'We thought it was a ball' - the bombs killing and maiming children

West Bengal, India's fourth-largest state with a population of more than 100 million, has long struggled with political violence.

Over the years, since India's independence in 1947, the state has cycled through different rulers - the Congress party for two decades, the Communist-led Left Front for three, and the current Trinamool Congress since 2011.

In the late 1960s, the state was wracked by armed conflict between Maoist rebels – also called Naxalites – and government forces.

A common thread across all governments and rebel conflicts since then has been the use of bombs as tools of intimidation by political parties to silence opponents, especially during elections.

"Bombs have been [used to settle scores]. This has been happening in Bengal for a long time, more than 100 years," Pankaj Dutta, a former Inspector General of West Bengal police, told us.

Bomb-making in Bengal has its roots in the rebellion against British rule in the early 1900s.

Early efforts were crude and accidents were common: One rebel lost a hand and another died testing a bomb.

Then a rebel returned from France armed with bomb-making skills.

His book bomb - a legal tome loaded with explosives hidden in a Cadbury cocoa tin - would have killed its target, a British magistrate, if he had opened it.

The first explosion rocked Midnapore district in 1907, when revolutionaries derailed a train carrying a senior British official by planting a bomb on the tracks.

A few months later, a botched attempt to kill a magistrate in Muzaffarpur with a bomb hurled into a horse-drawn carriage claimed the lives of two Englishwomen.

The act, described by a newspaper as a "tremendous explosion that startled the town," had turned a teenage rebel called Khudiram Bose into a martyr and the first "freedom fighter" in the pantheon of Indian revolutionaries.

Bal Gangadhar Tilak, a nationalist leader, wrote in 1908 that bombs were not just weapons but a new kind of "magical lore," a "witchcraft" spreading from Bengal to the rest of India.

Today, Bengal's crude bombs are known locally as peto. They are bound with jute strings and stuffed with shrapnel-like nails, nuts and glass.

Variations include explosives packed into steel containers or glass bottles. They are used primarily in violent clashes between rival political parties.

Political activists, particularly in rural areas, use these bombs to intimidate opponents, disrupt voting stations, or retaliate against perceived enemies.

They are often deployed during elections to sabotage polling booths or to assert control over areas.

Children like Poulami Halder bear the brunt of such violence.

On an April morning in 2018, the-then seven-year-old was picking flowers for morning prayers in Gopalpur, a village in the North 24 Parganas district dotted with ponds, paddy fields, and coconut trees. Village council elections were barely a month away.

Poulami saw a ball lying near a neighbour's water pump.

"I picked it up and brought it home," she recalls.

As she stepped inside, her grandfather, sipping tea, froze at the sight of the object in her hand.

"He said, 'It's not a ball - it's a bomb! Throw it away!' Before I could react, it exploded in my hand."

The blast shattered the quiet of the village. Poulami was struck in the "eyes, face, and hands" and fainted, as chaos erupted around her.

"I remember people running towards me, but I could see very little. I was hit everywhere."

Villagers rushed her to the hospital.

Her injuries were devastating – her left hand was amputated, and she spent nearly a month in hospital.

An ordinary morning routine had turned into a nightmare, forever altering Poulami's life in a single, shattering moment.

Poulami is not alone.

Sabina Khatun was 10 years old when a crude bomb exploded in her hand in April 2020 in Jitpur, a village flanked by rice and jute fields in Murshidabad district.

She had been taking her goat out to graze when she stumbled upon the bomb lying in the grass. Curious, she picked it up and began playing with it.

Moments later, it detonated in her hands.

"The moment I heard the explosion, I thought, who's going to be disabled this time? Has Sabina been maimed?," her mother, Ameena Bibi, says, her voice heavy with anguish.

"When I stepped outside, I saw people carrying Sabina in their arms. The flesh was visible from her hand."

Doctors were forced to amputate Sabina's hand.

Since returning home, she has struggled to rebuild her life, her parents consumed by despair over an uncertain future. Their fears are not unwarranted: In India, women with disabilities often face social stigma that complicate their prospects for marriage and jobs.

"My daughter kept crying, saying she would never get her hand back," says Ameena.

"I kept consoling her, telling her, 'your hand will grow back, your fingers will grow back.'"

Now, Sabina grapples with the loss of her hand and the struggle with simple daily tasks. "I struggle with drinking water, eating, showering, getting dressed, going to the toilet."

Maimed by bombs yet lucky to survive, these children have had their lives changed forever.

Poulami, now 13, received an artificial hand but couldn't use it - too heavy and quickly outgrown. Sabina, 14, struggles with failing eyesight.

Her family says she needs another operation to remove bomb debris from her eyes, but they cannot afford it.

Puchu, now 37, was pulled out of school by his fearful parents and spent years refusing to step outside, often hiding under his bed at the slightest noise.

He never picked up a cricket bat again. His childhood stolen, he's now scraping by with odd construction jobs and bears the scars of his past.

But all hope is not lost.

Poulami and Sabina have both learned to ride a bicycle with one hand and continue to go to school. Both dream of becoming teachers. Puchu hopes for a brighter future for his son, Rudra, five, - a future in uniform as a policeman.

But the tragedy continues.

In May this year in the Hooghly district, three boys playing near a pond unknowingly stumbled upon a cache of bombs. The explosion killed Raj Biswas, nine, and left his friend maimed, missing an arm. The other boy escaped with leg fractures.

"Look what they have done to my son," Raj's grieving father sobbed as he caressed the forehead of his dead child.

As Raj's body was lowered into a grave, political slogans crackled through the air from a nearby election rally: "Hail Bengal!" the crowd chanted, "Hail Bengal!"

It was election time. And once again, children were paying the price.