Why Malleswaram Railway Station Still Feels Like Home

Malleswaram Railway Station — a place that never felt like “just” a station.

A few months ago, someone forwarded me a video of an elderly lady speaking about the charm of Malleswaram Railway Station. She mentioned how, whenever her children visit Bangalore from Canada, one ritual remains unchanged.

Her son insists on visiting the station, picking up idly from Raghavendra Stores, and eating it right there on the platform.

I smiled when I heard that, because for many of us who grew up in Malleswaram, the railway station was never just a transit point. It was a quiet witness to our growing up.

Even now, if I close my eyes, I can hear the metallic rhythm of trains slowing into the platform, the echo of announcements bouncing off the tiled roof, the smoky sweetness of roasted maize drifting from the bridge, and the soft warmth of idlies wrapped in paper from Raghavendra Stores. The station was never silent — but it always felt peaceful.

For nearly a decade, the station was part of my daily rhythm. Sometimes I would stop by after visiting the Hanuman temple near the tracks. Sometimes I would land there with friends. And sometimes, I would just go there alone — not because I had somewhere to travel, but because I needed somewhere to pause.

Back then, I did not have the vocabulary to describe stress or pressure. But I knew that standing on that platform, watching trains arrive and leave, calmed something I could not yet name.

I would often stare into the windows of passing compartments, trying to imagine the stories of the passengers inside. Were they excited about reaching home? Were they leaving something behind? Night trains fascinated me even more. I would count how many compartments had their lights switched off and wonder if strangers inside were already asleep, unaware that a group of teenagers were outside, constructing imaginary stories about their lives.

Main Building

There was a Hubli train that passed around 10 PM. Some nights, we would still be on the platform — sometimes with friends, sometimes with family during leisurely night walks.

Looking back, what surprises me most is how safe those nights felt.

The station always had movement. Vendors shouting. Footsteps echoing across the bridge. Conversations floating in fragments.

I lived in Kasturi Dhama Apartments, barely 500 meters away. The walk to the station itself was part of the ritual. There was a maize seller near the overhead bridge whose smoky coal stove announced his presence long before you saw him. The Hanuman temple stood like a silent guardian beside the tracks. Across the road, Manipal Northside Hospital added to the constant hum of life moving around the station.

Those years now feel deceptively simple — though they shaped more of us than we realized.

Our conversations revolved around exam marks, CET rankings, board results, college admissions, job placements, and dreams that always seemed slightly larger than our understanding of the world. The regular cast of those evenings remains etched in memory — Prasad, Anand, Kannappan, Shrinivas Prasad, Pratap, Gopal, Vasuki, Chellappan.

Sometimes, after lingering at the station, we would wander into the inner lanes of Malleswaram, stop at a random chaat stall for Bhel or Masala Puri, and return home uncomfortably full — only to sit down for dinner anyway, knowing that refusing food would raise immediate suspicion from our mothers. I did eat idlies from Raghavendra Stores outside the station — perhaps not as often as memory now insists.

Today, we are scattered across continents. Some friendships remain strong. Some have faded into occasional messages. Some now exist only in memory, unchanged and untouched by time. I am often reminded of a line from The Bachelor of Arts by R.K. Narayan — that friendships are sometimes less about choice and more about the quiet force of circumstances bringing people together for a brief, meaningful stretch of time.

Raghavendra Idly Store

Today, living thousands of miles away in a world shaped by calendars, deadlines, and carefully planned routines, I often wonder what those evenings at the station were quietly teaching us. We believed we were simply passing time. In truth, we were learning patience, companionship, and the rare comfort of being present without needing purpose. The world I inhabit now measures time through efficiency. The railway station measured it through moments that lingered long after we left the platform.

I visited Malleswaram Railway Station during my last trip to Bangalore. The building has changed. The station is busier. There are more booking counters, more parking space, and more people moving with purpose.

And yet, standing there, I realized something.

The station had not merely been a place where trains stopped. It had been a place where time slowed down just enough for friendships to form, dreams to be spoken aloud, and young minds to quietly learn how to navigate life.

Some places do not appear in the milestones of our lives. They simply stand in the background, shaping us without announcement.

For me, Malleswaram Railway Station will always be one of those places where I didn’t just watch trains pass by — I watched a version of myself slowly take shape. And perhaps those moments, in ways I still do not fully understand, never really left me.

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