By Upendra Mishra
BOSTON— After nearly thirteen hours in the air, my plane landed with a soft jolt at Tokyo’s Narita International Airport. I had a day-long layover before continuing to New Delhi. Japan had always fascinated me—the precision, the discipline, the quiet beauty—and this brief interlude felt like a gift.
I signed up for a whirlwind city tour, letting Tokyo’s energy sweep me away: temples nestled between glinting towers, the faint scent of miso and grilled fish hanging in the air, orderly streets humming with a kind of elegant efficiency.
A friend from Mexico had asked me to buy a special pen and pencil set, unique to Japan—precise, minimalistic, a tiny work of art. I bought it, wrapped it carefully, and tucked it into my bag. My journey was layered—on the surface, a homecoming; underneath, a pilgrimage, wrapped in emotion, memory, and a silent weight I couldn’t yet name.
The flight to Delhi was long, marked with scattered stops and static-filled announcements. I couldn’t sleep. The anticipation churned inside me, heavy and thrilling.
In 1987, staying connected across continents was nearly impossible. No mobile phones, no email. You just… arrived. You showed up, and hoped the world would receive you kindly.
After landing at New Delhi’s Palam Airport, I headed straight to JNU, Jawaharlal Nehru University. I didn’t tell anyone I was coming. I had faith that some of my classmates would still be around. If not, there was always Professor Narayanan. But staying with friends was warmer, easier.
I remembered Arun Singh lived in Sutlej Hostel—second floor. I climbed the stairs, my heart thudding—not from exhaustion, but from the thrill of familiarity. I knocked. He opened the door. His eyes widened in shock. “You?!” he exclaimed. And then, pure joy. We hugged.
Soon the word spread—Upendra is back! One by one, old hostel mates and classmates trickled in. Laughter, questions, disbelief. JNU felt frozen in time. A part of me was comforted by the stillness. Another part felt the tug of distance—I had changed.
Before going to my village, I had three things to do.
First, I booked a train to Allahabad. I had carried, all the way from my village, a dry amla branch and the astrological chart of my granduncle. My grandfather had asked me to dispose of both in the holy waters where the Ganga and Yamuna meet. This year—this exact year—was the astrologically ordained time. I had promised him. I had kept that promise folded carefully in the lining of my suitcase.
Second, I bought three white khadi sarees from Gandhi Ashram in New Delhi: two for my grandaunts, and one for the elderly woman who had lived in my home like a shadow—unseen, essential. They were my childhood’s quiet caretakers. They wore tattered, mended saris, old and grey, always giving the better cloth to my aunts. I wanted, for once, to give them something brand new, and force them to wear.
Third, I decided to get a three-piece suit stitched. I’d seen it in films—when people return from abroad, they wear sharp suits. I thought it would announce my transformation. Ego? Perhaps. But I wanted to feel successful. I went to Delhi’s finest store, bought navy blue suiting fabric with a silky sheen, and handed it over to a tailor. When I tried it on, it fit like ambition.
Then, on a cool Delhi evening, I boarded a train for Allahabad. No phone calls, no letters. Just faith. I arrived unannounced at my aunt’s house. She had lived there with her family when I was a student. Her shock turned quickly to warmth. I felt the gravity of belonging. That same day, I made my way to the Sangam.
The air was still. Pilgrims chanted by the water. I stepped into the shallows, holding the dry amla branch, the astrological chart. I whispered a prayer, then let go. The branch floated briefly, then dipped and disappeared. A weight lifted from my soul. I had kept a promise, and I felt, for the first time in years, at peace.
I visited my old hostel, the university, met a few friends who had stayed on. Then I caught a night train to Bhatani Junction—closest station to my village.
No one knew I was coming. Rumors had long buried me. After the 1985 Mexico City earthquake, many believed I had died. There were no calls, no letters, no footprints left behind. Only silence.
From Bhatani, the walk home was familiar—nearly two miles of dust and memories. The path was the same, winding past fields and farms. I remembered how we used to leave our luggage at a familiar shop in Bhatani, and a servant or two would bring it later. This time, I walked alone.
India had not changed. Not one leaf out of place. The were still not roads—just hardened earth. The village looked like a sepia photograph—unfaded, unchanged.
As I walked, my mind galloped ahead—faces of my grandfather, granduncles, my grandaunts, aunts, cousins, fields of mangoes, the sacred banks of the river, the crackle of firewood, the aroma of food cooked slowly, patiently.
Then, suddenly, a cousin came running from behind, breathless, joyous. “You’re here!” he gasped. And then, with one breath, he shattered me: “You know… our cousin—the one who joined the army—he passed away. Encephalitis. Just a few months ago.”
I stopped walking. The world dimmed.
He and I had been inseparable as children. He had always feared death. I remembered one night, during the hysteria over Skylab crashing to Earth, he insisted on sleeping next to me. “If it falls,” he said, “we’ll go together.”
I walked the rest of the way in silence.
When I reached, the village exploded in celebration. The prodigal son had returned—from foreign lands, from the dead. My Bhojpuri was fluent. I wore a humble kurta-pajama and sandals. They marveled—Hollywood hadn’t changed me.
But inside the house, a deeper truth waited. I unwrapped the three sarees, eager to surprise my grandaunts and the woman who had raised me like a silent mother.
And then, like a blow to the chest, my family told me: both grandaunts had died.
The room spun. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t go inside.
I sat in the east-facing outer room, my head in my hands, and I wept.
Not politely. Not poetically. I cried like a child who has lost his mother. Because I had. Again.
It was only the second time in my life that I cried—really cried. The first time, I was eight, and my cousin sister whispered that my mother had died when I was two.
I gave all three sarees to the woman who had raised me, still alive, still serving. She wept, too.
I stayed in the village for a few days. My father came. My grandfather. His brothers. Aunts, uncles. They gathered, like a constellation, around my grief.
And then I remembered another promise.
When I was in high school, I had prayed to Satyanarayan and promised: “If I pass my High School with First Class, I’ll feed the entire village in His name.” I had passed. I had forgotten. Now, I remembered.
We held the Satyanarayan Puja. The entire village came. We cooked for hours. The air smelled of ghee, cardamom, and camphor. Laughter returned. Children ran barefoot in the courtyard.
They asked questions—so many questions. “How is foreign?” “What color is the land?” “Do they eat with hands?” “Does every person own a car?” “Is the plane like a house?”
I laughed. I answered every question.
And then, just as quietly as I had arrived, I left. Train from Bhatani to New Delhi. A few more days at JNU. Then the long flight back to Los Angeles.
But something had changed. Not in India. In me.
The grief. The joy. The quiet fulfilment of promises once whispered into the wind. I had gone back to lay ghosts to rest. And they had, in their way, laid something to rest inside me too.
Stay tuned for Chapter 18: Life in Los Angeles and the Kiss That Still Haunts
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.
