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vote for now?

That uncertainty has been sharpened by an unexpected development. Jamaat-e-Islami, contesting this seat with serious intent, has nominated a Hindu candidate, Krishna Nandi.

The irony is hard to miss: an Islamist party fielding a Hindu in a Hindu-majority constituency. The move has startled voters and forced conversations that would have been unthinkable in previous elections.

At Botbunia Bazar, beside the erosion-prone Sugandha River, I stopped at a small clothing shop where a group of locals had gathered. The scene was unremarkable: folded shirts, a couple of worn-out wooden benches for customers, and an ageing ceiling fan. The conversation, however, was anything but.

Present were Debashish Chakravarty, the local priest; Dibendu Roy, the shop owner; Nihar Ranjan Roy, a trader; Seema Sarkar, a tailor; and Harunur Rashid Gazi, a Muslim trader whose brother chairs the local Hindu-majority union parishad.

They did not hide their confusion. “We always voted Awami League -- this is hundred percent true,” Dibendu Roy told me without hesitation. “Now there is no boat symbol. It’s confusing, at least for me.” Others nodded.

So who would they vote for? Dibendu paused before answering. “We are trying to choose someone who at least believes in the spirit of 1971,” he said carefully. “We have to vote. So we are looking for an alternative.”

That brought Krishna Nandi into the conversation. Could a Hindu candidate carrying Jamaat’s symbol be that alternative?

Seema Sarkar struggled to respond and eventually looked away.

Nihar Ranjan Roy spoke instead. Many here, he said, were unsettled not only by Jamaat’s politics but by the candidate himself. “We don’t know him. He is not from this constituency. Suddenly he appears asking for our votes.”

Notably, Krishna Nandi is from Dumuria (Khulna-5).

Debashish Chakravarty, the priest, took a more analytical view. “This is Jamaat’s political strategy,” he said. “They think a Hindu candidate will bring more votes here.” Whether that calculation will work remains an open question.

What struck me repeatedly was how often religion itself was downplayed. “People outside may think this area votes by religion,” Nihar Ranjan Roy said, “but here we don’t.” Hindus and Muslims live in peace, he insisted, attend each other’s festivals and social functions. “Disputes exist, but they are personal, not communal.”

Harunur Rashid Gazi pointed to living proof. His brother, a Muslim, has twice been elected chairman of Botbunia union, where Hindus make up about 60 percent of the population. No one around the shop disputed that.

Taken this into account, BNP candidate Amir Ejaz Khan has intensified his grassroots campaign in Khulna-1 (Dakop–Batiaghata). He has entered the race for the fourth time and is also from Batiaghata.

I asked about an issue often discussed elsewhere: the fear among Hindus since Sheikh Hasina’s fall. None of them said they had experienced insecurity. “Nothing happened here,” Dibendu Roy said. The land his shop stands on, he added, belongs to a Muslim.

Debashish Chakravarty, however, spoke of a different anxiety. “The fear is coming from outside,” he said. “From Indian social media.” He described constant online campaigns portraying Hindus in Bangladesh as unsafe and in need of “rescue”.

“That propaganda scares people more than reality,” he said.

As I moved around Dakop and Batiaghata, it became clear that communal tension is not part of the local political memory. The deeper fracture lies between voters and politics itself. When the conversation turned to election promises, cynicism surfaced quickly. “They sing many songs now because they are on stage,” Dibendu said, “but after the polls, they disappear.”

What people wanted instead was concrete: stopping erosion along the Sugandha River, stronger embankments, and protection from floods. These mattered far more than promises of cards, loans or allowances.

A few kilometres away, in Khuna village by the Bhadra River, those priorities felt even starker. I sat with three women, Shabana Begum, Rokhsana Parveen and Mafia Begum, outside a modest riverbank home belonging to Ibrahim Sheikh. All said they would vote. Why? “A new raja will come,” Shabana said simply. “We have to vote.”

What would they want from the new king? They laughed. “Whether it helps me or not, a new raja must be made,” Mafia Begum said. None could name a single election pledge. What they spoke about instead was water. “In two months, there will be no water,” Rokhsana said. “Even the river dries up. Sometimes we can’t cook, can’t use the toilet.” They have raised the issue for years, without result.

Back in Botbunia, another contrast emerged. Some men spoke with surprising clarity about a proposed referendum on political reform.

Harunur Rashid Gazi listed issues he believed should appear on a yes-no ballot: balancing power between the prime minister and president, and ensuring opposition representation in parliament.

In Khuna, however, the very idea of a referendum remained a mystery. No one had explained it to them.

As I left Dakop–Batiaghata, the picture felt clear yet uneasy. Here, the February 12 election is not driven by excitement or allegiance. This is a constituency without communal fear, but full of political uncertainty.

(Shakeel Anwar is a former BBC journalist)