary of Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose.
Behind this siren stands a family bound by legacy. Its caretakers are the descendants of Gopal Mukherjee, or “Gopal Pantha”—a meat trader by profession, but remembered as a freedom fighter by history. Gopal was the nephew of freedom fighter Anukul Chandra Mukherjee, but forged his own legacy during one of the darkest moments in Kolkata’s past—the Great Calcutta Killings of August 16, 1946.
As communal violence tore through Calcutta, Gopal built a civilian resistance of nearly 800 youths to protect Hindu families. His initiative, drawn not from political ambition but civic duty, turned a local akhara (wrestling club) into a bastion of defence.
Bharat Mata puja: A forgotten festival of resistance
In 1945, two years before independence, Gopal founded the Bharat Mata Puja, a patriotic ritual now nearly lost to public memory. This wasn’t the stylised Bharat Mata seen today, but a chained, wounded, yet defiant figure. Before her knelt Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose, receiving a sword—ready to fight for her freedom.
The puja ran for an entire week starting from January 23, marked by vibrant processions that shook the city’s heart. The iconic WWII siren would lead the march, followed by a handheld siren—together creating an unmistakable anthem of defiance and hope.
Today, the celebrations are smaller. But the siren still plays.
“We preserve it as a family initiative,” said Shantanu Mukherjee, Gopal’s grandson. “My grandfather believed that if you can do even a little for your country, it’s a matter of pride.”
His sister Niharika added, “Our Bharat Mata wasn’t a political idol. She was a symbol of pain and strength. Netaji wasn’t being worshipped—he was being armed.”
As modern India speeds forward, much of its wartime legacy and civilian defence history fades. But in one corner of Kolkata, an old siren still waits.
Analog, aged, and irreplaceable—it carries the echo of resistance, the weight of patriotism, and a promise: if the nation ever needs it again, this siren will not stay silent.
