By Upendra Mishra
A New Chapter Begins
BOSTON — Moving with my Budhawa Baba from Tadipar to Pakuli was both exhilarating and disheartening. I had just settled into my life in the 6th grade, made friends, and grown accustomed to the simplicity and natural beauty of rural life. Leaving it all behind felt like tearing a page from my story before it had fully unfolded.
Yet, the move brought a glimmer of excitement—it was closer to Deoria, our district town. Pakuli was not exactly an urban hub, but it had a well-maintained road, a handful of shops, and a strikingly beautiful school building that housed students from the 6th to the 12th grade. I admired the building’s grand presence, its sturdy structure, and the open, airy environment. But admiration was not enough to quell the discomfort I felt.
I hated the school.
Everything and everyone felt foreign. The teachers were unfamiliar, the students had their own tight-knit groups, and I struggled to find my place among them. Unlike in Tadipar, where friendships formed organically, here, I remained an outsider. The isolation began to affect my studies. Until the 7th grade, I had never failed a subject, and I prided myself on my mathematics skills—I had always solved every problem correctly. But this time, I stumbled.
The Second Lie of My Life
I failed in art class.
The subject was simple—drawing and coloring pictures of flowers, fruits, vegetables, and animals. Yet, I could not find joy or competence in it. Our exams were conducted every three months, and when the results came in, my failure was clear.
Math, however, remained my stronghold. After the first trimester exams, the math teacher, Jawahar Master Saheb, distributed our graded papers and asked the class, “How many of you got all the answers correct—100 percent?”
Two students raised their hands immediately. I hesitated, then slowly lifted mine as well.
He scanned the room and, without looking directly at me, said, “Someone here has raised their hand but hasn’t actually scored full marks.”
I held my hand steady. I did not blink.
He did not call me out. He did not expose my lie. Instead, he moved on as if nothing had happened. That moment has stayed with me ever since. I often think about him—his silence, his wisdom, his quiet way of teaching me a lesson without uttering a single word.
Despite my failure in art, I passed the 7th grade. In our system, failing in one subject out of six was permissible under a special category called sammunath or “improvement.” My Budhawa Baba, however, was incredulous.
Determined that some mistake had been made, he took me to the school principal’s home to request a review of my results. The principal confirmed that I had indeed failed in art but had still qualified to move forward.
With that, my time in Pakuli came to an end.
A Leap Into the Unknown
As I settled into the realization that I had completed the 7th grade, life took another unexpected turn. Budhawa Baba received a retirement notice—there would be no further extensions to his service. We packed up and returned to our village. I felt untethered, lost in uncertainty.
Would I continue to the 8th grade? If so, where? How? A storm of questions swirled in my mind.
Then, news arrived that changed everything.
Budhawa Baba’s eldest son—my uncle—was working as an assistant engineer in the telephone department in Sitapur, near Lucknow. It was decided that I would go live with him and continue my education there.
When I confirmed with my family that Sitapur was indeed a city, unlike the rural landscapes I had grown up in, excitement bubbled up inside me. For the first time in my life, I would embark on a long train journey, live in a proper city, and experience modern amenities like running tap water. No more drawing water from a well or hand pump! The thought of urban life—its hustle and bustle—filled me with anticipation.
The Journey to Sitapur
My uncle came to pick me up. He lived alone in Sitapur while my aunt remained in the village, a common practice in those days. Husbands worked in cities, visiting home only during major festivals like Holi and Diwali.
I still remember the day we left. My heart raced with excitement and curiosity. My previous train journeys had only been short ones—from Bhatani to Deoria, a mere 30-minute ride. This, however, was an entirely different experience.
The journey took nearly 12 hours. We first traveled to Lucknow, and as I stepped onto the railway platform, I was in awe. The station was enormous—clean, lively, and unlike anything I had ever seen. People hurried in every direction, vendors shouted, trains rumbled in and out, and the air was thick with the scent of chai and hot snacks.
From Lucknow, we boarded another train to Sitapur. By the time we reached, the city had already begun to enchant me. The long rickshaw ride from the station revealed bustling roads lined with buses, trucks, bicycles, and countless shops.
A New Life in Sitapur
My uncle’s home was modest—a single rented room. The toilet was outside and shared with three other families. My dreams of tap water were quickly dashed; we still relied on a hand pump. The room was small, furnished with one bed, which we shared. The remaining space served as our kitchen, storage, and everything in between.
Our daily routine became second nature. In the morning, we bathed using a single bucket of water each, cleaned the floor, and then cooked on a kerosene stove and an angithi (a small coal stove). Our meals were simple—dal, rice, and one vegetable, morning and evening.
In the evenings, I would return from school, grab a jhola (cloth bag), and head to the sabzi mandi (vegetable market) to buy fresh produce. My uncle soon trusted me with managing household expenses. On the first of every month, he would hand me a fixed sum for groceries and essentials, with one condition—I had to maintain a detailed ledger of every rupee spent. I took this responsibility seriously and, surprisingly, enjoyed it.
A Turning Point
Despite the household chores, I thrived in school. Unlike Pakuli, where I had struggled, here I felt inspired. I made friends easily, and my teachers encouraged me.
In Uttar Pradesh, the 8th grade was referred to as Junior High School, with final exams held at the district level. I had no idea how well I was doing until one day, my uncle came home beaming.
“You topped Junior High School!” he announced.
I could hardly believe it. Amidst all the challenges—managing household duties, adjusting to city life, and struggling with language barriers—I had emerged at the top. As a reward, I was granted a two-year scholarship.
In my early years, I had spoken only Bhojpuri, our native dialect. Hindi, spoken in Sitapur, was different. I still remember the embarrassment of my first math class when I asked a question using the word chhaua (Bhojpuri for “six”), and the entire class, including the teacher, burst into laughter.
But after topping the Junior High School, everything changed. Suddenly, I was respected. For the first time, I felt like a mini-celebrity.
A New Home—and a First Crush
After my success, my uncle upgraded our living situation. We moved into a small apartment with a separate kitchen, bathroom, a storage room, and a private toilet. It also had running water. Life was improving in ways I had never imagined.
And then, something else happened.
I developed my first crush—the landlady’s niece. Desperate for guidance, I turned to an astrologer and even dabbled in tantra for help.
But that is a story for next time.
End of Part 5. Stay tuned for Part 6.
(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.)
