By Upendra Mishra
Boston – As my journey to Mexico finally came into focus at the end of 1983, the emotional whirlwind of JNU gradually settled. The ache of unspoken love—the kind that lives quietly in glances and unsent letters—began to give way to a more pressing concern: survival in a new land. Romance, once the center of my inner universe, was gently folded away like an old shawl.
I had no money. What I did have was a one-way ticket to Mexico provided by the Government of India, and a scholarship from El Colegio de México, one of Latin America’s most esteemed institutions. The scholarship was a doorway. But beyond that door, I saw no furniture—just bare uncertainty.
Before leaving, I returned to my ancestral village in Eastern Uttar Pradesh. Saying goodbye was unlike anything I had ever experienced. The entire village gathered—curious, proud, emotional. No one from our area had ever gone abroad. I was carrying not just my hopes, but theirs too.
My family gave me ₹300—about $15 then—and I had a few hundred rupees of my own savings. Not even enough to buy a decent suitcase. I remembered a gold ring that my stepmother’s parents had once given me. It had remained with her for safekeeping. When I asked for it, she gave it to me willingly, almost ceremonially, as if she too understood the magnitude of this journey.
I intended to sell the ring in Delhi to buy a few essentials—and to take someone very special out for dinner: Professor R. Narayanan.
He was more than a professor. He was the pillar behind my transformation from a hesitant small-village boy into a man who dared to dream beyond borders. He saw potential in me when I couldn’t. He pushed me relentlessly—sometimes gently, sometimes with a stern look—to read more, write better, and express myself with clarity and courage. Every recommendation letter, every opportunity that came my way, had his fingerprints on it. Without him, the Mexico scholarship would have remained a fantasy.
He mentored me not just academically, but personally. He taught me how to carry myself in diplomatic gatherings, how to speak up without arrogance, how to hold space in intellectual circles that once intimidated me. At times, I felt he believed in me more than I believed in myself.
So, when I told him I wanted to take him out to dinner before leaving, he teased, “Only if you invite her too.”
I smiled. I knew who he meant—the girl in the pink Rajasthani dress. She had walked quietly beside me through JNU’s seasons, her silence often saying more than my words. Professor Narayanan always encouraged me to bring her along to his parties, to the embassy events. I often wondered if he was trying to tell me something I was too afraid to admit.
A few days before my departure, we went to the Siddharth Hotel in Vasant Vihar. The dinner was modest, but the conversation rich. He kept poking fun about her, and I kept dodging with half-smiles. When the check came, I stood up, determined: “Not this time, Sir.” He grinned, reached for a napkin, and wrote, “Mexico Chalo.” I folded it and tucked it into my bag like a sacred talisman.
Back in my JNU room, I packed my world into one battered trunk. Alongside that napkin were a few precious items: my poetry notebook from Allahabad University, a letter from a doctor friend. I kept two unusual relics—a rolled kundali (astrological chart) of my grandfather’s brother who had died of cancer, and a dry, brittle twig from an amla tree.
Years ago, my grandfather had asked me to throw them into the sacred Sangam in Allahabad. I procrastinated for years. I couldn’t bring myself to discard them. When I left for Mexico, I carried them with me. Years later, after finishing my journalism degree in Los Angeles, I flew back to India during winter break and fulfilled that promise. The relief I felt at the Sangam was indescribable—like closing a chapter that had haunted me silently.
The night before my flight to Mexico City, I stayed with a friend who would drop me at the airport in the morning. I didn’t sleep. Fear replaced excitement. My uncle’s words at the railway station echoed ominously:
- Don’t eat meat.
- Don’t drink alcohol.
- Don’t marry a foreigner.
At dawn, my friend dropped me at Palam Airport on his scooter. I had just one small bag. We were allowed to convert only $20 into foreign currency. I had just enough rupees to buy $8 worth. That’s all I had for a year abroad.
In my bag were the Spanish book she had gifted me, a photo of us from a JNU, and a cassette—Pakeezah on one side, Anarkali on the other. Also tucked inside: two promises, one made to my grandfather and the other to myself.
As we boarded the airport bus to the plane, I mistook it for the aircraft itself. The real Air India plane stood in the distance, majestic and mysterious. I was 23 years old, and I had never flown before.
My first flight. A miracle wrapped in metal. As the engines roared and the runway fell away beneath me, I felt like the earth had let go of me too easily. I looked out the window, not believing I was truly in the sky.
Our first stop was Rome. I didn’t even step out. Just watched the Italian ground crew move with calm efficiency. Then to London—where I had an overnight layover. I was wide-eyed, jet-lagged, and completely lost. I remember walking through Heathrow with my mouth half-open, the world around me moving too fast.
From there, we flew to JFK Airport in New York. The city I’d only seen in movies felt like something from another planet. My layover was brief, a blur of fluorescent lights and unfamiliar English. And finally, I boarded my last leg: the flight to Mexico City.
As the plane began to descend over Mexico City, night had fallen. When I looked down, my heart skipped. I had never seen so many lights. The entire city shimmered like a bowl of stars—as if the heavens had been poured onto the earth in gold and silver. It wasn’t just breathtaking—it was overwhelming. I had no words for it then. Even now, I struggle to capture the awe of that moment.
That night, as the wheels touched down, I realized I wasn’t just landing in a new country. I was arriving into a new version of myself.
In Mexico, I found warmth, chaos, kindness, confusion. I made friends. I dated. I searched. But nothing filled the emptiness left by her absence. I tried drinking. I tried closeness. But the more I reached out, the more I realized I was chasing something I’d left behind at JNU. Her silence, her smile, that pink Rajasthani dress—they haunted me in every woman I met.
Years later, in America, a friend handed me The Palace of Illusions. In one passage, Draupadi asks her sorceress how to love and be loved. The sorceress laughs:
“Love comes like lightning, and disappears the same way. If you’re lucky, it strikes you right.”
Maybe I was struck once. Or maybe I stood in the storm and flinched.
But I lived. I loved. I carried something sacred with me across oceans and languages and years.
When I boarded that flight in 1984, I left without closure. But I carried her photograph and her book. And in their silent companionship, I discovered something eternal.
Some love stories are not meant to be told. They are meant to be kept. Like folded letters, unread but never forgotten.
Stay tuned for Chapter 11: Mexico — A Desperate Search for Elusive Intimacy and a Fast-Rising Career
(Mr. Mishra is the managing partner of The Mishra Group, a diversified media firm based in Waltham, MA. He writes about his three passions: marketing, scriptures, and gardening.)
