A Strange Little Acquaintance. (MemorableInstances-7)

It took me years to finally decide to write about this experience. It’s a strange and sensitive memory—one that still leaves me confused when I try to process or express it.

Once a week, I take my 4 year old to a storytelling class, about two kilometers from our home. The class is held at the teacher’s residence, making it convenient for me to drop my child off and wait in the small society garden, rather than head home only to return shortly after for pickup. Navigating Mumbai’s traffic would have made it a risky gamble to attempt a round trip.

Sitting on a bench in that peaceful garden became something I cherished. The lush greenery, the variety of trees, and the vibrant flowers created an oasis of calm. I would often be treated to the sight of squirrels scurrying around, reminiscent of my favorite cartoon, ‘Chip and Dale.’ The garden was perfect for some 'me-time,' an opportunity to read, write, catch up with my sister, or scroll through Facebook—all things I struggled to do amid the daily hustle of motherhood.

But then, something changed, and I was forced to bring an end to my quiet moments in that garden.

One evening, while sitting on my favorite bench, watching the squirrels as I read, a young boy—no older than 9 years—rode his bicycle up to me. He stopped right in front, got off his bike, and began tinkering with the chain and pedals, though the bike seemed perfectly fine. After a while, he walked over and sat beside me. He smiled shyly, and I returned the gesture, but I didn’t initiate any conversation. As a parent, I wouldn't want my child speaking to strangers, so I thought it best to remain quiet.

The boy sat next to me for about 15-20 minutes, until it was time for me to leave.

The following week, to my surprise, the same boy was already sitting on my bench when I arrived. His hair was wet, like he had just bathed, and he smiled as I approached. I smiled back, then settled into my book. Barely a minute passed before I heard him softly calling, “Aunty… aunty…”

I turned and asked, “Yes?”

That was the beginning of a long conversation. He told me his name was Dhruv, that he was in the third grade, and then proceeded to ask a lot of questions—my name, where I lived, how much an auto ride from his society to mine would cost, which floor my house was on, and so on. His face lit up when I said I lived on the third floor. With excitement, he said, “Aunty, wow! I live on the third floor too!”

Though I found him sweet, I was uncomfortable. I was a stranger to him, sitting alone in his society garden. Anyone could have seen us talking, and I worried they might wonder who this unknown woman was, chatting with a child. I politely excused myself and returned to my book, but Dhruv kept asking questions. Eventually, I said, “Dhruv, you seem like a smart kid, but you must know it’s important not to talk to strangers. I’m sure your mummy or teacher has told you that.”

His response left me speechless. “Aunty, I really like you. You’re very sweet. And now I know your name, so you’re not a stranger.”

I was at a loss for words. I decided to busy myself with writing, telling him I had lots of work and couldn’t talk.

This pattern continued for several weeks. Dhruv would either sit next to me or watch me from a distance, signaling for me to sit beside him. By this point, I was becoming irritated. My precious me-time was being interrupted.

Then came the evening that changed everything. It led me to make the conscious decision not to wait in that garden anymore, despite the inconvenience of leaving my child and going all the way back home. 

Even now, thinking of that evening upsets me. I wonder if I could have handled the situation differently—if there was something I could have said or done to prevent it. I often reflect on how I could have responded more maturely instead of simply avoiding the situation altogether.

...to be continued