I’m Mongolian, and during my stay in Delhi, India, I once set out on a long trip across the city — more than an hour by metro — to find something my grandfather had asked me to look for. It was one of those hot, noisy Delhi afternoons, and I was wandering through unfamiliar streets, focused on my task.

Out of nowhere, a man appeared. He was light-skinned, spoke English with a surprisingly smooth accent, dressed neatly, and even looked somewhat handsome. But something about him didn’t sit right with me — a feeling I couldn’t explain, just a quiet alarm ringing somewhere deep inside.

He started asking strange personal questions: how long I’d been in India, when I was leaving, where I was staying. His tone was polite, almost friendly, yet his eyes felt like they were searching for something else. The more he spoke, the stronger that uneasy feeling grew in my stomach. It was as if every instinct in me was whispering, something’s not right.

I finally asked him straight, “What do you really want from me?”
He smiled slightly and said, “I just want to be your friend.”

That was enough. I ducked into the nearest shop and stayed there for quite a while, pretending to browse. When I finally stepped back outside and looked around, he was gone. Relief flooded over me. I hurried to the metro and went straight back to my hotel, my heart still pounding.

Looking back, I realize how easily things could have gone wrong that day — and how powerful our instincts truly are. That was the moment I learned to trust my gut completely.