Travails in Wales!

Something from my past... I'm sure you'll will enjoy it! Do comment.

I stood at the British Airways counter, eagerly anticipating my boarding pass. Studying abroad is the dream of many students and for most it ends up remaining one. Not belonging to that category, I was ready and raring to embark upon my academic journey. I didn’t really know what life had in store for me but my fingers were crossed. Four months later, they were still crossed.

My flight to Cardiff was rather bumpy, which in retrospect was an indicator of what my stay there would be like too. I had enrolled myself into the MBA program at Cardiff Business School. I was 20 and confused about what I wanted in life. At that time, words such as ‘best business school’, ‘ranked number 7 in Wales’, and ‘guaranteed bright future’ seemed like the perfect solution to my career dilemma. After all, almost every student in India pursues either management or accountancy post Bachelors in Commerce. I didn’t feel like being different. I just wanted to escape the monotony of my life in Mumbai and explore another city. A different culture seemed to be calling out to me. The MBA was a ticket to get there.

'There’s no way I’m sending you abroad, and that too for an MBA. Struggle to get a seat in one of the top schools in India. You’ll end up wasting your time and our money for a course that has zero value in India when you return’ said my father two months ago, when the thought of doing an MBA had been 'put' into my mind. The word ‘return’ echoed in my head. I hadn’t even thought of returning. But before I could consciously avoid turning my thoughts into speech, I spurted out ‘Who’s going to return. I’m going to build my life in England’. That was my last sentence for the day.

The next day I tried my luck with my mother, since in most Indian households, it is the woman who ultimately makes all the important decisions. 'What will you eat there my baby?' was her immediate response. Mothers in India have two common complaints: 1) The child isn't eating enough 2) the child isn't studying enough. My mother wasn't too concerned with the latter since my grades were always satisfactory so the former became her obsession. To top it, I belonged to a Punjabi household so at breakfast we spoke about what's made for lunch; at lunch, we discussed dinner; and at dinner, we discussed next day's breakfast. For a change, this time the dinner conversation was my future. My mother insisted that I was making a wise choice while my father constantly nodded his head in disapproval. ‘Foolish’ ‘Foolish’ ‘Foolish’ was all he said during the whole conversation. ‘Quite a limited vocabulary’ I remarked as we finished dinner.

Actually, an MBA was never on my mind. The whole thought was initiated by my maternal uncle, who I adore, and who told me 'Do what you wish in life, but first get qualified in management'. Initially, I was very impressed by the statement. As I analyzed it further, it made no sense at all; something I realized much later. He was perhaps right from his perspective on life, but my limited brain suggested otherwise. Anyway, he was convinced that I had to study management and since his son (my first cousin) was already studying in Wales, I would have no problem adjusting. My uncle decided to fund my education since my father disassociated himself from my education plans till I got some real direction in life.

The next two months were spent in visa formalities and farewells. I was stepping into the 'big bad world' and the tension in my family was reaching insurmountable heights. 'Don't forget your passport' was my father’s parting line as I left the house, accompanied by awkward body contact that resembled a hug. My aunt, girlfriend and mother were inconsolable.

As I sat on my seat reminiscing about the whole pre-Cardiff process, the flight attendant announced 'Ladies and gentlemen please fasten your seat belts and prepare for landing'. The word ‘prepared’ seemed ironic in my present state of mind. ‘Am I really prepared?’ I thought to myself as the airhostess came over and fastened my seat belt for me.

While I stood in the immigration line, a lady came up to me and tapped my shoulder. Her loud make-up and glittering dress made the airport seem like a North Indian wedding venue. She looked at me and asked 'Indian?' I nodded in approval and at the same time wondered if I looked like anything else. She went on to say 'This is my daughter Neha’, pointing towards her direction. Neha looked like a miniature version of make-up aunty, except that she wore blue jeans and a short, tight t-shirt that revealed her midriff, which considering her size, was an unpleasant sight to the naked eye. ‘She has applied for Cardiff University. Will you take care of her? I'm very worried since she has never been abroad and don't want her to fall into wrong company. She lives in the university dorm and ....' My thoughts travelled faster than her words. I immediately remembered my father who, if present in this situation, would remark 'If he takes care of your daughter, who the hell will take care of him'. I thanked my stars for his absence at the current moment. My next thought was 'how did this woman assume that I am not wrong company? Heck, I could be the worst company ever and why did she so readily decide that I was nice'. The narcissist in me attributed it to my looks. I began to blush foolishly at the thought of my good looks, only to be interrupted by the woman. 'You are Punjabi, right?' she asked. ‘How did you know?' was my immediate retort. 'That dog tag around your neck says Pasricha'. I looked embarrassingly at the tag. My parents had bought it for me in case I got lost. It had my name, address and contact number. I vowed to remove it as soon as I boarded the flight but had forgotten. Now, it had got me into trouble with an over concerned mother looking to protect her vulnerable Punjabi daughter. I also heard the inner voice in me laugh 'Ha Ha Ha Ha. It's not about your looks you moron. It's just because you are Punjabi'. 'Whatever' I mumbled under my breath to which the aunty looked at me in shock. 'What!? Is that the way to talk to an elderly lady?' Before I could explain myself, she walked away in a huff, daughter in tow. My inner voice had saved the day. ‘Good riddance’ I thought. I wasn't particularly interested in making my first friend at the airport.

'Noni!' my cousin yelled as he saw me arriving from a distance. I wish he hadn't referred to me by my pet name. The foreigners around giggled that some guy called 'Noni' had landed from India. The drive from the airport was a long one. Cardiff is situated three hours from London. In those three hours, I inundated my brother with all the family gossip, from our first cousin Radhika's marriage to our driver eloping with the maid. In three-and-a-half hours, I arrived at the building, where I was going to spend the next one year of my life. My course was to begin in three weeks time and there were many 'pre-joining' parties organized. I hated partying so I avoided them. I wish I had attended them though. The shock of the first day of class could have been avoided. After three weeks of relaxing and sightseeing with my brother, I was all geared up for my first day at Cardiff University. The place was beautiful, and looked every bit like the pictures in the brochure. I entered the class with only one thought in my mind: 'Global exposure. Here I come'.

The sight of my own people had never upset me so much. In fact, finding your own kind in a foreign land reassures you that you are not alone; that reassuring feeling wasn’t for this moment. I hadn’t enrolled into a global program to interact with fellow Indians. The whole class was filled with students alright, but only Indian ones. 'This is a dream Rohan, relax, you're still in National college at Bandra'. I pinched myself. It hurt. Bad. No, this wasn't a dream. It was a painful reality. I had admitted myself, paying multiple times more than what I would have paid in India, into a program which resembled any other classroom in my country. 'How in the world was this supposed to be global exposure' I thought. There were world maps stuck all around the classroom. 'Is this what they meant by global exposure' my inner voice demanded to know. I had no answer. I took my place and sat down.

The row in front of mine comprised a tiny group of Britons and Greeks who looked like outsiders in their own country. The Indian girl beside me struck out her hand from her winter jacket and said 'Hey cutie, want to be friends?' I was about to pass out in shock. What had I got myself into? The next two months passed. I came, sat for lessons, and left. I had made just one friend, a Greek girl, who felt the same way about the course. The curriculum had looked different on paper but I soon realized that it was just a mere extension of my management studies at the undergraduate level. That was rote learning; this was sophisticated rote learning with powerpoint slides. My evenings were spent with my Greek friend, either at her apartment or mine. To escape the drudgery of my MBA life, I had found solace in writing, and would write a poem or article everyday. A month passed like this, and the first instalment of my fees were due. I was about to call my parents to transfer the money into my account, when I decided otherwise.

I wanted to go back. I had had enough of this course. Having only paid the initial amount, which wasn't much, I didn’t feel guilty about my decision to withdraw. My parents, as expected, didn't take my decision too well, especially my father. 'See, I told you it's not his cup of tea' my father said, his nostrils expanding and contracting rapidly. I could feel this happening over the phone. ‘Actually, it was my cup of tea’ I replied indignantly. I had topped in the preliminary exams held one month after the course. I continued ‘this is not something I can’t do. It is something I don’t want to do’. The only sound I heard in response to my statement was ‘cling’; he had hung up. Next, I described my plight to my mother as we spoke via video conference. ‘I feel choked in this course' I said all teary-eyed. 'What is it you want to do' she asked. 'I want to be a writer' I replied. She hung up too. Minutes later she called back and said ‘I love you. Come soon’.

I spent the next one month in Cardiff simply enjoying myself looking at different places and figuring out what to do next. The next day, I received a mail from a job portal with the subject 'Sub-editor and writer' and the description 'May all men their servants be; Queen English, I pledge to serve only thee. Do you believe that you possess communication skills that have lied been lying untapped for long? Do those tiny errors jump out at you from newspapers or magazines? Do you itch to rewrite a shoddy piece? Do you believe regular job profiles are not for you? If so, read on to learn about Cactus Communications, a place where you can grow, excel, have fun, and yet be yourself’. The description screamed 'That's you! Apply'. I did and my written test and interview was scheduled for next month. As I returned home three weeks later, I was slightly scared about what my father's reaction would be. With great trepidation, I opened the lift gates. I noticed that the main door of my house had a large poster decorated with lights. The poster read 'return of the prodigal son', typed in the largest font size on Microsoft word. My father, thankfully, hadn't lost his sense of humour. A week after arrival, I got the job with Cactus Communications. After all, when you worship P.G Wodehouse, you can't be bad in English! My crossed fingers were free at last.