By Upendra Mishra
BOSTON — Once I settled into life in Mexico City, I began to rediscover parts of myself long buried under layers of expectations and obligations. Freed from the constant surveillance of family and society back in India, I started to explore the things I genuinely loved. One of those was writing.
Before leaving New Delhi, I had begun publishing articles in The Hindustan Times, the city’s largest daily. Seeing my byline in print was intoxicating. It brought a surge of pride and validation that I’d never felt growing up — not just from friends but even from strangers. It was, in those days, a big deal.
So when I discovered The News, an English-language daily in Mexico City popular among American expats and tourists, I saw a door opening. I approached its editor, Roger C. Toll, and pitched the idea of a weekly column focused on Latin American affairs. I believed it was a clever move — a trifecta: I’d get my name out there, deepen my understanding of Latin American politics and economics, and, hopefully, earn a modest income to supplement my threadbare scholarship.
Roger agreed, and thus Latin American Focus was born — a weekly column that appeared every Saturday on the editorial page. Looking back, it was one of the best professional decisions I ever made. That column opened doors I hadn’t even known existed.
One such door swung open a few months later.
I learned of a month-long study program at the Inter-American Institute of Human Rights in Costa Rica. Given my growing interest in human rights, I applied and was accepted on a full scholarship — except for travel expenses. That part I had to cover myself. Stuck in a financial bind, I went to Roger and asked if The News would sponsor my travel in exchange for on-the-ground reporting from Costa Rica. Within a week, I had a round-trip ticket to San José in my hand.
Costa Rica in the mid-1980s was a relative oasis in a region torn by conflict. While much of Central America was gripped by civil wars, military regimes, and U.S. intervention — El Salvador, Nicaragua, and Guatemala were in turmoil — Costa Rica had abolished its army decades earlier and embraced democratic stability. Its lush rainforests, quiet volcanoes, and peaceful political culture felt like a paradise of sorts.
At the Institute, representatives had come from nearly every Latin American country. I was still struggling with my Spanish, but I made friends quickly. During the day, we immersed ourselves in workshops and seminars on human rights theory and practice. At night, we ventured into the city — dining, drinking, and inevitably, dancing.
I loved the food. I loved the energy. But dancing? That was another story. I was hesitant. Growing up in India, especially in a Brahmin family, dancing was not part of our upbringing. It was considered frivolous, even inappropriate. At first, I stood at the edge of the dance floor, awkward and unsure. But a few drinks in, and often at someone else’s insistence, I found myself moving — stiffly at first, then more freely. Slowly, I became comfortable with just being there — on the floor, unjudged and alive.
To the Costa Ricans, I was an exotic curiosity — an Indian in their midst. Most had never met anyone from India. They were fascinated by my background, by my broken Spanish, and they delighted in asking me questions about my culture.
For the first time, I was experiencing freedom — not just political or geographical, but deeply personal freedom. No one knew my past. No one cared about my family’s reputation or false honor, or how I was “supposed” to behave. I wasn’t being corrected, policed, or molded into someone else’s idea of perfection. I was, in essence, tasting the sweet, exhilarating freedom to simply be myself.
Back in India, life had always been lived under a microscope. There was a standard for everything: grades, behavior, dress, ambition. Being the best student, the best athlete, the best-mannered — it was an unrelenting pressure. No one ever asked me what I wanted.
I still remember being in second grade, playing in the mango orchard of my village, when one of my uncles dragged me home to answer math questions in front of a visiting group. Apparently, a child my age was there, and I was expected to outperform him. What was the point? Another time, I was asked to sing verses from the Ramayana in front of neighbors. I froze. I couldn’t sing. The other child sang beautifully. I felt humiliated — a trauma I carried for years.
But in Costa Rica, no one cared about my pitch or performance. One evening, the conference organizers arranged a trip to a nearby volcano. It was active — steaming and dramatic. On the return trip, the bus transformed into a rolling fiesta, complete with music, drinks, and laughter. As the bus moved along, someone shouted, “Sing us a song in Hindi!”
Singing? Me? That same old fear surged. But something inside me shifted. Maybe it was the rum. Maybe it was the freedom. Or maybe I wanted to exorcise the ghosts of my childhood. I thought: What do I have to lose? They won’t know if I’m off-key. So I stood up and belted out a Bollywood song — probably a Kishore Kumar classic from the 1970s. Out of tune, loud, and completely free.
To my surprise, they loved it. They asked for more, and I obliged. I don’t even remember the songs I sang, but I do remember how I felt: light, unburdened, and alive.
A week before the program ended, we were invited to a formal dinner with a very special guest — the President of Costa Rica, Luis Alberto Monge Álvarez. It was the first time in my life I had met a head of state. In India, such an encounter would have been almost unimaginable. When I shook his hand and introduced myself, he immediately asked, “What are you doing in Costa Rica?”
I told him my story. He seemed genuinely curious. A few minutes later, one of his aides approached me: the President wanted to invite me to lunch. I was stunned.
A few days later, I found myself inside the presidential office. We talked about India, about Tagore — whose poetry, I was amazed to learn, was taught to Costa Rican children in elementary school. This was 1984. Nearly ten presidents have come and gone in Costa Rica since that lunch, but that moment remains vivid in my memory.
Back in Mexico City, I slipped easily into my routine: studies at El Colegio de México, my weekly columns, and yes — the parties. Mexicans joked that Mondays were for talking about last weekend’s parties, Tuesdays for working, and by Wednesday, people were already planning the next one.
That summer in Costa Rica had changed me. I had started the slow, essential process of shedding the layers of dogma I had carried from childhood — the weight of caste, expectations, and fear. I was learning to live for myself, speak for myself, and even — on occasion — sing.
Stay tuned for Chapter 14: Summer School at the University of Oslo — A Life-Changing Experience.
(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.)
