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........

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