Dream

For the first time in my life, I saw political rallies in Bihar talk about education, jobs, development—and surprisingly, even less caste politics. Every party, including RJD, stayed within that new tone. And when leaders shift, people shift with them. For the first time, I watched voters rise above caste lines and choose hope over habit.

Yes, the government repeated itself.

But this mandate… this one isn’t a photocopy of the past. It carries a different meaning, a different demand.

Growing up Bihari means you learn politics and caste the way other children learn alphabets—naturally, quietly, without ever sitting down to study. They’re so deeply woven into everyday life that you hardly know where one ends and the other begins. Born in the late ’90s, I carried a strange fear in my bones—that maybe someday I’d be counted among those “भूरा बाल” Lalu once threatened to “clean.” Childhood shouldn’t carry that kind of weight. But Bihar teaches you heavy things early.

And then came 2018.

After too many failed attempts at government exams, even dreaming felt like a luxury. My mother pressed ₹3000—her entire savings—into my hand. I still remember how her fingers lingered for a second longer, as if she was handing over not money, but whatever hope she had left.

I boarded a general compartment train with a ticket that felt more like a gamble than a journey. Six hundred people packed into one coach, each carrying their own broken plan. I had a few clothes and one book. Just one.

Back then, I didn’t realize how important that book would be.

Years later, when I finally opened it—Wings of Fire—it didn’t just inspire me. It reminded me. It reminded me that I was like Hanuman—powerful, but unaware; capable, but forgetful of my own shakti. That book wasn’t just a story. It was ignition. A spark I had unknowingly carried from home for years.

But a spark alone doesn’t make a fire.

For me, that spark turned into a flame because of one person—my wife (my girlfriend then). She didn’t just support my dreams; she rearranged them, sharpened them, built a plan around them. She showed me a possibility I wouldn’t have dared to imagine myself—a dream of becoming a Sherlock with data. A dream that sounded impossible without a B.Tech…but somehow, impossibility bowed down.

And now, that impossible dream stands completed.

Which means it’s time for a new one.

Before I speak of that dream, let me say this:

The baton is now in the hands of our politicians. Our people have asked—loudly—for casteless prosperity, region-blind development, and an education system free from sectarian baggage. Bihar wants a future that doesn’t ask who you are before deciding what you deserve.

Now, my dream—my real dream

When I think of my future, I don’t imagine glass towers or English-only meetings. I imagine people. My people.

I see an office in a buzzing corner of Patna—maybe beside a noisy chai stall where ideas float in the steam above cutting chai. I see employees walking in from the remotest villages—Dehri, Purnea, Gopalganj, Siwan, Banka—arriving with a little hesitation but sitting down with a lot of pride.

I dream of:

* Young men and women who once believed jobs existed only “outside Bihar,” now building world-class solutions inside Bihar.

* Coders who speak Magahi at lunch and Python in meetings.

* Girls who grew up studying under lantern light, now leading teams with a confidence that makes IT veterans nervous.

* Boys from farming families using data to solve problems bigger than their geography.

* Employees looking me straight in the eye—not with doubt, but with identity:

I dream of believers—believers in themselves, believers in each other, believers in a Bihar where ambition is not a privilege, but a habit.

That is the future I dare to dream now.

A future where the wings of my fire create a thousand more sparks.

A Bihar not waiting for change—

but becoming the change.