People don’t know much about Nitish Kumar, though he has been one of India’s tallest political figures for nearly two decades. Even after 18 years as chief minister, he remains inscrutable—his aces held close to the chest, his moods tightly reined in, his mind rarely legible to the public. There are no reams of anecdotal literature about his likes, dislikes, whims, or temper. There is only a distant outline: a quiet strategist, but a direct communicator with the masses, a man who has attracted far more brickbats than bouquets and yet—paradoxically—earned the epithet “Paltu Ram” for switching alliances with unnerving frequency.
Back in the 1980s, Nitish was a younger version of this same man: sober, sombre, unflappable. Neither worry nor elation creased his face. He listened more than he spoke. He was exacting, scrupulous. In personality, he was the opposite of his socialist comrade Lalu Prasad Yadav. If Lalu was the generalissimo, Nitish was the strategist in the backroom, letting his more voluble companion fill the stage. It was a rhythm that worked: together, and eventually apart, they climbed the political ladder.
Yet when Bihar headed into the 2025 polls, Nitish’s reputation as a serial switcher dogged him to an extent. But that was only one side of the story. In Bihar, people are convinced he is not personally corrupt. His asset disclosures over the years have helped that perception. And despite the opportunism tag, there is still trust—a trust that ultimately delivered for him and the NDA on November 14.
Nitish has been something of a political loner for most of his life, partly by circumstance. In youth, Lalu stole the limelight. In the Mandal era, Lalu’s caste did. Nitish had to start from scratch to be heard as a Kurmi leader—a label he personally disliked. He was comfortable being seen as a backward-class leader; he rejected being boxed into a caste silo.
All his career, Nitish has governed without ever belonging to a party with a majority of its own. Coalition politics shaped him; his frequent alliance shifts over the last decade were partly an outcome of this structural compulsion. Personal ambition played its role, too. For a time, he seemed caught in a tension between his principles and his aspiration for power beyond the chief minister’s chair. That tension earned him the “Paltu Ram” moniker—until the realisation dawned that it was wiser to hold on to what he already had. His journey from that resigned clarity to his redemption in 2025 is the story of Nitish’s second wind.
He was always the No. 2. In the 1980s, he helped Lalu become Leader of the Opposition. In 1990, he was behind Lalu’s ascent as chief minister. When Lalu outgrew both their boots, Nitish walked out in 1994 to form the Samata Party. Two years later, he aligned with the NDA. Even when he first became chief minister in 2000, political uncertainty shadowed him—he lasted barely a week. And even after he became No. 1 in 2005, there was always something tentative about the tenure: a coalition here, a coalition there, each term dependent on new equations. So, who is Nitish politically? He never responded to that question.
If any section of Bihar understands him deeply, it is the women. In 2015, he introduced prohibition—responding to growing demands from women who sought relief from domestic violence, alcoholism, and economic strain. His message was simple: prohibition would bring peace to homes, savings to households, safety to neighbourhoods.
The reality was far more complex. Men crossed borders to drink; migrants stayed away longer; bootleggers thrived. Hundreds died from illicit liquor. Lakhs were jailed—most of them undertrials—crowding Bihar’s prisons. Families suffered, incomes collapsed. Yet the women did not forget who had at least tried to change their lives.
Their trust only deepened because Nitish delivered elsewhere. Patna is a transformed city today. Airports in places like Purnea—once inconceivable—are realities. Roads penetrate marshy districts that were long isolated. Infrastructure and agricultural improvements, along with predictable governance, became his hallmarks. He could not eliminate corruption or nepotism; he could not generate enough jobs for Bihar’s youth. But he could—and did—ensure piped drinking water, accessible roads, functioning schools, and a steady flow of central funds deployed with reasonable discipline.
And he cultivated something rare in Indian politics: a caste-neutral, dependable female vote bank. You cannot quantify the peace inside a thatched hut at night. But those gains are real, and they matter.
His flagship Jeevika self-help programme, too, deepened this trust. The network of self-help groups he nurtured became a quiet grassroots revolution—stable incomes, access to credit, and the dignity of labour for women who had never handled money. The new cash-transfer schemes fitted neatly into this ecosystem. The ₹10,000 cash support and the ambitious ₹2.5 lakh entrepreneurial fund allowed women to supplement household income in ways that reshaped rural life. In many villages, the man drives a rickshaw while the woman sells vegetables or runs a micro-enterprise—small shifts, big consequences.
Bihar remains haunted by uneven development and limited penetration of welfare schemes. Caste equations that help Nitish electorally often obstruct progress. Migration remains the people’s escape valve; the young return only to vote, preferring the higher wages outside the state. Entrepreneurship and startups are slogans that mean little in a predominantly rural society still waiting for an industrial moment. Nitish, consumed by political firefighting, has rarely had the bandwidth for deeper structural shifts. It sounds harsh, but it is true.
As he prepares to take the oath again—likely for the last time, with age tightening its grip—perhaps he may turn to long-term developmental paradigms instead of managing daily crises.
What worked for Nitish in 2025? Those close to him say goodwill accrued over 18 years paid off. He maintained an emotional, direct bond with the masses. No empty rhetoric, no theatrical promises. He delivered what he could. Rumours about his ill health created a sympathy undercurrent—an “ek aakhri mauka” sentiment. He apparently believes they returned that trust with a mandate.
He remains one of India’s cleverest political strategists—secretive, understated, efficient. He does not threaten bureaucrats; he simply does not let them rest until the work is done. If Lalu was known to throw files, Nitish was known to clear them.
His unique contribution to Bihar is twofold: infrastructure and social empowerment, beginning with women and extending to Mahadalits. His national contribution is subtler: he preserved communal peace and stayed untouched by the rhetoric around him—even within a coalition led by a party that thrives on it. As an outsider inside the BJP-led alliance, Nitish achieved what was unimaginable in neighbouring Uttar Pradesh under largely BJP rule. No one ever called him communal. No one accused him of appeasement.
His politics was quietly syncretic: he facilitated the Off-Campus AMU centre in Kishanganj, and also stood with the Centre to lay the foundation stone of a grand Sita Mata Temple in Punaura Dham in Sitamarhi. It was not a contradiction—it was calibration.
Perhaps that is his final political lesson: you do not have to shout to be heard. Sometimes, silence itself can travel the farthest.
