Election Commission expenditure data showing that the BJP paid social media influencers for election promotions in Bengal has brought a largely informal campaign practice into public view. The payments, which included ₹2.5 lakh to actor and influencer Sayak Chakraborty and ₹13 lakh to creator Shamik Adhikary, raise a question that extends beyond two individuals: when political messaging is presented through familiar online personalities, what allows viewers to recognise it as paid campaign communication?
The Telegraph reported that several popular influencers received money for reels, videos, anthems and political analyses in the run-up to the Bengal elections. The content was not necessarily framed as a direct appeal to vote for the BJP. Some of it targeted the Trinamool Congress government, highlighted issues such as women’s safety and border security, or asked voters to choose wisely. That format matters because political persuasion can operate without an explicit party slogan or voting instruction.
The reported payments also show how election communication is moving through a wider publicity system than conventional rallies, newspaper advertisements or party-produced campaign material. According to a source in the BJP, a political consultancy approached influencers on the party’s behalf and payments were linked to their social media reach. The same source said creators were given specific briefs: border security was emphasised in Murshidabad, while the RG Kar case was identified as an issue in Calcutta.
This is a different form of political geography. Traditional campaigns organise messages around constituencies, public meetings and party offices. Influencer campaigns organise them around audiences, platforms and the credibility of individual creators. The location remains important, but the route through which the message travels is no longer necessarily a party channel. A creator can carry a political issue into the private feeds of followers who may not attend a rally or seek out a party’s official communication.
The Election Commission data cited in the report also places influencer payments within a much larger campaign expenditure. The BJP spent ₹286.99 crore in the Bengal elections, accounting for 54 per cent of its total expenditure across four states and a Union territory. The available report does not establish how much of that overall spending went to influencers, but it does establish that influencer payments were recorded as part of the party’s campaign activity.
The distinction between recorded expenditure and transparent communication is central. Bengal BJP chief spokesperson Debjit Sarkar defended the payments, saying the party had paid influencers from its party fund, that the spending was accounted for and that the campaign had followed “norms, forms and formalities”. His position addresses the source of the money and the party’s reporting of the expenditure. It does not, by itself, resolve whether audiences were told that particular content had been commissioned or paid for.
That gap is why the debate has moved beyond whether political parties are permitted to use influencers. A communications expert and social worker cited in the report argued that paid promotions should carry a disclaimer. The communications expert said that without one, such content could mislead viewers, while also noting that a creator may attack a rival party without explicitly asking audiences to vote for the sponsor.
The reported examples illustrate this ambiguity. Adhikary’s “Button” video, released after the RG Kar rape and murder, targeted the Trinamool government and urged voters to press the button wisely. The report says it did not explicitly ask people to vote for the BJP. It nevertheless gained traction and was shared by BJP leaders. Whether the video itself was paid for is not clarified in the supplied material, and both named influencers did not respond to the newspaper’s questions.
The report also links Chakraborty’s payment to a separate episode that had already acquired political significance. In January, he alleged that a beef dish had been served to him instead of the mutton steak he ordered at Park Street restaurant Olypub. The episode developed from a reported food-service error into a communal and political dispute. The waiter spent time in jail and, after receiving bail, continued to face court hearings, according to the report. The article does not establish whether the Olypub video or the incident itself was produced for money.
That limitation is important. The Election Commission data identifies beneficiaries and payments, but the supplied material does not establish the contractual terms for every piece of content, the exact briefs given to each influencer, or whether specific controversial posts were paid promotions. Any account of the issue therefore has to separate three facts: money was paid to influencers; some received defined campaign briefs; and the commercial or political status of every disputed post remains unclear.
The controversy also reveals how online political communication can be defended as personal opinion while functioning within a campaign structure. One Calcutta-based influencer named in the list said, “I presented vox populi,” and argued that a disclaimer was unnecessary because the content reflected public dissatisfaction with Trinamool rule. That defence rests on the idea that a creator is reporting or expressing a social mood rather than advertising for a political organisation.
But reach-based commissioning complicates that distinction. If a consultancy approaches a creator, assigns an issue brief and pays according to the creator’s audience, the message has an organised campaign origin even when its language resembles commentary. The question is not whether the creator’s criticism is factually or politically valid. It is whether viewers receive enough information to understand the relationship between the speaker and the party funding the communication.
This is particularly consequential in cities such as Calcutta, where political issues circulate through dense networks of news, entertainment, neighbourhood discussion and social media. The report indicates that the briefs were geographically differentiated: border security in Murshidabad and RG Kar in Calcutta. That suggests campaign communication can be tailored not only to demographic audiences but also to local anxieties and civic experiences.
The institutional issue is the boundary between campaign expenditure regulation and platform-level disclosure. The BJP spokesperson said the payments were made from party funds and accounted for. The report, however, records disagreement over whether content needed a disclaimer. The supplied material does not identify a final ruling by the Election Commission on the disputed posts, nor does it explain the precise disclosure obligations applied to each format. That leaves the central regulatory question open: is financial reporting enough when the audience may not know that the messenger has been paid?
The response from Opposition parties and sections of civil society shows that the issue has become part of the political contest itself. Trinamool and CPM leaders targeted the BJP and the creators, while Trinamool’s IT cell chief reposted an old video aimed at Chakraborty and referred to the reported payment. These counterattacks demonstrate another feature of influencer politics: once a creator’s financial relationship with a party becomes public, the payment can become a weapon for opponents, regardless of the content’s original reach or effect.
The reported figures also show why the practice is unlikely to remain marginal. A payment of ₹2.5 lakh to one creator and ₹13 lakh to another is large enough to make influencer engagement a visible campaign expenditure, while the BJP’s total Bengal spending indicates the scale of the wider election operation. The article does not provide the number of influencers paid, the total amount spent on them, or comparative figures for other parties. Those missing figures prevent a complete assessment of how widespread the practice is.
What the evidence confirms is narrower but still significant. Political parties are using influencers as campaign communicators; at least some arrangements involve consultancies, defined issue briefs and payments linked to reach; and the messaging may be framed as criticism, analysis or public sentiment rather than an explicit vote appeal. The result is a form of political communication that can be formally accounted for as expenditure while remaining less visible to the audience as sponsored persuasion.
The larger urban question is how citizens make decisions in an information environment where political messaging is embedded in everyday digital consumption. A creator discussing women’s safety, a restaurant controversy or local security may appear to be participating in public debate. If the content is commissioned, the relationship between the creator, the party and the audience becomes part of the information that viewers need to evaluate it.
The Election Commission data has therefore done more than identify payments. It has exposed a transparency problem at the intersection of election administration, platform communication and urban public opinion. The immediate debate concerns the BJP’s Bengal campaign, but the unresolved questions are broader: how many creators are being paid, what disclosure rules apply, how briefs are documented, and whether audiences are clearly informed when political commentary is funded by a party. The supplied report establishes the existence of the payments and the disagreement over disclosure; those wider questions remain to be answered through further regulatory and documentary scrutiny.
