Bihar voter list and migrant purvanchali - A call to return home

Patna: In the bustling streets of Delhi, a Purvanchali migrant stands lost among the crowd, his heart yearning for his homeland. The soil of Bihar calls out to him, a persistent whisper that refuses to fade. 

Though he breathes Delhi’s polluted air, his soul remains tethered to the chaupals of his village. His heart may reside in Delhi, but his roots are deeply embedded in Bihar. It’s time to heed that call and return home.

The reason we left Purvanchal

Why must Bihar’s youth abandon their homes, their fields, and their families? The answer is stark and singular: unemployment. 

Over the past five years, Bihar’s population has swelled, yet job opportunities have dwindled. No new factories have been established, and no employment initiatives have been launched. Each year, millions of graduates emerge from colleges, only to find no work awaiting them. 

Compelled by necessity, they migrate to Delhi, Mumbai, Punjab, Gujarat – anywhere that offers a chance to survive.

When hunger overshadows the love for one’s homeland, leaving becomes inevitable. This is the narrative of Purvanchal, a tale of sorrow and struggle. 

Today, in Delhi, Mumbai, Surat, Ahmedabad, Pune, and beyond, you’ll find Purvanchalis toiling away. Some drive auto rickshaws, others wear factory helmets, and many wash dishes in hotels. 

Their singular dream is to feed their families and secure a future for their children. But have you ever paused to ask: Why must Bihar’s youth forsake their homes, their fields, their parents, and their dreams? 

Unemployment has rendered them homeless. There is no work in Bihar. Millions graduate each year, but government jobs are scarce, private industries are absent, and stable incomes are a distant hope. 

The land once celebrated for its scholars, patriots, and revolutionaries now sees its youth wandering in search of livelihoods. That’s why millions of Biharis board overcrowded trains annually, heading to Delhi, Punjab, Maharashtra, Gujarat, carrying hope in their hearts.

In Delhi’s narrow lanes, when an auto driver hails a passenger in Bhojpuri, “Kahan jaana hai, Bhaiyaji?”, it’s more than a question of destination, it’s a reminder of Purvanchal’s soil, the aroma of mother’s chana bhujia on the rooftop, and the evening prayers to Chhathi Maiya. 

Yet, slowly, that voice, that essence, is being drowned out by the city’s noise. Wherever we go, we remain outsiders. The society we inhabit is not ours. Our children grow up disconnected from our culture, our traditions. 

Those who once splashed in village ponds now endure the stale water of Delhi’s slums. Those who thrived on mother’s homemade bread now measure every morsel by its cost. The rooms we inhabit lack fresh air, light, and dignity. They are merely shelters, filled with compromise and silent suffering.

The daily struggle

Each day is a battle. A series of silent, relentless challenges. Missing your mother? A phone call brings her voice, heavy with helplessness. 

When Chhath arrives, lighting a diya in a makeshift pond in Delhi, your heart aches: Is this truly my Purvanchal, my Bihar? 

Every rupee is meticulously saved, part of it sent back home. Five people share a single room, scraping together enough to pay for their children’s education. 

In a foreign city, you must prove yourself daily. The police harass you. The landlord sneers: “You’re Bihari? Do you even work, or just live here?” 

Festivals come, but leaves are denied. Holi, Chhath, Pitru Paksha, all observed through a screen, a painful reminder of what’s been lost. This isn’t just about missing rituals, it’s about being severed from your roots. The bond with our soil is fraying. Neither is this city truly ours, nor does it offer peace.

The Delhi we know is not a city of dreams, but of concessions. Its air is foreign, its streets unfamiliar, and the roof above us is just a refuge, not a home. The mohalla where we were born is a memory. 

The choupal where our father sat is now a relic. The school where our brothers studied has new faces. We exist, but we are lost. 

Every day is a fight, for money, for respect, for survival, for safety, because this society is not the one that shaped us. 

Every day is a struggle to save every penny counted, every expense weighed. The places we live are unhygienic, overcrowded, and degrading, but we have no alternatives. Sometimes, it feels like we are merely laborers, not voters. Taxpayers, but not citizens. Do we even retain our dignity?

Yet, despite all this, we pay full taxes to these cities, contributing to their growth. In return, we receive abuse, not amenities. We understand, though we reside in Delhi, Punjab, Maharashtra, our hearts still beat in our villages. Because home is where someone calls you “apna.” And Bihar still waits to reclaim us.

A heartfelt plea

A voice from within says, “Home is where the heart is.” And our hearts still belong to Bihar. We remember the fields we played in, the courtyard where mother sang lullabies, the market, the mango tree, all vivid in our memories. 

The tears in the eyes of mothers at Chhath ghats are not just from the cold water, they are tears of neglect, of helplessness, of a hope that someone will listen. Every year, Bihar’s mothers and sisters fast for Chhath, enduring hardships, praying only for a better future for their children.

The distance from Bihar, from our votes, is the greatest injustice. When people leave Bihar, their vote keeps their connection alive. 

During elections, even the village head depends on them. But if their names are removed from the voter list, they lose even the right to return and vote. 

Millions of Biharis in Delhi will soon lose their voting rights, and the village panchayat’s voice will fade for them. Slowly, they become strangers in their own villages, where once their mother’s name was known, people now say, “They live in Delhi, they rarely come back.”

Because 6.1 million votes have been excised in Bihar. Is the country regressing towards slavery, or is it already enslaved? Freedom gave us democracy, the right to choose our representatives through voting, but is even this right now at the mercy of the Election Commission? Will the Election Commission dictate who can vote? In the rush for power, so many emotions are being trampled.

A call to action

Brothers and sisters of Bihar, especially those in Delhi: This time, return for your voting rights. This is not just about the right to vote, it’s a battle for your future and your heritage. This time, don’t just claim your rights, reshape Bihar’s destiny. Protect your vote, protect Bihar. 

Stand up for change in Bihar. Reconnect with your village, your panchayat, your district. Don’t just celebrate Chhath, Holi, Diwali via video calls, come back to your land. Because where you were born, where you first learned to walk, where your father’s soil lies, that is your true home. 

So let’s return to Bihar. Reclaim our roots. Join the fight for our rights. Build a Bihar where no child has to migrate. Jai Bihar. Jai Purvanchal. Jai Matrubhoomi.