Ah, Miya Bigha in Bodhgaya during marriage season—a place where silence has been outlawed, the moonlight serves as a spotlight for baraats, and every night is a live concert no one asked for. This isn’t my first rodeo. Oh no, I’ve been living amidst this chaos for years now. At first, it was overwhelming. But now? Now it’s just Tuesday.
Take last night, for example. It was midnight (I think—it’s hard to tell because my wall clock has developed PTSD and ticks in rhythm with the dhol). I was trying to read, but the DJ, perched atop a stack of speakers taller than my house, decided it was time for a high-energy remix of Kajra Mohabbat Wala. This wasn’t just any remix. It was paired with what I can only describe as random animal noises. A rooster crowed, a goat bleated, and then—why not?—the sound of a tractor engine revving kicked in. I looked outside and saw a tractor actually there, revving along to the beat like it was auditioning for a Bhojpuri music video.
And this wasn’t even the most absurd thing I’ve witnessed this week. Two nights ago, one of the baraats decided to outdo the others by incorporating not one, not two, but three simultaneous sound systems. The DJs weren’t coordinating—they were competing. On one side, there was Jiya Ho Bihar Ke Lala. On the other, Chhalakata Hamro Jawaniya. And in the middle, some genius thought, You know what would really spice things up? Playing the shehnai version of Teri Mitti at full volume. It wasn’t music; it was an audio civil war.
Years ago, this would have driven me to the brink of insanity. But now? Now I’ve made peace with it. I no longer try to block it out or fight it. I’ve stopped asking myself, “Why is there a tempo blaring Bhojpuri hits parked outside my house at midnight?” The real question is, “Why wouldn’t there be?”
My brain has adapted to this chaos. My thoughts now come with a built-in dholak beat. When I read books, I sometimes catch myself mentally remixing the words into Bhojpuri wedding songs. Yesterday, while making notes, I realized I had doodled a baraat on the margins of my notebook, complete with a dancing uncle, a DJ, and speakers the size of small buildings. The DJ had sunglasses. I don’t even question it anymore.
The baraats, of course, remain the undisputed kings of absurdity. A few days ago, one baraat stopped outside my house for what I can only assume was a mid-parade team-building exercise. The groom decided to stand on top of a tempo, waving like he was inaugurating a cricket match, while the entire baraat broke into an impromptu choreography to Lollipop Lagelu. The tempo driver, clearly over it, started honking in sync with the music, and honestly, it worked. At some point, I think even the street dogs joined the chorus with enthusiastic barks.
And the fireworks—oh, don’t even get me started on the fireworks. They’re not content with the occasional burst of color. No, these fireworks are loud enough to be heard in another dimension. Just last week, one went off so close to my window that I spilled tea on my book. I wasn’t even mad. I just nodded and thought, Ah, another night in Miya Bigha.
Honestly, after years of this, I’m okay with it. The music, the chaos, the inexplicable tractors—it’s all just part of the ecosystem now. The absurdity has woven itself into the fabric of my life. And honestly, there’s a strange charm to it. I may not sleep much during marriage season, but I’ve developed a deep appreciation for the resilience of humans—and animals—who just keep going, no matter how many remixes of Lagavelu Jab Lipstick shake the ground beneath them.
So, if you ever find yourself in Miya Bigha during this season of eternal festivities, don’t bother bringing earplugs. Just let the music take over, admire the tempo’s horn section, and maybe join the crowd doing the Nagada Nagada dance at midnight. After all, this isn’t just a neighborhood—it’s a state of mind.
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