BOSTON – After my uncle upgraded our living quarters in Sitapur and I graduated to the 9th grade, my teenage hormones started to stir. As a teenager with no siblings and no female figure in the house, my transition was tough—like most, I guess. It was just the two of us—me and my uncle—far from the village that once felt like home.
I desperately wanted to fit in with my classmates. They had their moms, dads, siblings—a whole family unit, while I had just my uncle. They seemed so “normal,” so whole. I wanted that. I longed to have a mother and father, like them.
I had also developed great friendships with my classmates. I remember this group of four kids who lived near me. We’d walk to school together, sometimes solo, and come home together—or again, sometimes solo. I’d be invited over to their homes to sit on soft sofas and eat lavish snacks. We’d play, talk about comics, exchange stamps, and then I’d head back to my bare apartment.
Their lives became my dream. I wanted it all—the warmth of a family, the comfort, the love. But for me, there were only two cots, a kerosene stove, and an empty space where my mother should have been.
For months, things stayed the same. My routine with my uncle was unchanged, just like back in the Nai Basti colony—me, my uncle, our angithi, and our modest meals. He’d go to work, and I’d clean up, pack my lunch, and get ready for school.
I didn’t invite my classmates to my home. What could I offer them? There was nothing in our place—nothing to compare to their modern, bustling homes. We had two cots, a simple table, and a chair that my uncle had bought for me to study. And most importantly, no mother. Not even an aunt, who still stayed in the village.
For months, my classmates didn’t ask to visit me. I guess they didn’t think to, or perhaps they didn’t see it as important. But as our friendships deepened and I got closer to their parents, they started to invite me over more frequently. And it wasn’t just them—they wanted to meet my mother. They’d ask about her and, with a hopeful smile, ask when they could meet her.
I froze. I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t tell them the truth—it was too painful. I had wanted a real family for so long.
Eventually, the pressure grew too much. One day, I decided to take matters into my own hands and concoct a lie. I invited them over, telling them that my mother might be out at the market, and that I didn’t have the key to get inside.
When we arrived, the door was locked—just like I’d planned. I told them she must have gone to the vegetable market, and we’d wait until she returned.
To this day, I don’t think they ever knew the truth—that I didn’t live with my mother and that my father was actually my uncle.
School went smoothly. I was always at the top of my class, except for art. And even then, I was always at least 100 points ahead of the second-place student. It all came so effortlessly, though I worked hard, especially in my studies.
But one thing I didn’t expect was the storm of emotions that came with my first crush. It wasn’t just a crush—it was like a tidal wave, an overwhelming feeling that took over my body and soul. I had no idea how to handle it. At the time, I thought that was what love was.
She was the niece of the landlady, and she was stunning—at least two years older than me. My heart would race whenever I saw her. She was everything—perfect in every way. Even though she had failed twice in high school, she was the smartest person I knew, in my eyes, anyway.
Back then, we had no access to movies or television, and talking about love was something you couldn’t do—not even with family. No one could guide you, so you had to figure it out yourself. And I was completely lost in this feeling.
But I couldn’t say a word to her. I was too shy. So, one day, while walking to my school, I passed a fortune teller’s stand with a sign that read, Aap Ki Har Ichha Puri Ho Hogi (“Every wish of yours will be fulfilled”). I stopped, and without thinking twice, I approached the pandit. He smiled and asked, “What do you want?”
I froze. I couldn’t say a thing. He repeated, “What is it that you want?” My mouth went dry, and all I could do was sit down and whisper, “Ek ladki ka mamla hai” (“It’s about a girl”).
I told him everything—how I loved this girl, but I was too scared to tell her. Could he help me? He nodded, “Yes, of course. Do you have five rupees?”
“I don’t have it right now, but I can get it tomorrow,” I said.
I was buzzing with excitement the entire day. I went home, hoping my uncle would give me the money. He handed me five rupees for books and pens. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I was so excited about this “solution” to my feelings.
The next day, I rushed to the pandit.
He asked, “Did you bring the money?” I proudly handed it over.
The pandit assured me he’d perform a pooja (prayer ceremony) for me, but first, he needed a red rose touched by the girl I loved. I was stunned—how would I get her to touch the rose?
But I couldn’t back out now; the money was gone. I had no choice but to find a way.
The solution came when I remembered that we both were studying botany—in different schools, though. So, on my way home from school, I picked a red rose from the public garden near the District Court. Then, I went to her house and told her that I needed help with a school project.
She agreed to help, and I handed her the rose, explaining that I needed to know if the flower was male or female.
She looked at the rose, confused. “I don’t know,” she said, handing it back to me. But I was overjoyed. She had touched the flower!
The next day, I rushed back to the pandit and proudly showed him the rose, thrilled that my wish would soon come true. He smiled and said, “Two to three months, and it will happen.”
I waited eagerly for those months, imagining how my wish would be fulfilled. But by the time my High School exams ended, my uncle was transferred to another nearby town, and I had to leave. I never saw the girl again, though I still wonder where she is today.
When I visited India years later, I went back to the house where we had lived. I had no idea what happened to that girl, but that memory of my first crush, my first love, is still with me. It’s a beautiful part of my story, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
And so, the search for love and meaning continues. Part 7 awaits.
(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.)
