Travel Diary: Return to Jamshedpur After 25 Years
After twenty-five long years, I finally made my way back to Jamshedpur—a city that lives in the quiet corners of my childhood memories. This wasn’t just a trip, it was a homecoming. And as it turned out, Jamshedpur still holds its magic—its natural beauty, its stillness, and the nostalgic warmth that never left.
I flew from Bangalore to Ranchi, watching the clouds roll by, carrying with them a bundle of anticipation. From Ranchi, a two-hour taxi ride took me through a route so scenic, it felt like nature had laid out a welcome mat. Hills rose gently on either side, forests flanked the road in deep green silence, and the occasional burst of tribal villages added color to the journey. It was peaceful, almost poetic—a prelude to the city waiting at the end of the road.
As we entered Jamshedpur, I was met with an overwhelming sense of familiarity. The streets, though busier, still held the same rhythm I remembered. My first stop was the Subernarekha River, its waters glinting under the afternoon sun, just as they used to. Standing at its bank, I could almost hear the echoes of my younger self—splashing, running, laughing. The Kharkai River, too, flowed steadily nearby, a reminder that some things, like the grace of nature, never change.
I wandered through Jubilee Park, and time seemed to pause. The same wide paths shaded by towering trees, the vibrant flower beds, the musical fountains—all felt untouched by the years. It was as if the park had been quietly waiting to welcome me back. The air here smelled of nostalgia, heavy with memories of childhood Sundays and evening strolls with family.
A visit to Dimna Lake was like stepping into a painting. The water was calm and glassy, reflecting the lush green of the surrounding forests and the distant silhouette of Dalma Hill. I sat on a stone bench, letting the cool breeze carry me back to simpler times. The beauty of this place has aged like fine wine—still raw, still real.
Driving up to Chandil Dam, I found myself marveling at how nature and man-made marvels coexist here. The vast stretch of water, the hills in the backdrop, the sky above—it was all breathtaking. And finally, standing atop Dalma Hill, looking down at the city cradled below, I felt a strange peace. That view had once been a canvas for my childhood dreams, and being there again made everything feel complete.
And just when I thought the trip had given me everything, it gifted me one last, unexpected joy. I had been searching everywhere for kendu fruit, a childhood favorite that had become more memory than taste over the years. My wait ended deep in the Dalma forest, where I spotted an old lady selling them by the roadside. Without a second thought, I bought every last one she had. That first bite was pure nostalgia—sweet, wild, and beautifully familiar.
This trip to Jamshedpur was more than just a revisit—it was a revival. The city may have evolved in many ways, but its essence remains untouched. The rivers still sing, the hills still stand, and my memories still roam freely through its streets.
Thank you, Jamshedpur, for being just as beautiful as I remembered—for holding onto my past, gently and gracefully.
