Samastipur

The first thing that hits me when I think of Samastipur is the railway station.

Samastipur Railway Station, Bihar

That place was alive—always. The clatter of trains, the aroma of ltti-chokha roasting over charcoal, the coolies in their red uniforms calling out for passengers, and the endless wave of people—some rushing, waiting, and few lost in thought, the announcer’s voice echoing through the old speakers, half-clear, and half-drowned in the chaos.

If I close my eyes, I see the setting sun cast a warm glow over the platform, rickshaws lined up outside, chai vendors pouring tea from great heights, and newspaper-wrapped samosas vanishing into eager hands. The whole place had a rhythm, a pulse, like the city was breathing in sync with the trains.

When I think of Samastipur, my grandfather is the first person who comes to mind. Every evening, he would take me to the Burhi Gandak River, strolling with his hands folded behind his back. He had this way of telling stories—about the city, life, things that didn’t make sense to me then but do now. I remember sitting on the steps of the ghat, dipping my feet in the water, watching boatmen ferry people across, their voices calling out over the quiet ripple of the river. Those evenings felt endless, like time paused just for us.

But if there’s one place that truly feels like home within the city, it’s Thaneswar Mandir. As a kid, I would hold my mother’s hand tightly as we walked in, the scent of incense filling the air. The temple bells would ring in a steady rhythm, the chants of "Har Har Mahadev" rising in the air, and at that moment, everything felt right. The priests moved swiftly, lighting diyas and arranging flowers, while the crowd swayed in devotion. On festive days, the whole place turned into a sea of colors—shops lined the entrance, selling sweets, bangles, and tiny brass idols. I can still feel the cool stone floor beneath my feet, the warmth of the diya in my hands, and my mother pressing a red tika onto my forehead before we left.

Thaneshwar Mandir

And then there was Venuss One Hotel—our go-to spot. It wasn’t just about the food (though the paneer butter masala and tandoori rotis were unbeatable). It was about tradition. The same waiters, the old steel tumblers filled with water before request. Conversations lingered here, laughter echoed a little louder, and meals felt like an occasion. The place still exists, but something about it feels different now—maybe it’s just me, growing up, looking for a piece of the past that isn’t there anymore.

Mayank Rai with his mother

Anuroop Talkies—where cinema wasn’t just entertainment.

It was an event. I remember the excitement of standing in line for tickets, the anticipation building as we got closer to the counter. The old, worn-out chairs, the slightly blurry projection, the crackling speakers—didn’t matter. When the hero made his grand entry, the whole hall erupted in whistles and cheers. There was a raw, unfiltered joy in watching a movie there, surrounded by people who felt just as invested in the story as you did. And then, just like that, it was gone. Another relic of childhood, replaced by something shinier, something colder.

Samastipur wasn’t like this before. The roads were quieter, the air felt lighter. The old movie theatre near Gudri Bazaar, the narrow lanes of Kachahari Road, where hawkers sold balloons and colorful spinning tops—slowly, they disappeared. The city has changed. More shops, more vehicles, more noise. Yet some things never change. The railway station is still as chaotic as ever. The river still flows, carrying whispers of old conversations. And the ltti-chokha stalls outside the station still serve that smoky, buttery goodness, just like they always have.

If I could take you on a tour, we’d start at the railway station, where my love for this city first took root. We’d wander through the bazaars, stopping to grab a few jalebis from the corner shop near Golamber. We’d visit Thaneswar Mandir in the evening, standing among the crowd, feeling the energy of a thousand prayers rising. Then, for old times’ sake, we’d step into Anuroop Talkies, just once, to relive the magic of a film the way we used to—among strangers who felt like friends, in a place that felt like home.

And as night falls, we’d sit by the Burhi Gandak River, the city’s lights shimmering on the water, the past and present blending into one.

Because Samastipur isn’t just a city—it’s a feeling. A memory etched into every street, every litti-chokha stall, every temple bell, and every passing train.

---

Hello! I’m Mayank Rai!

I carry my city in my heart. If you ever find yourself here, drop by my mother’s shop, Geetha Stationery and Consultancy on Magardahi Road. You’ll probably find me there, and if you do, let’s sit down and talk over a cup of sizzling chai.