By Upendra Mishra
BOSTON — Living with my Budhawa Baba in Tadipar during my sixth grade at a brand-new school was an unforgettable chapter of my life, a time that deeply shaped my early values.
Just the two of us—Budhawa Baba and I—lived in a humble, brick-and-cement building divided into three sections. One section was used for storing seeds of wheat and other crops, another housed various fertilizers for local farmers, and the last served as our living quarters. We were looked after by Atma Ram, the chowkidar, who helped with everything from cutting vegetables to washing pots. His assistance made our simple life a little easier.
Budhawa Baba was a deeply disciplined Brahmin. He would only eat food cooked by himself, his family, or close relatives—strict rules that excluded onions, garlic, meat, fish, and eggs. In the beginning, he cooked on an earthen chulha with two cooking spots: one for rice and vegetables and the other for tur dal. In the evenings, he would prepare fresh rotis. Over time, I began to help him with cooking, and by the time I finished the sixth grade, I was capable of preparing the entire meal. So much so that there were times when Budhawa Baba would leave me alone at Tadipar while he visited our family village, confident that I could take care of myself.
One day, when Budhawa Baba left for the village, Atma Ram, sensing an opportunity for a little mischief, suggested an exciting idea. “Baba is not here today. Why don’t you try making onion pakoras?” he asked.
At that moment, I felt a rush of curiosity and excitement. The thought of tasting onions for the first time thrilled me. “Let’s make it,” I said eagerly.
Atma Ram fetched some onions and besan (gram flour) from his home, and we set to work. I heated mustard oil in the kadahi, and as it started to sizzle, I felt a sense of triumph. But just as I was about to fry the pakoras, I saw Budhawa Baba returning. He had missed his bus and was walking back slowly.
I was horrified, and so was Atma Ram. Panicking, I grabbed the onion mixture and rushed to the nearby field, tossing it away. I tried to act normal as I returned to the house, my heart racing. I feared Budhawa Baba had either seen or smelled the onion. To my surprise, he didn’t mention anything about it. When I told him I was just preparing vegetables, he accepted it without question. That was the first lie I told in my life, and to this day, I wonder if he knew. He never spoke of it.
My Journey Without My Mother Part-1: A Memoir
My Journey Without My Mother Part-2: A Memoir
My Journey Without My Mother Part 3: A Memoir
Living in Tadipar was beautiful in many ways, but it also came with its challenges. We were surrounded by fields, and during the rainy season, the area became prone to the presence of snakes. The house we lived in had no toilet, so we had to use the fields, rain or shine. The flooding river would leave dry patches where snakes would seek refuge, and sometimes those patches were the same ones we needed for our daily business. It was a constant battle to avoid crossing paths with deadly creatures.
One day, I confided in Budhawa Baba about my fear of snakes. He reassured me with a solution.
“Don’t worry. Just recite this mantra I’ll teach you, and no snake will ever bite you,” he said, his voice full of conviction.
He then taught me a long mantra in Sanskrit, which I struggled to remember. To make it easier, he simplified it to the words, “Jai Janamejaya,” and instructed me to repeat it whenever I went out to the fields. I believed in it wholeheartedly. The mantra became my shield, and I no longer feared the snakes. I could sit in the fields with peace, even knowing they were nearby.
Every Sunday, we would go to a nearby makeshift bazaar to buy vegetables and other necessities. This was not only a place for shopping but also an opportunity for me to learn life lessons I still cherish. Budhawa Baba had passed high school, an accomplishment that was highly prestigious in those days. He knew both Urdu and English and began teaching me English when I entered the sixth grade. At first, the alphabet was a foreign concept to me, and I struggled to write and remember the letters.
One day, as he patiently tried to teach me, I broke down in tears, crying out, “I want to go back to the village. I don’t like this language, I don’t like this school, and I don’t know anyone else. I have no friends.”
He remained calm, telling me to take a break from English lessons for a few days. But soon, the English classes at school caught up to me, and I found myself falling further behind. Reluctantly, I turned to him for help, and from then on, English became a regular part of my education. Budhawa Baba made sure to teach me wherever we went. If we saw anything written in English, he would explain it to me. It was because of him that I was able to grasp the language.
But the most profound lessons Budhawa Baba imparted weren’t about English or math. They were lessons on how to live—a life grounded in simplicity, discipline, and joy. His routines were unwavering, and cleanliness was paramount to him. Whether it was his dhoti kurta or his bed sheets, everything was always spotless.
He also introduced me to the Mahabharata, one of India’s most legendary mythological texts. Budhawa Baba would narrate stories from the epic, always referring to Volume II, as Volume I had been stolen. Though I was too young to fully grasp the deeper meanings behind the stories, I was captivated by the characters, especially Karna, Arjuna, Yudhishthira, and Draupadi. By the end of my sixth grade, I had devoured the entire volume and continued to read the Mahabharata multiple times in the years that followed. I collected many different versions, both in Hindi and English.
It wasn’t until later that I began to understand the complexity of the character Shakuni. In the sixth grade, he seemed insignificant, but over time, I came to realize that Shakuni was the greatest strategist of his time. He understood human nature better than anyone else and was willing to sacrifice everything, even his kingdom, to achieve his goals. Yet, his lack of truth and moral compass ultimately led to his destruction. In contrast, the Pandavas—despite losing many small battles—always relied on truth and righteousness. Their perseverance, rooted in moral clarity, ultimately led to victory in the great war of their lives.
The Pandavas, unlike the Kauravas, always found joy in life. Even during their years of exile and hardship, they maintained a sense of humor and peace. The lessons from their lives were clear: truth and righteousness were not just ideals, but habits that defined their character.
As I approached the end of my sixth grade and prepared for seventh grade, life took another turn. Budhawa Baba was transferred to a place called Pakauli, a small town near Deoria, where the atmosphere was more urban. My school was about two miles away, and once again, everything was new. New school, new faces, and a fresh set of challenges. It was here that I would tell my second lie, an experience that would mark another turning point in my life.
End of Part 4. Stay tuned for Part 5.
(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.)
