No Weddings, No Processions: Inside Bihar’s ‘Village of Bachelors’ Where Silence Replaces Celebration

In the rugged hills of Bihar’s Kaimur district lies Barwan Kalan, a village where the sounds of wedding bands, celebratory drums, and wedding vows have been absent for decades. Here, marriage processions rarely arrive, brides seldom come, and for many men, the hope of starting a family remains unfulfilled. Locally and officially, the village has come to be known as a “hamlet of bachelors.”

The story of Barwan Kalan is not one of folklore or tradition, but of chronic neglect and isolation. A telling incident is often recalled by villagers: once, a family set out to see a prospective groom for their daughter in Barwan Kalan. Midway, faced with the absence of a proper road, they turned back, asking a question that still echoes in the village—“How can we marry our daughter into a place we cannot even reach?”

Nestled atop the Kaimur hills, Barwan Kalan is cut off from basic infrastructure. The nearest hospital and police station are nearly 45 kilometres away. Drinking water becomes scarce in summer as hand pumps dry up, forcing women to walk long distances daily. Electricity is erratic, supplied mainly through solar panels that residents often purchase themselves, while mobile connectivity is barely functional.

According to locals and panchayat representatives, the label of a “bachelors’ village” stems from harsh realities rather than myth. Panchayat head Nand Lal Singh has stated that several villages in the region, including Barwan Kalan, Barwan Khurd, Sarwandag and Tori, have a high number of unmarried men due to the absence of motorable roads, reliable electricity, healthcare facilities, and drinking water. “Living here is difficult; hosting a wedding is nearly impossible,” he said.

Earlier reports had suggested that no marriages had taken place in the village for over 50 years. While villagers dispute the absolute accuracy of that claim, they acknowledge that many marriages collapse before they can be solemnised. Wedding parties often refuse to climb the steep, dangerous hill paths, turning back midway. In some cases, grooms have reportedly concealed the true location of their village until after marriage ceremonies were completed elsewhere.

Migration has become a necessity for survival. With agriculture dependent entirely on unpredictable rainfall, many men leave the village in search of work. Those who stay behind face social isolation, dwindling prospects, and repeated rejection in marriage negotiations. “Five times my marriage talks failed,” laments a villager, adding, “My land and ancestral home are here. I cannot abandon them.”

Frustrated by official inaction, villagers once attempted to build a road themselves using axes and spades, managing to level nearly 4.6 kilometres of terrain. Their effort ended with legal action, as the forest department registered cases against them for construction in a protected area.

Though some improvements have been reported in recent years, challenges remain overwhelming. Only a single telecom network works intermittently, electricity is unreliable after sunset, and water scarcity persists. Despite this, residents insist they are not asking for special treatment or tourism-driven attention.

Their demand is simple and universal: roads, water, electricity, healthcare, and dignity.

“We want what everyone else has,” says a villager quietly. “We want to live here, marry here, and raise families—without having to struggle just to survive.”

Until that day arrives, Barwan Kalan remains a poignant symbol of resilience, standing at the crossroads of recognition and neglect—where hope endures, but celebrations wait.