The narrow lanes of the Muslim colony in Gopalpur in Siwan’s Raghunathpur constituency are thrumming with excitement. As Osama Shahab’s SUV comes to a halt, a sea of young men surge forward, their phones raised high. The candidate barely waves before being surrounded. Sitting beside him is Rashtriya Janata Dal’s (RJD) sitting MLA Harishankar Yadav, who tells the crowd: “Vote for this young man and help form the government of another young man.”
Osama, the son of the late Mohammad Shahabuddin, says little. His father’s name, though, says everything.
Raghunathpur is the gamble, a seat chosen not for Osama’s charisma but for the memory he carries. The constituency’s mix of Yadavs, Muslims, Dalits, Rajputs, and Extremely Backward Classes (EBCs) fits the Opposition party’s arithmetic. In 2020, Harishankar Yadav retained the seat, aided by a split in NDA vote (the Lok Janshakti Party contested on its own and polled almost 50,000 votes). This time, the LJP (Ram Vilas) of Chirag Paswan is back with the NDA and vigorously campaigning, making the contest tighter. Yet, the crowds turning up for the quiet Osama suggest that the Shahabuddin aura — feared and revered in equal measure — has not entirely faded.
From the Muslim colony to the Yadav-dominated villages nearby, people gather to listen, more out of nostalgia than conviction. Harishankar invokes Union Home Minister Amit Shah’s call to “defeat Shahab at all costs”. “That challenge,” he tells the crowd, “must be answered with votes.” But when the convoy reaches a Dalit basti, only a few step out to see the candidate. “Poor local coordination,” mutters a party worker as Osama leaves within minutes.
The 31-year-old doesn’t linger anywhere for long, a striking contrast to his father, who once turned Siwan’s rallies into spectacles of power. Shahabuddin, the four-time MP, ruled the politics in Siwan in North Bihar from 1996 to 2004, until his conviction and incarceration in 2008. Even from prison, his writ ran deep, his name evoking both dread and a strange kind of order. Even though his family has failed to win a single poll in Siwan since, Shahabuddin’s name still resonates.
In Hussainganj, 23-year-old Ravi Sharma, from the Barhaee caste, says he will vote for the RJD because of Shahab. “He’s young and educated. Maybe he’ll understand the problems of the youth better,” he says. Allegations of his father’s crimes don’t bother him. “Those days are gone and cannot return. Nobody can do it now.”
Nearby, 25-year-old YouTube singer Mannu Matlabi, from the Kanu caste, nods. “Shahabuddin, after all, has done a lot for the region. I am young and so is Shahab,” he says. Then, with the defiance of the young, he adds, “Aren’t murders happening now? Is Shahabuddin there?”
A few kilometres away in Chakri, two migrant workers, Rajesh Dusadh and Sonu Paswan, echo the same faith. “There are no factories here. Doesn’t Bihar have coal?” Sonu asks. “If someone wants to do something, things will happen. I feel Shahabuddin’s son will do something. In Rajasthan, where I work, people do not know Siwan, but they know of Shahabuddin,” he says proudly.
In Raghunathpur town, barber Mohammed Munna puts down his scissors and says, “People have decided to change the government. Shahabuddin is history. But during his time, he opened engineering and medical colleges in Siwan.”
But for every voice that remembers the strongman with admiration, another recalls him with unease.
Shahabuddin’s political career ended after his convictions in at least half a dozen criminal cases, including a kidnapping and murder case in 2007. In 2015, Shahabuddin and three others were convicted and sentenced to life imprisonment for the double murder of two brothers on August 16, 2004. The brothers, Satish and Girish, were drenched in acid, and their bodies were never recovered. The victims’ brother, Rajiv Roshan, who was the sole witness and had managed to escape from the accused, was threatened against appearing as a witness in the court. However, when Roshan insisted he would not back down, he was shot dead on June 16, 2014, three days before he was to appear in court.
Among the other high-profile cases in which Shahabuddin’s name came up are the killings of former JNUSU president and CPI(ML) activist Chandrashekhar Prasad in 1997 and the killing of Siwan journalist Rajdev Ranjan. The latter’s family publicly named Shahabuddin.
At Anand, under a banyan tree, Hridayanand Dubey and his friends play cards. They don’t want that history back. “There are good roads, power and peace. What else do you want? The government is not going to start feeding you now. We’ve seen times when you would buy a vehicle and lose it the same day,” he says,
Daroga Singh Patel, an ameen (land mapper) from Chakri, says the stigma of the past still lingers. “People are concerned about Shahab’s criminal image. Even some Yadavs will vote against him because of this. But eventually, people will vote on caste lines.”
Even within homes, loyalties are split. Mannu Matlabi may campaign for RJD, but his mother, Patasiya Devi, praises Chief Minister Nitish Kumar. “I got Rs 10,000 in my account,” she says, holding up her phone as proof.
‘Cannot have those days back’
Across the district, the story repeats itself. The younger generation views Shahabuddin, who passed away in 2021, through stories and legend; the older ones remember the fear. In Siwan constituency, where the BJP’s Mangal Pandey, the current Health Minister, faces RJD veteran Awadh Bihari Chaudhary, the shadow looms just as large. Siwan has a significant population of Muslims, followed by OBC Banias, Yadavs, EBCs, upper castes, and Dalits.
“No one has done as much for Siwan as Shahabuddin,” says Lal Singh Karn, a newspaper vendor in his sixties from the Kayasth community. “But it was also a time of fear. We would be scared of talking loudly at home lest someone hear us outside. You could get robbed during the day.”
Yet he recalls that fear with grudging nostalgia. “When he was there, no doctor dared charge more than Rs 50. Today we pay Rs 800. No official asked for bribes, now you can’t get any work done without Rs 5,000. Even a peon won’t move unless you pay.”
Vinod Kumar Patel, a Kurmi electrician, cuts in: “Shahabuddin was very good. He did a lot for people. But RJD workers are the problem. They harass people. I cannot have those days back.”
At a tea stall, 30-year-old Rakesh Baitha pours another cup for customers. “After graduation, I am selling tea. What benefit is this or any government to me?” he asks. Nearby, BSc student Vishal Chaurasia joins in. “The youth have decided to change the government this time. There are no opportunities, too much corruption, and exams are not held on time. Everyone cannot start a business. As far as Shahabuddin is concerned, those who faced him would know. Mangal Pandey will lose from here. Awadh Chaudhary is local and is present when people need him.”
Seventeen years after Shahabuddin’s fall, Siwan continues to live with his ghost, part memory, part myth. For some, he remains the man who brought order, for others, the one who made fear normal. His son now walks through the same villages where his father once thundered, speaking softly, shaking hands, leaving early.
The name still opens doors, but the echo has changed. In the dust and noise of Bihar’s election, Siwan is still deciding what to do with its most enduring legacy: a man long gone, and a shadow that refuses to leave.