By Upendra Mishra
BOSTON–Before heading back to Los Angeles, I remember the Delhi bazaars vividly. They were alive with color and chaos. I stocked up on everything I thought I might miss—several pairs of sandals in classic Indian designs, a collection of audio cassettes, mostly Bhojpuri folk songs that reminded me of home, and a few khadi kurta-pajama sets from the Khadi Ashram, simple and grounding in their texture and scent. I wasn’t just returning to LA—I was taking a little bit of India with me.
Back in LA, life returned to its usual rhythm of classes, late-night parties, and philosophical conversations about journalism and justice. But beneath all the laughter and social buzz, there was a shadow that loomed constantly over our generation: AIDS.
It was in the news every single day. On TV, in newspapers, even in whispered conversations at parties and coffee shops—AIDS was everywhere. The fear was palpable. Everyone seemed to be talking about symptoms, and the scariest part was how generic they were: a cough, a sore throat, night sweats, loose motion—any of these could set your heart racing.
For months, I lived in quiet panic, analyzing every physical change in my body like it was a warning sign. I lost count of how many nights I stayed up wondering: Could I have it?
The anxiety grew unbearable, and one day, I finally made an appointment with a doctor. I walked in with trembling hands, convinced that I had AIDS. The doctor listened patiently, asked me a few questions, checked me thoroughly, and then looked at me with a gentle, reassuring smile. “You have nothing to worry about,” he said. “You’re healthy—very healthy. Just a little stressed.”
His words were a lifeline. I left the clinic with my shoulders lighter, but the fear never fully disappeared—not for me, not for anyone living in America at the time. AIDS wasn’t just a disease—it was a death sentence, a social exile. Those diagnosed didn’t just battle illness; they were abandoned by families, fired from jobs, cast out of communities. It was a time of ignorance, stigma, and unrelenting fear.
Now, when I reflect on that era, I often wonder what it must have felt like for those who were actually diagnosed. Their courage, their loneliness, the unfairness of it all—it still weighs heavy. We talk often about historical crises in numbers, but this one was felt in every heartbeat, every whispered conversation, every awkward silence. It changed how people loved, lived, and trusted.
Still, life had to move forward. The fear never vanished completely, but it tucked itself into the corners of my mind as the rhythms of daily life resumed. There was something strangely grounding about the routine of classes, late-night conversations, and the hum of possibility that only a university campus can offer. I began to settle back into Los Angeles—not just the city, but the life I was shaping there.
The air was crisp, the Pacific skies blue, and my classes resumed. I was studying journalism, and my classmates came from all walks of life, most of them seasoned reporters with stories of political scandals and social revolutions. I felt both intimidated and inspired. After classes, we often gathered at the university bar—cheap beer, loud debates, and a sense that anything was possible.
At the time, two issues dominated headlines in America: the terrifying spread of AIDS as I mentioned earlier and the political firestorm around immigration. President Reagan had just signed the Immigration Reform and Control Act of 1986, popularly known as the Simpson-Rodino Bill.
It aimed to legalize millions of undocumented immigrants while strengthening border control. To many, it was historic progress. To others, it was betrayal. And for immigrants like me—living legally but emotionally tied to both sides of the border—it was deeply personal.
A few months later, our professor announced we would travel to Washington, D.C., for a policy field trip. We were to meet key legislators, including Senator Alan Simpson, one of the architects of the immigration bill. I was thrilled. As someone who had just lived on both sides of the U.S.-Mexico border, I had seen firsthand the complexities and hypocrisies of immigration enforcement.
In D.C., I stayed in a hotel for the first time in the United States. I’ll never forget the experience. Each evening, the hotel hosted complimentary spreads—cheese plates, warm hors d’oeuvres, and an open bar with wine and cocktails. For a student who still calculated every dollar in rupees, it felt like stepping into another universe.
At the Capitol, our meeting with Senator Simpson was highly anticipated. When it was my turn to ask a question—perhaps about racial profiling or the human cost of enforcement—I chose my words carefully, but something struck a nerve. The senator’s face flushed red. He looked me squarely in the eyes and said, “Are you calling me a racist?” The room froze. The silence was deafening. I had not expected such a blunt reaction. I softened my tone, offered a follow-up, but the moment had passed. I had learned something valuable—not all truths are welcome, even in the halls of democracy.
Soon after D.C., I planned a winter trip to the Northeast with my classmate Tali Newman. Her brother lived in Vermont, and my old friend Kamlesh Misra—whom I had first met at our hostel in Allahabad University—was now pursuing his Ph.D. in economics at Northeastern University in Boston.
We took the train to Boston. Kamlesh greeted us warmly at South Station and insisted we stay with him. We explored Boston, a city that felt older, more thoughtful than LA—its cobbled streets, its academic air. Then we headed north to Vermont.
That journey introduced me to something magical: snow.
I had never seen snow before. As we arrived, Vermont was blanketed in several feet of fresh powder. The trees stood still in their white coats, the roads glistened, and the air smelled clean—icy, yes, but also alive. Wearing just a sweater, a jacket and tennis shoes (what did I know about winter coats?), I stepped outside and let my feet sink into the snow. Cold soaked through my shoes instantly, but I didn’t care. The child inside me had awakened. I walked alone in the snow, marveling at its silence, the way it absorbed sound. It felt like the world had paused to let me dream.
On our way back to Boston, Kamlesh—always frugal and practical—offered to cut my hair. I happily agreed. A free haircut? That was ten dollars I could save, which converted to quite a bit in rupees.
Back in LA, life returned to its usual rhythm of classes, late-night parties, and philosophical conversations about journalism and justice. One night, at a particularly crowded house party, I saw her.
She had an oval face, a radiant smile, and curls of golden blonde hair that cascaded down her back, nearly to her hips. Her eyes were the bluest I had ever seen—like summer sky after a storm. I was struck speechless by her beauty.
I hadn’t spoken a word to her when she approached me as the party wound down. “Do you need a ride home?” she asked casually, as if we were old friends.
I was stunned. “Yes, thank you,” I managed to say.
We got into her car and drove for 30 or 40 minutes, music playing softly. The song was “We Are the World, We Are the Children,” and I remember thinking how appropriate it felt—this strange intersection of cultures, kindness, and cosmic timing.
When we pulled up to my apartment, she stopped the car, turned toward me, and without a word, leaned over and kissed me. It wasn’t a fleeting, unsure kiss—it was deep, meaningful, and unexplainably emotional. She held me in a hug that seemed to suspend time. My heart was pounding. I was too naive to know what to do, so I thanked her awkwardly and stepped out of the car.
I never saw her again.
I never learned her name. I don’t know where she went, or who she was. But I have carried her in my memory all these years—her touch, her eyes, the song, the snow—and in some ways, that moment became a symbol of everything America was to me in those early years: beautiful, fleeting, mysterious, and profoundly impactful.
Stay tuned for Chapter 19: Return to Mexico City
(Upendra Mishra is the author of After the Fall: How Owen Lost Everything and Found What Really Matters, and the managing partner of The Mishra Group. He writes passionately about marketing, scriptures, and gardening. Learn more at www.UpendraMishra.com.)
