In the deltaic sprawl of West Bengal’s Sundarbans, where rivers cut through mangrove forests and phone signals come and go, 18-year-old Madhumita Mandal (name changed) finally owns a smartphone.
It was paid for by the Taruner Swapno scheme — Rs 10,000 from the state government to help her, and nearly 10 lakh other students, cross the digital divide. On paper, it’s an ambitious attempt to level access. But for Madhumita, the phone mostly means one thing: entertainment.
She watches Bengali serials with her family, scrolls through Instagram reels with friends, and follows Facebook pages. “Some of my friends use paid apps for Bengali and English movies,” she says, “but my father can’t afford that.” A daily-wage labourer, he still uses a basic black-and-white handset, which the 18-year-old describes as “useless”.
When asked how the smartphone helped her apply for college, she smiles awkwardly.
“I bought the phone three months after my exams. When I had to apply through the Centralised Admission Portal, someone else helped me,” she says.
She has an email ID—it was created when she opened her bank account. But she’s never used it.
Decode found out, through interviews with students, teachers, and parents across the Sundarbans, Murshidabad, and Barasat, that while the scheme succeeded in putting devices into young hands, it didn’t necessarily equip them with the digital skills to use them meaningfully.
Smartphones Without Literacy
The scheme, Taruner Swapno (“dreams of the youth”), was launched in December 2020 by the Mamata Banerjee-led government, at the height of the COVID-19 crisis. The idea was simple: Rs 10,000, transferred directly to the bank accounts of Class 11 and 12 students from families earning less than Rs 2 lakh annually, meant for the purchase of a smartphone, tablet, or a laptop to support digital education.
In 2023-24, more than 9.76 lakh students received the benefit.
Students across districts of Bengal can scroll reels, experiment with AI chatbots, and film shaky YouTube videos — but still can't write a basic email or download a PDF without help.
Under the scheme, schools submit lists of eligible students along with documentation such as income certificates and bank account details. The final approvals are handled at the district level, and the funds are sent directly to the students’ bank accounts.
Students are expected to purchase a phone and submit a receipt to the school, which then forwards it to the education department. But as fake bills, embezzlement, and non-compliance became rampant, the West Bengal School Education Department introduced new verification steps from 2025.
“We now give students a form to fill in with their bank details,” says Sanjay Barua, Headmaster of Narain Dass Bangur Memorial Multipurpose School. “They have to bring the phone to school. We check their mobile number through OTP to verify if the account is real.”
The system also now requires Aadhaar-linked verification through the state’s Banglar Shiksha Portal, authenticated by the Head of Institution. Even then, the process is far from watertight.
“Some students don’t have their own bank accounts or Aadhaar-linked phones. Big schools are facing challenges because these students cannot submit the format,” Barua adds.
He worries the focus on distributing phones has outpaced any focus on actual digital learning. “Urban students already use smartphones before Class 11. But rural kids often face patchy electricity and bad signal," he says.
"With no computer literacy, they can scroll on social media, but ask them to write a sentence or send an email — it ends there.”
The YouTube Hustlers
A few kilometers from Madhumita, 18-year-old Lalita Saddar (name changed) has chosen not to spend the Rs 10,000 she received in March 2024.
“I already have a smartphone worth Rs 8, 500,” she explains. “So I saved the money in the bank.” The 18-year-old says she is active in her tuition group’s WhatsApp chats, where exam prep is often interspersed with reel-sharing. “Many of my friends run YouTube channels. They even earn from them. I’m thinking of starting one too...”
Eighteen-year-old Lokesh Kayal, who lives in a quieter Sundarbans village near the Lahiripur jetty, is Lalita’s inspiration.
He used his smartphone to launch a YouTube channel. “It’s called Lokesh Kayal,” he says, tapping into his app list with practiced speed. “I make videos on temples and short travel clips. I have 700 subscribers. Some neighbours have asked me to help them start channels too.”
Lokesh spends Rs 350 a month on recharges. His father, who occasionally works as a boat porter, doesn’t mind — “he knows I’m trying to earn something.”
But even Lokesh, who uploads videos and reads comments on his posts, admits: “I started learning how to send emails just last month. A friend helped me.”
His goal? “Political science in college, and maybe 10,000 subscribers someday.”
A Generation Talking to Chatbots
While email remains foreign to many, AI chatbots like ChatGPT and Gemini have become their new tutors, translators, and even fortune-tellers.
In a small, stuffy school in Murshidabad, Supriya Mahato (name changed), a Class 11 student, logs into ChatGPT when no one’s looking. “I use it for history answers,” she says, lowering her voice. “But also for astrology. Sometimes I ask if I’ll ever be rich. Or whether I’ll do well in studies.”
Seventeen-year-old Subham Das from Howrah wants to become a game developer. “I ask Gemini for cheat codes and walkthroughs,” he says. “And for science chapters, Gemini explains them so easily. The notes are very good.”
Most of these queries are typed in Bengali, or using translated phrases. English remains a barrier. Email, even more so.
Barasat’s Amina Sheikh (name changed) explains how she uses ChatGPT to translate difficult words. “I’m weak in English,” she says. “I type in Bengali and it gives me answers.”
One student from Siliguri said ChatGPT helped him start learning a beginner-friendly game development language. “I used to love playing games. Now I want to build them,” he said.
But none of these students had ever composed an email. Many didn’t know the purpose of one.
Phones At Home, Not In Class
Ironically, phones bought through the education scheme are banned inside schools. Most students leave them at home, tucked under pillows or wrapped in old T-shirts. When they’re at school, their family members make the most of them.
“My mother and elder sister watch Bengali serials,” says a Class 11 student.
In one school, CID reruns — the crime soap still going strong on YouTube — are a major hit. “I love CID,” says a student, grinning. “I learn how to solve murders. And then I watch reels.”
A teacher at the same school offers a sobering view. “The scheme created the illusion of digital equality,” he says.
“But it’s like giving everyone a TV and calling them educated. There’s no training. No structure.”
In many homes, keeping a smartphone running is a monthly struggle. The scheme doesn’t cover recurring costs.
“I recharged for Rs 299 but the data plan finished in two weeks. I had to buy a more expensive plan,” says a student from Murshidabad. In Sunderbans, a farmer does the math for the expenses of his daughter’s government-gifted smartphone. “She spends Rs 300–500 a month on data. That’s Rs 6,000 a year. It’s an extra burden for us. I still use a basic phone, but she’s always stuck to hers.”
When Phones Become Suspects
In Murshidabad, a district still reeling from communal unrest in April, the atmosphere around smartphone usage is even more complicated. The violence, sparked by WhatsApp rumours and fake social media accounts over a new Waqf law, led to over a thousand accounts being taken down.
Now, students are wary. They say they are avoiding group chats and limiting their online presence.
In Sajur More, a vital junction between Murshidabad town and the interior villages, where the communal violence had erupted, a father says, “My daughter received Rs 10,000, but I told her not to buy a phone. If she needs something, she uses my phone to Google search.”
Rakibul Sheikh (name changed) a class 12 student from Samshergunj is cautious when posting online. “My parents told me not to use social media too much after the riots. I post fewer stories on Instagram now,” he says.“But I still need the phone for studies. And yes… for games.”
Receipts, Dropouts And Fake Bills
Behind the scenes, a paper trail keeps teachers busy. They’re expected to collect receipts showing that students actually purchased a smartphone — a near-impossible task.
“Students sometimes bring fake receipts. They pay Rs 100- 200 to local shopkeepers to generate one,” says Chandan Maity, General Secretary of the Advanced Society for Headmasters and Headmistresses (ASFHM). “If they don’t have one, they stop coming to school.”
Maity believes the scheme is being misused. “Some students spend the money on household repairs or expenses. If we push for bills, they drop out.”
Has The School Improved Learning?
Educators across districts are clear: the scheme hasn’t moved the needle on learning outcomes.
“They say they watch subject videos on YouTube,” says Partha Bhattacharya, secretary of the Nikhil Banga Shikshak Samiti (ABTA), Howrah zila. “But it’s reels, games and CID.”
“Digital literacy isn’t just being online. It’s knowing how to use it well,” says Barua, the headmaster. “Without email, without typing, without understanding, it’s entertainment dressed as empowerment.”
Maity adds, “It would have been better to give this benefit after college admission. Right now, it’s tied to neither attendance nor marks. Many students are first-generation learners. Their parents can’t supervise phone usage, especially in rural areas.”
The internet opens a gateway of opportunities for students. For many students from remote or underprivileged areas, smartphone is the first step into the digital world—enabling online learning, access to information, and connection with peers. Yet, its impact depends largely on digital literacy and proper guidance.
Maity believes it would be wiser to build digital libraries inside schools, where students can access shared devices and learn collectively. “Let students come to school for digital access,” he says. “Not leave school because they got a phone.”
As West Bengal heads into Assembly elections next year, the scheme stands at a crossroads: The promised tale of aspirations has become entangled with technology. The policy meant to erase the digital divide is now rewriting it in unexpected, uneven ways.
Back in Gosaba, Madhumita swipes through reels. She can scroll endlessly, but still doesn’t know how to write an email.