India, Oct. 19 -- I spent the first 13 years of my life in Bihar during the 1980s and 1990s, and never faced any crime. Zero instances. My parents were never worried about an Omni van pulling over, two well-fed gentlemen plucking me off their arms, and speeding off. Nor were they ever worried of someone robbing their car at gun point. The simple reason - we were poor. And it was no secret. My father didn't own a saree showroom at Motijheel, a prominent shopping street, in Muzaffarpur. Nor was he a doctor, treating the scores of people who couldn't afford a trip to Delhi. There was no car to carjack, no gold chain to snatch. The only villains the poor faced were mosquitoes. Being scared of the criminal ecosystem was a status symbol. The rich would send their kids to far-flung boarding schools, out of the reach of the vans, while people like us would be packed in school buses like sardines without much fear. At school, in your tin roof class, when the attendance was taken, you would realise there are some 16 Kumars in your section. There were no last names to be found - 30 kids, 60 first-names. I discovered that last names revealed caste only 13 years later, when I moved out of the state. You had to hide your wealth and your last name to live with peace. Corruption wasn't seen as evil. If an officer demands bribes from you to issue a death certificate to your father, you don't detest him, instead feel envious. You want to be in his shoes so that you can extract more. Corruption was always aspirational. Bright students would burn the midnight oil and take a stab at an entrance exam multiple times to become a constable. People would pay bribes to not get promoted lest they get transferred to a dry department. Such people were spoken of very highly at family weddings. "Upri income bahut hai unki" (earns a lot from graft) people would stretch their eyebrows, visibly impressed. And due to such officers, there was barely any new infrastructure. We did the best job in the country of preserving the British Raj. The schools, bridges, town halls - all infra that was still erect was from the colonial times. We tried our hands a bit, but such bridges would kiss the ground by the next monsoons, and the executive engineer in charge would have 150 dishes at his son's wedding and would invite Kumar Sanu to sing. We didn't know if there was a world where such rules did not apply, with a semblance of law and order to prevent this. Our slang, too, was borrowed from the Raj, My nana (maternal grandfather) would entice me by saying, "Diwali me tumko hum ek naya bushirt kin denge" (I will buy you a new bush-shirt this Diwali). Bush-shirt, of course, originates from its use as a practical garment worn in the "bush", or the undeveloped, rugged country, often for activities like hunting or safari - a favoured pastime of India's colonial overlords. These tolerably loose, durable shirts were designed for comfort in warm climates and to carry supplies with their multiple pockets. But for Bihar - and other parts of India - it was the garment of the saahib, something that the natives wore on special occasions. Sadar bazaar, Circuit house, Dak bangla, Company bagh - all such terms were Raj vocabulary. We were in a time warp, not rich enough to be bothered by criminals, too ignorant to demand a better quality of life, just waiting for our turn to extract more. Imagine PhDs applying for the job of a peon. A peon could charge an amount equivalent to a professor's salary just to place your file on the officer's desk. But there was another way out. In those days, the biggest advertising hoardings in the bazaar were about escaping the place: coaching institutes proudly displaying passport size pictures of students they exported to the world of prosperity. They only needed you to break your provident fund to pay the fees. An investment with unlimited, life-long returns. Wading through knee deep water with floating sewage, many would look at the hoardings and dream. Bihar has developed since. People who had moved out long ago still carry the same impression of Bihar, including this author. Like how NRIs still remember India as the socialist hellhole that had great food, and keep sharing articles confirming their nostalgic yet poor view of the country. "Long way to go," they would say, like how non-resident Biharis talk of Bihar - a gutkha stain at a newly built Metro station in Mumbai confirming their biases, even if the guy responsible for the stain wasn't from Bihar....