The stranger things

Carrying Mummy’s voice across oceans, years and generations.

The idlis are steaming on the stove. The chutney, freshly ground, sits ready on the dining table.
Pappa sips his morning chai while Mummy is lost in the day’s newspaper, her eyes scanning each line.
I shuffle into the room, dressed in my maroon pinafore uniform, a red hairband holding back my short, oily, and damp hair.
As I bend to buckle my black shoes and tug my socks up just right, Mummy, still glued to the paper, suddenly pauses, spots something, and reads the headline out loud.

“Girl given biscuit and pickpocketed.”

She went on, her brow furrowing, her voice rising with concern.

“A young girl was offered a biscuit by a kind-looking couple on the train ”, she read. “She took it, not thinking twice, and moments later, she dozed off.“

I stopped mid-shoe buckle, listening.
Mummy continued, “When she woke up, several stops later, her bag was gone. So was her gold chain.”
Mummy immediately looked up to me and proclaimed, “Don’t ever talk to strangers. And never, ever eat anything they offer.”

Her usually soft voice had weight that morning – the kind that lingers, etched into memory.

You see, I’m an only child – my parents’ whole world wrapped into one. Letting go of me, even just a little, must have felt like placing their heart atop a spinning top, unsure if it would steady or fall.

For most of my school years, I was crammed into a taxi with other kids, perched on laps, lunch bags squished into every in-between, backpacks stuffed into the overflowing trunk. A noisy, happy bubble of safety.

When it was time for college, my parents decided to let me take the bus. Which also meant I had to take solitary walks to the bus stop. The road I walked was narrow and quiet. On one side, tall brick walls with iron grill gates, and homes peeking out from behind them.

On the other side – an abandoned graveyard. The tombs were overrun with weeds that grew taller than a person. Street boys loitered there, sitting on the tombs with their eyes fixed on the passersby. They waited for the girls to walk by, making comments, whistling, and laughing softly as we walked past, every single time.

Every step I took down that road, Mummy’s voice followed me.
“Don’t ever talk to strangers. And never, ever eat anything they offer.”

I carried that mantra like a talisman. It guarded me on those solitary walks and kept me clear of trouble. It kept me safe.

---

Years passed, and I found myself living in another state pursuing my Master’s.

Every month, I would return home, taking the luxury Volvo bus.

One such trip began on a rainy morning. The bus was jam-packed. Navratri season was around the corner, and college was closed. Bengaluru was gearing up to come alive with color, light, and celebration for the next ten days.

For every Malayali (a person who hails from Kerala) living away from home, it was the perfect excuse to head back.

The journey was long and winding- almost seven hours. through the lush landscapes of the Western Ghats with breathtaking views. Sometimes, you’d spot monkeys playfully leaping between trees, or even an elephant, making the long ride feel like a scenic adventure.

Everyone scrambled for the best seats before the bus took off. I was lucky, I had snagged a window seat, my favorite, so I could lose myself in the passing scenery.

Two nuns climbed aboard, lugging two oversized bags. They settled into the seats beside me. They smiled warmly. I gave a polite, hesitant smile in return and turned quickly to the rain-speckled window.

Mummy’s words echoed in my mind like a well-rehearsed mantra.

The nuns seemed eager for conversation. I, on the other hand, was determined to keep to myself.

The bus rolled out of the city, rain tapping steadily against the windows. A long, winding seven-hour ride lay ahead, and I felt a quiet thrill building up. I was going home!

Within an hour, we had left behind the chaos of city traffic and merged onto the Bengaluru-Virajpet highway. The landscape shifted – Karnataka’s sunbaked earth stretched out around us, dotted with the occasional figures moving through the dry and crackling land.

This was an era before AirPods and smartphones, so there was no glowing screen to scroll, no playlist to drown out the world. Just the steady hum of the engine, endless shades of brown unfurling past the window, old Kannada songs crackling softly from the speakers, and the occasional conversations among the passengers breaking the silence.

But even in those fleeting exchanges, Mummy’s voice rang clear. And so I sat like the ever-obedient daughter, wary and cautious.

A few hours into the journey, the bus pulled over at the Kootupuzha bridge – a usual pit stop where the driver stretches his legs, passengers rush to the restrooms, and the little tea stall and eatery get quick business.

While most passengers wandered off to the tea shop or lined up for the restroom, I stayed put. I couldn’t bear the smell from the toilets, and besides, the bus felt safer. Only an elderly uncle and aunty sat up front.

The bridge, built across a narrow river that marks the Kerala-Karnataka border, is a quiet, scenic spot.

On the other side, there is the dense forest we are about to embark on – the first hints of Kerala’s lush greenery. The view of the water stream below offered a brief, peaceful pause in the journey.

Soon, the nuns returned with hot bajjis wrapped in a folded newspaper. The bajjis smelled heavenly and tempting.

The nuns offered me one. I smiled and shook my head, all the while thinking, Nice try, sisters. But I’m not falling for the trap.

The nuns took this moment to strike up a conversation. They asked where I was headed, what I was doing in Bengaluru. I kept my answers vague and mumbled a few words, just enough to be polite. Mummy’s voice echoed in my mind like a warning bell.

As the bus rumbled back to life, the scenery began to shift. The road dipped into thick green forest, then curved upward, winding its way into the Western Ghats.

The cool mountain air rushed in through the open window bars, brushing against my face. I poked my nose out for a deeper breath of that crisp freshness.

I kept my eyes peeled, hoping for a glimpse of something wild. The bus speakers were blaring 90s Bollywood hits this time. Somewhere between Pehla Nasha and Tip Tip Barsa Paani, I drifted off into dreamland, where I, of course, was the heroine dancing on a hilltop, with the wind in my hair.

A sudden screech jolted me awake. The bus had slammed to a halt.

We had descended the Ghats and were now well into Kerala. You didn’t need a signboard to tell you, you could feel it.

The roads grew bumpier, the green impossibly greener. Houses hugged the road, people wove through the streets, and voices rose above the din. The air turned sticky.

This was it. This was home, where everything was closer, louder, and more alive.

We stopped at a roadside tea stall for another quick break. The scent of fried plantains floated through the air. “Chaya, chaya”, someone was shouting from the tea stall.

I stayed on the bus, hugging my bag tightly in my lap. The two nuns beside me pulled out a pack of Parle-G biscuits. One sister ripped the wrapper open, offered a biscuit to the other, and they began crunching away, laughing between bites. I watched from the corner of my eye, my stomach rumbling.

I thought of home. Of Mummy’s chicken biryani, waiting patiently on the stove. But the sweet biscuit was suddenly irresistible.

As if reading my mind, one of the sisters turned to me and asked, ”Would you like one?”

Red flags lit up in my mind like a siren. Oh my god, Mummy’s voice thundered through my head. This was it – a classic biscuit banditry in action.

I refused in a flash. There was no way I was falling for a Parle-G trap and missing out on Mummy’s chicken biryani.

But the nun insisted. Once. Twice. Three times. She looked genuinely concerned, probably wondering why this girl hadn’t eaten a thing all day. Still, in my head, the alarm bells were deafening. Obviously, this was a setup—knock me out, steal my bags, vanish into the Ghats. Nice try, sisters.

I stayed strong for as long as I could. But after her fourth attempt, I caved. Reluctantly, I took the biscuit and held it in my hand like a ticking bomb. And when they turned away to chat, I slipped it into my bag. Whew. That was a close one.

We continued, winding through the final stretch of road until the bus reached our final stop.

As I gathered my things, the nuns smiled warmly and said, “Pootte Moole”. 1

I nodded, a little sheepish. They had probably just seen a quiet, lonely girl on a long bus ride and decided to be kind. Or maybe not. Who knows.

Pappa was waiting at the bus stop. I could hardly wait to get home and proudly tell Mummy how I’d followed her advice and narrowly escaped being looted by well-meaning nuns with hot bajjis and Parle-G biscuits.

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The years rolled by. I came to America, carrying Mummy’s teachings tucked in my pocket like lucky charms. I built a life in this new land with my hubby.

And when we had our little one K, I passed down that same age-old wisdom, with a modern twist: Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t get into cars with people you don’t know.

Like every parent, I wanted to raise a kid who was kind, smart, and just cautious enough to avoid the unthinkable.

By middle school, K had heard my cautionary mantra so often, it was probably etched into his memory too.

It was his first week in a new school with new friends and new routines. For me, it meant a new pick-up route.

I was working from home then, and school was just ten minutes away. As any parent knows, the first week of a new schedule is messy.

It was a Friday. I got carried away, trying to wrap up work so I could glide into the weekend with a clear head.

Time slipped by, and before I knew it, there was a knock on the door.
When I came down and opened the door, there he was. My kid. At the door.

I blinked. “Wait-how did you get here?”

“I walked,” he said, like it was no big deal.

“WHAT?! Why?!”

“I walked home from school because you were late.”

He’d walked the whole way, crossing major roads and intersections. Yes, there were streetlights and crosswalks, but still! He was in seventh grade.

And then he added, almost like an afterthought, “Someone offered me a ride, but I said no.”

I gasped. “WHAT?! Who?!”

“I don’t know. One aunty. I remembered what you said. So I refused to get in”

My heart did a full somersault. Guilt, relief, and panic all tumbled in, like my laundry in the spin cycle upstairs.

I was a bit surprised that he actually listened to my stranger danger spiel!

And of course, I wondered who the mystery aunty was?

Did he just dodge a kidnapping thanks to our generational wisdom?

A week later, I found out it was Priya Aunty, his friend’s mom. She’d spotted K walking alone, panicked like any good aunty would, and pulled over to check on him. But he didn’t know her well enough, and thanks to my years of well-meaning training, he politely declined and marched his way home by himself.

We laugh about it now. But there he was, dodging a thoughtful aunty and conquering the street on foot, all in the name of safety.

TO BE CONTINUED IN THE NEXT ISSUE…

1 Goodbye dear, in Malayalam