'India has moved, but not the Bihar I left behind'

It’s 1987 and I am to leave Bihar; the place where I was born in 1981. It’s the bleakest state in a country with more poverty than anywhere else. Before my departure my tearyfaced grandfather squeezes my shoulders and tells me never to forget my roots. I turn around and go, hoping never to look back.
We settled in Manhattan, where there were three degrees of punishment for bad behaviour. “No more TV” and “go to your room” were acceptable. But the third left cold terror in my heart. It was the threat to be sent back to Bihar. Old visions would fill my head — of potholed roads teeming with animals, of pus oozing from the sores on my legs from dozens of mosquito bites.
I knew even then that Bihar was a place meant to be deserted — a place to acknowledge only when absolutely compelled.
Nearly two decades later, in a classroom at the London School of Economics, I watched a British economist present slides of growth trajectories of India’s states. All showed positive growth — all but one, Bihar. The economist dwelled on Bihar’s lack of development. He told stories of a place of such hopelessness that my classmates laughed in disbelief. I joined in, but the laughter stuck in my throat.
He asked if anyone had visited India. I raised a timid hand and said that I was from Bihar. He raised his eyebrows and said, “Well, it’s a good thing you know very little of the place.”
The truth stung. Bihar, like India, had become a stranger to me despite my grandfather’s warning. Something deeper than pride stirred. I knew it was time to return to India and experience the country for myself.
My family was incredulous. Why punish yourself, they asked.
I ended up in Delhi working in the field of development. Eventually my work took me to Bihar. I arrived in the guise of an expert in socio-economic makeovers, not as a daughter of the soil. But something had changed.

Migration

Distance and circumstance had given me new lenses. The frequent power outages were no longer a reason to play on the roof, but a sign that growth was being stifled. Seeing pedestrians being splashed on the flooded streets no longer amused me; instead it was evidence of choked drainage systems that had flooded the region. I learned that millions of the poorest had lost their homes. Given little choice, they left, pouring into the other states in search of work.
These facts stoked feelings of ownership and detachment in equal measure. I felt guilty for escaping, and thankful that I had escaped.
I came to Bihar again some days ago, on the eve of India’s elections. I imagined I would witness the processes of democracy unfold. I expected hard questions to be asked of politicians and solutions demanded. Instead, I discovered acceptance and desperation: The rich not voting, the poor in revolt. Rule by the people has significance only when the people have enough to fulfil basic needs.
India moves forward; Bihar falls back. And I fear that there is nothing I can do. My voice means nothing here. Like the flood victims, the landless labourers and the educated elite, I left — left so that I would not be snared by the immemorial Bihari fate: a life of resignation and silence.
The consequence weighs heavy on my mind. I saved myself, and so became yet another person who cannot save Bihar.


(The writer is a water specialist at an international development organisation)