By Upendra Mishra
As I had mentioned earlier, my weekly column in The News had begun to open unexpected doors—each one leading to a path I could never have imagined. The first it took me to the Interamerican Institute of Human Rights in Costa Rica. The second came completely out of the blue—and would change the trajectory of my life.
By early 1986, I had begun to settle into the rhythm of post-earthquake Mexico City. After the devastation of the 1985 quake—and my unsettling encounter with the Indian Embassy—I was finally starting to feel grounded again. The city was slowly rising from its rubble, its heart still beating in the vibrant streets lined with taco vendors, flower stalls, and the melody of mariachis echoing into dusk. There was something magical about the slow return of joy in that city. Life, color, and hope had returned, and so had my own inner calm.
Then, one day, the phone rang.
It was the secretary at The News.
“Professor Murray Fromson from the University of Southern California is in Mexico and wants to meet you,” she said. “Please call him at this number.”
I had never heard of the University of Southern California—USC. The name didn’t mean much to me at the time. That evening, I called him. He was staying at the luxurious Camino Real Hotel, a modern fortress of calm in the middle of Mexico City’s organized chaos. He invited me to breakfast the next morning.
Over freshly brewed coffee and fruit-laden plates, Professor Fromson leaned in and asked, “Would you be interested in pursuing a Master’s in International Journalism at USC?”
I was surprised. “I already have a Master’s degree in International Relations and a M.Phil in Latin American Studies,” I said. “But if there’s a full scholarship, I wouldn’t mind.”
He smiled and nodded. “I’ve been reading your columns in The News. Your insight into Latin American politics and your writing—it’s impressive. But I must ask: what is an Indian doing writing about Latin America with such passion and depth?”
Fromson, I would later learn, had been CBS’s bureau chief in Asia and a correspondent in India. He knew my part of the world.
Before breakfast ended, he had taken down all my details. A month later, a thick envelope from USC arrived. It contained the application forms and a personal letter from him. I filled them out and sent them back.
Then, another letter arrived—this time from the Carnegie Foundation via USC. It said they would cover my full tuition, room and board, and even provide a stipend for living expenses. I was stunned. When I took the documents to the U.S. Embassy to get a student visa, even the immigration officer was taken aback. He held up my paperwork and said to his colleague at the next window, “Look how much money this guy is getting in scholarship!”
Visa granted.
Los Angeles, August 1986.
I knew no one. My scholarship would only begin once I was registered. I had just enough saved to buy my ticket. Everything else was uncertain.
In Mexico City, the Indian diaspora was small. You could count the families on your fingers. But among them were two young men from Kerala who were running Mother Teresa’s center—Misioneras de la Caridad:—a haven for orphans and abandoned children. Whenever I felt lonely or homesick, I would visit. We’d talk about India, cook simple curries, and share laughter.
I started volunteering there—sweeping the floors, feeding the children, playing with them. That place, hidden behind a humble gate, was filled with the fragrance of cooking rice, Mexican food, and the raw smell of poverty and salvation. My earlier perception of Mother Teresa—shaped by skeptical Indian narratives—began to unravel. In India, I had heard that she was converting Hindus under the guise of charity. I believed it, or perhaps I just never questioned it.
But here, in the heart of Mexico, I witnessed something else. Unconditional love. Dignity offered to the most forgotten souls. No one asked who the children were, or what they believed. They were simply loved.
One day, a little girl changed everything for me. She was about four or five. The children were playing outside when she walked toward me. I froze.
Her face was severely disfigured—barely human. Her forehead was the only part untouched. Her eyes were tiny dark orbs; there were no ears; her mouth was a patchwork of broken teeth and open sores. Dirty rags hung from her thin body. Her nose ran, and saliva dribbled from her lips. I instinctively stepped back.
But she kept coming.
And then, she wrapped her arms around my legs and nestled her face between them. No words. Just that embrace. I was frozen—utterly still. And then I bent and looked into her eyes.
In that moment, her gaze pierced through me—straight into my soul. A strange warmth flooded me, something divine, something ancient. She was no longer a disfigured child; she was a goddess of love, grace, and eternal forgiveness. I picked her up, held her close. I no longer cared about her face or mine, her clothes or my skin. I felt human.
From that day on, whenever I visited, she ran to me.
So when the time came to leave Mexico for Los Angeles, I told the brothers from Kerala that I was worried. I didn’t know anyone in L.A., had nowhere to stay, and barely enough money.
They smiled and said, “Don’t worry. We’ll call the Los Angeles Mother Teresa Center. You can stay there until you find your own place.”
And so it was.
I arrived in Los Angeles in late August 1986. The city buzzed with late summer heat, the scent of eucalyptus mixing with car exhaust, tacos, and suntan lotion. L.A. was a city of neon sunsets, palm trees silhouetted against purple skies, and freeways that shimmered with endless promise.
I took a cab straight to the center. They welcomed me with simplicity and kindness. My room was tiny but clean—a single bed, a table, a small closet. I was home.
I had left most of my belongings in Mexico. But I carried three precious things: a photo of a friend and me from JNU, a Spanish book she had given me, and two relics from my grandfather in my remote village in UP—an amla tree branch and an astrological chart meant to be cast into the sacred waters of the Sangam in Allahabad. I go so busy at the University of Allahabad I had never part with them at Sangam. I brought them with me to New Delhi that once day I would to Allhabad to keep my promise that I had made to my grandfather. I could not do that. So, when I came to Mexico City, I brought them with me. and Now to Los Angeles.
Soon, I began classes at USC. It took a few weeks to receive my stipend, but I managed. I rented a one-bedroom studio near the MOther Teresa center, close enough to bike to the USC campus. I bought a used bicycle and a three-in-one music system—radio, cassette, and a tiny 4-inch black-and-white TV screen. It was my first taste of American gadgets.
I became obsessed with the sitcom Three’s Company. I would rush home from class to catch every episode—its laughter somehow soothing my solitude.
My Carnegie Foundation scholarship was generous. I began saving money. But one day, while cycling through downtown L.A., a police officer stopped me and handed me a ticket. “Bicycles are not allowed here,” he said. I was stunned. I didn’t even know you could get a traffic ticket on a bicycle! I paid the fine the next day and laughed at the absurdity.
Then, one day, Thomas Friedman—the New York Times’ Middle East correspondent—visited USC as a guest lecturer. He spoke brilliantly, but I was mesmerized by something else: his laptop. It was one of the first I had ever seen. That evening, I wandered into a Radio Shack in downtown L.A. and bought one for $2,800. It had 128K memory. You could barely fit two articles on it. But it allowed editing, cutting, and pasting. Magic!
Weeks passed. I was settled now. I had my rhythm, my bike, my music, my apartment. And one day, I realized how far I had come—from my tiny village with no roads, no running water and no electricity to the sunlit boulevards of Los Angeles.
Still, I hadn’t contacted my family in India.
I missed them deeply. Winter break approached, and with some of my savings, I bought a round-trip ticket to New Delhi via Tokyo.
As the plane took off, I looked out the window—not just at the clouds but at the journey behind me. I was no longer just a boy from India. I had become a bridge—between countries, cultures, people, and truths I was only just beginning to understand.
Stay tuned for Chapter 17: Homecoming—Nostalgia, New Delhi, Allahabad & the Village That Made Me
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, a diversified media firm based in Waltham, MA. He writes passionately about marketing, scriptures, and gardening. Learn more at www.UpendraMishra.com.
