The Call of a Forgotten Palace: Ramdhan Bhavan | Passion Projects | Education | 57943

The day was October 6th, 2025. The air carried a faint bite of the approaching winter, yet the sun still hung stubbornly high in the sky, refusing to yield. From the window of my small apartment in Momenbag Residential Area, I gazed at my bicycle parked in the corner — my trusted single-speed 48×18, its steel frame catching the weak golden light. There it sat, silent, waiting for the journey that had already begun in my mind.

For weeks, I had been reading fragments about the Ramdhan Bhaban Zamindari House, a once-grand palace that now lay forgotten, abandoned in the fields beyond Raozan. Its walls had heard the laughter of a bygone era, the soft footfalls of servants, the whispered intrigues of landlords and their families. I wanted to touch those walls, to feel the ghostly pulse of history through my palms, and I wanted to do it alone, on two wheels, under my own power.

There is a strange poetry in the call of a forgotten place. It isn’t loud, nor urgent — it is quiet, persistent, like the hum of a bicycle chain. And once heard, you can’t ignore it.

Departure from Momenbag — 3PM, A Ride Against Time

At exactly 3:00 PM, I hoisted myself onto the saddle, adjusted my helmet, and pressed my palms against the cool metal of the handlebars. I pushed off, the familiar click-clack of my single-speed chain echoing against the quiet streets. Momenbag Residential Area was bustling with the last stirrings of day: children running after a stray ball, shopkeepers counting bills, women calling to each other across narrow lanes.

The first few pedals were easy, almost too easy, as my body hummed with anticipation. But soon, the weight of the day — the sweat, the heat, the traffic — would test my resolve. Every push of the pedals was a negotiation with time itself. I wanted to reach Ramdhan Bhaban before sunset, to see the ruins bathed in that fleeting, golden light that only late afternoon offers.

Through Rahmania School & Atiratipu — The Warm Roads of Memory

The road from Momenbag to Rahmania School was familiar, lined with mango trees that had seen me pass dozens of times on other rides. But today, the familiar was tinged with purpose. I passed the dusty schoolyard, now empty as students had finished classes. The sun slanted between the branches, lighting the road in fragments of gold.

From Rahmania, the path to Atiratipu wound along narrow lanes, uneven and strewn with pebbles. The wind picked up, brushing my face, whispering encouragement. Here, in these quiet moments, I reflected on the cycles of time — how children grow, leaves fall, and buildings crumble. I realized that a ride like this is more than a journey of distance; it is a journey of thought.

Oxygen to Fatehabad — Wind, Traffic, and Trials

The next stretch to Oxygen was deceptively long. Small trucks jostled past, the dust clinging to my skin, and the sun began its slow descent, making the horizon burn with an almost surreal orange hue. The rhythm of my pedals became meditative, a mantra repeated in steel and rubber: push, roll, push, roll.

By the time I reached Fatehabad, my legs had begun to complain, and yet there was a growing thrill. The roads narrowed further, fields on either side swaying in the wind. I passed tea stalls and small shops, the owners nodding at me with quiet recognition. Some asked where I was headed. When I whispered, “Ramdhan Bhaban,” they looked surprised — few remembered its name anymore. That only strengthened my resolve.

The Climb to Hathazari — Sweat and Silence

From Fatehabad, the road to Hathazari began its gentle incline. Nothing too steep, yet enough to make the single-speed 48×18 bite hard against my legs. Sweat ran down my back, stinging my eyes, but there was a strange pleasure in it — a reminder that effort is living.

Hathazari’s small town lanes offered brief respite. I stopped at a corner shop to sip water, the metallic tang of the bottle mingling with the earthy smell of wet soil from the recent morning drizzle. Children waved. I waved back, feeling simultaneously like a stranger and a participant in this quiet, timeless scene.

Gohira’s Golden Light — The Road Narrows, The Heart Expands

The stretch from Hathazari to Gohira was where the adventure began to truly sing. The road narrowed into almost a rural path, the sun now low, painting every surface with gold. Mango orchards, tea gardens, and scattered brick houses passed by in a blur of warm colours.

Here, the silence of the road allowed my mind to wander. I thought of the Zamindari era, of the grandeur and decay, of people who had walked these very paths decades ago, now gone. My pedals spun steadily, almost instinctively, as if the bicycle and I were co-conspiring to reach a hidden truth.

Arrival at Ramdhan Bhaban Zamindari House — Touching the Echoes of History

And then, there it was. The Ramdhan Bhaban Zamindari House emerged through the golden haze, partially hidden behind tall grasses and overgrown shrubs. Its high walls, cracked and discoloured, stood in silent defiance of time. Windows gaped like hollow eyes, and the entrance arch sagged under years of neglect.

I parked my bike outside the iron gate, now rusted and half-bent. My hands trembled slightly — not from exhaustion, but from awe. This was a place that had seen opulence, parties, and perhaps even whispers of secrets long buried. Now, it stood for me alone, a solitary witness to history waiting to be remembered.

Walking through the dusty corridors, I ran my hands along the cracked plaster, imagining the footsteps, the voices, the laughter. A pigeon fluttered overhead, disturbed by my presence, and I realized that even nature had reclaimed parts of this palace.

Conversations with Ruins — A Cyclist Alone with Time

Sitting on the crumbling steps of what once might have been the main hall, I reflected on the fleeting nature of human ambition. I thought about the journey here — the heat, the hills, the winds, the dust. Everything had conspired to make this moment heavier, more significant.

I whispered softly, “You were forgotten, but today, you are remembered.” My words seemed absurd at first, but as the wind carried them through broken windows, they felt like a bridge across centuries.

I took out a small notebook from my backpack, writing:
“A place forgotten, a journey remembered. The road to history is paved in sweat, dust, and determination.”

Return Ride — The Road Feels Different After Discovery

The journey back was quieter. The sun had nearly disappeared, leaving a soft purple twilight over the fields. The bicycle wheels hummed differently — not just movement, but memory. Passing through Gohira, Hathazari, and Fatehabad, I noticed things I hadn’t on the way in: the soft glow of lanterns in homes, the silhouettes of children playing, the aroma of evening meals.

Every pedal stroke felt lighter, as if the palace had somehow lent me a portion of its endurance. Even the hills seemed less daunting, the roads more welcoming. I realized that the journey had changed me; the ruins had given me a gift I hadn’t anticipated: a quiet sense of connection, a triumph not over distance, but over time itself.

Across Modhunaghat & Quaish — Twilight of Realization

By the time I reached Modhunaghat, the night had fully arrived. Streetlights flickered on, casting pools of orange across the road. Quaish’s narrow lanes welcomed me back, familiar yet transformed by the adventure. Every shadow, every bend, seemed to whisper: the journey matters as much as the destination.

Even as fatigue tugged at my legs, I felt a peaceful energy. I was alone, yet not lonely — carried forward by memory, sweat, and the wind that had accompanied me all the way.

Why We Ride: For Those Who Are Gone, For Those Yet to Come

Back in Momenbag Residential Area, I leaned my bike against the wall, legs trembling, heart full. I had travelled perhaps 50–60 kilometers in a few hours, yet the real journey was beyond mileage. It was a ride through time, history, and reflection.

The Ramdhan Bhaban Zamindari House would remain forgotten by most, but for me, it was alive — alive in the dust, in the stones, in the whispers of wind through broken windows. And I realized: this is why we ride. Not merely for speed, or endurance, or even adventure — but to touch something eternal, to connect with history, and to return transformed.

As I washed the dust off my hands and sipped a glass of water, I smiled. My legs were sore, my clothes dirty, but my spirit was triumphant.

Somewhere along the road, in the golden light of a fading day, I had met the past — and the past had met me back.