Amit's Blog

How Bihar’s last migration frontier traded feudalism for remittances—and still lost For two centuries, Bihar has exported its people. Bhojpuri speakers went to Fiji as indentured laborers. Magahi speakers walked to Calcutta’s jute mills. But Mithila—the ancient Maithili-speaking heartland, trapped by floods and feudal lords—was the last to join the caravan. Now it has embraced Gulf migration with the desperation of a drowning man. Remittances constitute ~35% of Bihar’s GSDP. Sixty-five percent of households have at least one migrant. In Darbhanga and Madhubani villages, concrete houses rise from flood-prone soil, paid for by sons in Dubai who haven’t been seen in three years. The sugar mills remain closed. The roads remain broken. The young men remain absent. A river drowns the field each year, The landlord’s boat, the only steer. The son departs for Dubai’s heat, The village crumbles, incomplete. This is Mithila’s paradox: prosperity without development, houses without hous...

From the "Rubbish Heap" of the Raj to the Crown Jewel of the Indo-Pacific—The Improbable 2,000-Year Saga of India's Island Inheritances The Andaman & Nicobar and Lakshadweep islands became part of India not through conquest or ancient destiny, but through colonial administrative accidents. The British established the Andamans as a penal colony after 1857, inadvertently creating a “Mini-India” of diverse settlers. During WWII, Subhas Chandra Bose’s Azad Hind government hoisted the tricolour there, providing a symbolic claim. In 1947, India inherited the islands as the successor state to British India, rejecting Pakistan’s demographic claim and Britain’s “crown colony” plan. Lakshadweep’s integration was a photo-finish: Indian police hoisted the flag hours before a Pakistani frigate arrived. The Maldives, a separate protectorate, became independent in 1965. Unlike Burma (separated in 1937), the Andamans remained Indian. The Coco Islands, however, were transferred to...

Why Bhima—Not Arjuna—Was Vyasa's Instrument of Last Resort In the Mahabharata, every one of Dhritarashtra's hundred sons was killed by Bhima alone—not Arjuna, not Nakula, not any other Pandava. This is not a casual detail but a profound philosophical statement. Vyasa uses Bhima's solitary, brutal vengeance to argue that some evils cannot be answered by chivalry or rule-bound warfare. Bhima drinks blood, breaks thighs, and fights outside kshatriya codes—yet he is never condemned. The epic suggests that visceral love, when violated, must become visceral rage. Refusing that rage is not virtue but impotence. Bhima carries the stain of his acts but never pretends otherwise. His truthfulness, not his purity, is his dharma. The Mahabharata offers no comfort—only the unbearable question: what would you have done? The mace is wet, the hands are stained, No clean god watches from above. For those who loved, the rule is plain: Some sins are the only shape of love. A Dis...