By Upendra Mishra
BOSTON—My life in the village lasted until the fifth grade, possibly until I was about 10 or 11. The school building we had back then has long been replaced by a new structure, but in those days, most of our classes were held outdoors. In the summer, we gathered under the shade of trees, and during the winter, we sat in the open sun. Each of us brought our own mat, which we would lay out on the dirt before the class started. After the lessons were over in the evening, we’d fold our mats and carry them home.
I looked forward to school every day. I enjoyed the company of my classmates—most of them were children from my village, with a few from the neighboring village. I got along well with my teachers, and I cherish the memories of all of them.
However, my life at home became increasingly complicated, especially after I learned that Amma was not my biological mother. Up until that moment, I had always accompanied Amma on visits to her parental home, about three to four miles away from our village. I had mingled with her family, and I loved them deeply. They, in turn, had always been affectionate toward me. Their house was large, made of mud, but grand in its own way. The house had a huge central courtyard (or angan) and a massive pond in front, filled with water lilies and other aquatic plants.
To the east side of the house stood a giant banyan tree, with a thick trunk and branches that drooped low, creating the perfect place to hide away from prying eyes. It became my secret haven, a place where I could lose myself in thought or play with the other children of my age. In addition to the banyan tree, there were many mango trees, as well as papaya trees—an exotic fruit for me since it did not grow in my village. I loved the papaya tree, and Amma’s father would often take me there, sit with me, and talk to me. I don’t remember the specifics of our conversations, but I felt his warmth, and I looked up to him like a grandfather.
My Journey Without My Mother Part-1: A Memoir
My Journey Without My Mother Part-2: A Memoir
Many years later, after I had moved to Boston, I had a vivid dream. In it, Amma’s father stood by the papaya trees, and he asked me, “Why do you bother my grandsons?” At the time, I didn’t fully understand what he meant, but I felt as if he was referring to my stepbrothers. I asked him in the dream, “What do you mean?” And he replied, “Why do you torture your stepbrothers?”
I looked directly into his eyes and, with conviction, I said, “I don’t bother them. I don’t have any friends, nor do I have any enemies.” Shortly after, I woke up. That dream stayed with me, its message profound. I even wrote it down in my dream journal, wondering if it held any deeper significance.
Speaking of dreams, I have always had an abundance of them. In fact, I can recall most of the dreams I’ve had throughout my life, even from childhood. If I were an artist, I could easily paint them. Many of the people I’ve interacted with over the years, especially those who have had a meaningful impact on me, often appear in my dreams. Yet, I’ve never once dreamed of my biological mother. Time and again, before drifting off to sleep, I would hope that she would visit me in my dreams, but it never happened. Even now, I still long to meet her, at least in the realm of dreams.
After learning of my mother’s death, I felt a strong urge to leave my village and seek a new life elsewhere. It just so happened that the younger brother of my grandfather—whom I affectionately called Budhawa Baba—was working as a supervisor at a government seed-and-fertilizer depot about 35 miles from our village. By then, I had finished the 5th grade at the village school, and there were no further grades available there. A brand-new school, offering grades 6 to 8, was opening where Budhawa Baba lived, so my grandfather decided that I should go live with him in order to continue my education.
I was thrilled at the prospect of moving. I had never lived in a city before, but I had heard so much about urban life and had read about it in our elementary school books. I imagined bustling streets with buses, cars, and stores filled with sweets, clothes, and all sorts of goods. I fantasized about living in a city with brick houses, running water, toilts, and smooth, paved roads. The anticipation was electric.
One of my uncles was assigned to escort me to Budhawa Baba’s place where he was posted. I can still remember the excitement I felt. It was still dark when I woke up to get ready. My uncle and I walked more than two miles to the nearest railway station. The whole journey was thrilling. When the train arrived, we boarded, and it was less than an hour before we got off at Deoria, our district town. From there, we hopped into a rickshaw and made our way to the spot where we could catch a collective taxi to Hata.
It was incredibly hot, and the taxi was packed. All the men crammed inside smelled unpleasant, but I was undeterred. My heart was still set on my dream city. The journey took over an hour, and when we finally arrived at Hata, I thought, This is it. This is where I’m going to live with Budhawa Baba. But my uncle began asking people for directions to Jhanga, and I learned that we would need to take a bus to reach it.
I was confused. I thought we were heading to another city, but when we got off the bus in Jhanga, it was nothing like what I had imagined. There was no bustling city—just a road with a few sweet shops and tea stalls lining the sides. My uncle asked around again, and we were told to walk a certain distance to reach Tadipar/Mangalpur.
We walked for about two miles, and when we finally arrived at Budhawa Baba’s place in Tadipar, my heart sank. It was nothing like I had expected. It wasn’t a city; it was a small, modest brick house nestled among dense mango orchards, right by a small river. The closest neighbor was about five minutes’ walk away. The place was far more barren and remote than my village. My dream of city life had shattered.
Yet, when I saw Budhawa Baba, all my disappointment faded. I was incredibly close to him, and we shared a deep, natural bond. In fact, many of the values that shaped my childhood came from him. Despite the simplicity of his surroundings, his presence brought me comfort and stability, a sense of belonging in a way the city never could.
PART 3 END. To be continued…
(Mr. Mishra is managing partner of the Waltham, MA-based diversified media firm The Mishra Group, which publishes Life Sciences Times, Boston Real Estate Times, IndUS Business Journal, and INDIA New England News.) He writes about his three passions: marketing, scriptures, and gardening.)
