Kalpetta: The Chooralmala bus still winds its way through the tea plantations. A bunch of memories accompanies each passenger on board. Those who lived together in the same village a year ago are now meeting once again—on this very bus. Their Chooralmala bus.

“We’re going?... Anyone else to get on?” conductor Ashraf called out, his voice ringing down the road. Once he was sure there were no more passengers, he rang the double bell. Driver Anilkumar eased the vehicle forward. The Chooralmala KSRTC bus begins its daily journey in the early hours of the morning. Along the route, people were already waiting for it. The bus almost seemed to know who would get in from where. After all, it belongs to the people of Chooralmala. Their daily lives begin with this bus. For each one, this morning bus is a symbol of hope.

“We’re coming from Bathery. Only if we get this bus can we reach the estate for work,” said Madhavi, as she climbed aboard. Geeta and Suhrabi from Puthurvayal joined her a little later. “The whole house was swept away in the landslide. Everything was lost,” they recalled, their memories still raw.

Madhavi held up her phone and showed some old photos—images of Chooralmala, Mundakkai, and familiar faces. Many of those faces no longer exist. As she spoke, her own face turned pale. The beloved ones now live only in pictures and memories.

By the time the bus passed Palavayal, Kottavayal, Kappankolli and Meppadi, it was packed. The conductor didn’t need to ask, “Where to?” They were all headed for Chooralmala—people on their way to the estate. Regulars. Familiar faces. Ashraf and Anilkumar knew each of them by heart.

As the bus reached Puthumala, a wave of quiet sadness swept through its cabin. Some passengers lifted the shutters and looked out. They were passing the public cemetery—where many of their loved ones now rest.

“In the land where we were born and raised, we all used to see each other at sunrise,” said Surendran. “Now we are scattered in different places. This bus is what brings us together.” Others like Krishnan and Muraleedharan have also shared such stories—of absence, of reunions, of loss.

When the bus finally arrived, the Chooralmala market had not yet stirred. It waited for life. As passengers stepped off the bus, the market too seemed to awaken. Though the front board reads ‘Chooralmala’, many still call it the Mundakkai bus. Inside, the old ‘Mundakkai’ board still hangs.

“It can’t be placed in front now, but I didn’t feel like removing it either,” said Ashraf. “Even if the village of Mundakkai is razed to the ground, none of them will be erased from our memories.”