Bihar; A state of mind.

Day 1. Touchdown. You're greeted by the pungent smell of perspiration and

contraband the minute you land and quickly whisked away on a trip down

memory lane. You pause briefly to reminisce the discomfort of days past... Ahh,

simpler times. Rude honking jolts you back to reality as you realize that things

haven't changed all that much. You smile and think, 'Finally. Bihar. It's good to

be home.'

Day 2. The crammed streets and the over-ambitious, almost unrealistic, use of

space have you shaking your head. Oh Bihar, you wildly misunderstood lot you, if

only there were a way to convey how absolutely benign your intentions are.

Day 3: Your everyday nicotine has been replaced with ordinary chai. Today, you

feel like you're aam janta, some 'bheed mein khoya hua aadmi', far far away from

the complex demands of your vaguely interesting job and your smog-infused city

life. It feels good to be inconspicuous and inconsequential. As you take another

sip, you make that rude slurping sound your 5th grade school principal so

ardently loathed. No headmistresses here to reprimand you. You feel fine AF. Life

is best lived through small acts of rebellion, you think. So, you slurp loudly and

again.

Day 4: You casually peruse the local newspaper. What was once an active bed-

rock of violence and disruption is only 80% that bad now. The slow and steady

have won the elections. Not again, you think to yourself as you frown and turn the

page. The former Chief Minister's son has lost his mind. News of his separation is

plastered all over town. "Aishwarya Radha nahi hai...", the headline reads. You

shake your head with a 'tsk tsk' and set the newspaper aside. Best to just ignore

the shitty parts, you decide. After all, nobody is perfect.

Day 5: The road to happiness is long and winding, or so you've heard. So you try

not to complain when a three hour long journey from the city to your village ends

up taking twice as long. The car breaks down a few times, the tarmac mercilessly

chews up the rubber, spitting up toxic fumes and pure rage. Every pothole and

bump has been meticulously planned to remind you that you don't matter. Your

butt cheeks are aching for simpler times.

Day 6: It's late at night, you're at home. The air is thick with tension and abuzz

with the sound of a million mosquitoes. You're officially unable to hear the

maddening voices inside your own head. Congratulations, you're no longer

insane.

Day 7: You're the new kid on the block. You flew in from out of town to get a whiff

of this. People want to speak to you. You can barely understand them.

Meanwhile, you find out on Instagram that that idiot Shiv went to Spain again.

You're bitter. Your resentful. The bloom is off the rose. You grunt and groan

constantly. You need to survive. Darwinism is onto you. Your own friends resent

you for your 'lambi chhutti'. You were supposed to be on a holiday. Instead,

you're hiding out in this tiny nook of an old staircase, attempting to read Papillon

for the umpteenth time. He's in prison, attempting jail-break. You're in prison,

attempting something quite similar. You're relating hard... Its all building up into

an unbearable crescendo. Frustrated, you throw your arms up and go downstairs

to grab yet another cup of chai.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot your mother. She's in the kitchen, pouring

all of her love into the 15th batch of aloo gobi she's made this week.

She looks up as you enter the kitchen. You've been playing the part of an entitled

little git this whole time. Yet she looks at you like the sun shines out of your

behind. She's happy you're home. You calm down instantly. You came here for

her.

She's all that matters.

She's all that matters.