When the UPSC results were declared this year, Bihar once again lived up to its reputation as a “factory of civil servants”, with five candidates in the top 20. The result revived a familiar description of the state. Every year, this success is celebrated as proof of Bihar’s intellectual tradition and academic discipline. But a deeper question rarely enters the conversation. Why does the dream of becoming an IAS officer burn so intensely in Bihar?
I come from Bihar, where the civil services are not merely a career aspiration. They are a social phenomenon. In many towns and villages, almost every academically inclined student grows up hearing the same sentence, “Prepare for UPSC”. Coaching centres flourish, libraries remain full late into the night, and families invest years of savings in preparation.
Part of the explanation lies in economics. In a state where private industry remains limited, government service has long represented stability, dignity, and upward mobility. But that explanation alone does not capture the emotional intensity of the aspiration. The deeper answer lies in how power is experienced in everyday life.
In much of Bihar, the state is encountered not through abstract institutions but through everyday offices and officials. The police station, the block office, the tehsil, and the district administration are where citizens meet the state: To obtain certificates, resolve disputes, register complaints, or access welfare schemes. It is in these encounters that the imbalance between authority and the ordinary citizen becomes visible.
During Diwali last year, I witnessed a small but revealing moment at Harisabha Chowk in Muzaffarpur. A motorbike waiting at a traffic signal was lightly hit from behind by a government vehicle when the light turned green. When the rider protested, the officer sitting in the car stepped out, grabbed him by the collar, and began beating him, even though the mistake was clearly that of the driver. Policemen standing nearby did not intervene.
Such moments surface regularly. A recent video from Patna showed policemen beating a biker during a roadside check. In Katihar, CCTV footage captured a police officer intimidating a young man and woman, later revealed to be siblings visiting their hometown for the festival season. In Darbhanga, a woman doctor recorded policemen beating her driver after a one-way violation while she repeatedly asked them to issue a fine instead.
Yet the experience of unequal power is not limited to dramatic incidents. Often, it appears in mundane encounters with public institutions. As a school student, I once went to a government hospital after a dog bite and was told the anti-rabies vaccine was unavailable. After someone with local influence was contacted, the same hospital suddenly found a way to arrange it. Experiences like these quietly shape how people understand the state.
Even systems designed to improve governance sometimes reflect the same reality. The Bihar Right to Public Services Act promises time-bound delivery of documents such as residence and income certificates. Yet many applicants rely on middlemen operating outside block offices who promise to “speed up” the same certificate for a fee.
Over time, these experiences produce a powerful conclusion within families and communities. If everyday life is shaped by authority, then the safest way to secure dignity is to acquire authority. Some pursue politics. But politics requires resources and networks that many do not possess. For a large section of Bihar’s youth, the more accessible route to power lies through the civil services.
This helps explain why examinations such as UPSC and BPSC occupy such a powerful place in the state’s imagination. Government jobs of all kinds remain desirable, but the greatest prestige is attached to positions that carry administrative authority. The civil services, therefore, come to represent something larger than employment. They represent dignity, protection, and the ability to navigate the very system that once seemed intimidating.
The result is a remarkable culture of preparation, and entire neighbourhoods celebrate when someone clears the examination. Yet there is also a paradox embedded in this aspiration. The same experiences of humiliation that create the desire for power can sometimes shape how power is later exercised. Once inside the system, the temptation to enjoy authority rather than reform it can be strong. Bureaucratic power can end up reproducing the very hierarchies that inspired young people to join it in the first place.
This is not unique to Bihar. It reflects a broader challenge within India’s administrative culture, where authority often remains personalised and hierarchical. But Bihar’s extraordinary civil services pipeline offers a revealing window into this dynamic.
Behind every successful UPSC candidate from the state lies a story of discipline, family sacrifice, and intellectual effort. Yet behind the collective obsession with the civil services lies something deeper: A society acutely aware of how power shapes everyday life. Perhaps that is why the IAS dream in Bihar refuses to fade.
For many young people, the examination is not simply about public service or prestige. It is also about dignity. It is about ensuring that the next time they encounter the state, they are not standing outside the system. They are the ones sitting behind the desk.
The writer works at the Quality Council of India
