Though I was not born in 1975, the year the great flood reshaped Bihar, its presence has always lingered in my life through the memories of those who lived it. By the time I arrived, the waters had receded and homes had been rebuilt, yet the flood survived in family conversations — in my father’s stories of nights spent on rooftops, in my uncles’ vivid recollections of hunger, fear, and unexpected solidarity, and in the quiet pauses that followed certain remembered sounds. As a child listening during candle-lit power cuts, these accounts felt like living folklore — not imagined, but etched into faces and voices. When I began writing, I realized I was engaging not just with a past event but with an inheritance carried across generations. Conversations with survivors from different districts revealed a tapestry of sorrow, resilience, humor, and shared humanity, while old photographs, scattered reports, and archival fragments helped fill the gaps, though oral history remained the heart of the narrative. This work is neither strict history nor pure memoir but a weaving of voices — family and strangers alike — who entrusted me with their memories; any errors are mine, but the strength within these pages belongs to them. The flood endures as a watermark on collective memory, shaping how people remember, hope, and endure, and I see myself simply as a listener who arrived late yet felt compelled to gather these echoes before they faded, trusting that memory itself refuses to drown.