Being an international student is not easy.

It gets so lonely sometimes that the only that makes me happy is the porch light in front of my home that lights up every time some one stands in front of it. It seems happy to see me.

It didn’t strike me that I was leaving my family and friends for an entire year even when I was waiting at the domestic airport in Hyderabad for my flight. I’d said my goodbyes to my parents ten minutes back. My parents were able to squeeze a finger through the perforated metal screen at the airport that separates the passengers from those who are staying back and shake my hand. The long flight had rendered me thoughtless. I was blank when I arrived at the Sydney airport – unable to decide whether to be happy about the opportunity or be sad at being away from those who genuinely love me.

I will never forget that first day at the University because there is nothing much to remember it by. I saw a sea of faces, yet that feeling of isolation was unmistakable. As I dashed from one building to the other for enrolling myself, the fact that this world was so different than mine, became evident. And when I saw a few helpful faces, like a lady in a building, where I had accidentally entered, it made my eyes moist. I didn’t break down, but I felt like hugging her and telling her that I miss my mom a lot. She directed me to the right building. Eventually I went where I was supposed to in the first place; the English department, where one of my senior lecturer, put my anxieties to rest. The touch of concern in her voice, made the day bearable for me. Over the next few months, she also helped me sort out a few other university-related things, for which I can never thank her enough.

Some of the things that make the label of an ‘international student’ sound like more of an obscenity rather than a privilege is the fact that we don’t get a travel concession. I felt rather small and inconsequential that day when a staff member looked at my card and set it aside saying, ‘Oh, you are an international student. Not eligible for the concession,’ with a smile. And I went, ‘Oh. Thank you.’

And if I don’t get my visa on time, is it my fault? I land in the country and I don’t have an accommodation. The university office shows you a website, allows you to use the phone and gives you free pamphlets – great. And that’s where their responsibility ends. Only I know what I had to go through to find a decent place. It’s a blessing that I didn’t have to spend nights together on the road with my luggage like a destitute.

Looking for a job has been an adventure on its own. I haven’t dropped in so many resumes in my entire life. I have no idea what else to do get a job around here. I have no clue what the employers are looking for. I once went to a café to hand over my resume and the lady there asks me, ‘so do you have any experience in making coffee?’ And I am thinking, wow, I didn’t know making coffee was a science. I am sure she wasn’t born with coffee making skills.

‘Do you plan to make a career in retail?’ someone asked me once. And I say, ‘sure,’ if that’s what you want to hear, then you bet, ‘I want to make career selling board shorts to Australian teens.’ Although I have a bachelor’s degree in English with Honors, a degree in advertising and marketing and am pursuing my Masters in Creative Writing, but sure, yeah, I do want to be in retail. I don’t know why, but I didn’t get the job. May be they figured it out. I still don’t have one.                   

    Perhaps what hurts the most is no one cares whether you ate, whether you are doing well or other such little things. But the scariest bit is, if you fall sick, there is no one to even make you a cup of coffee. Long, lonely walks are the only things that take me away from the solitary existence for a while, a short break from spending most of my time in my room. The walks give me pleasure. I come across sights that bring a smile to my lips. Like the other day I saw a young girl playing with a fountain. She would poke her finger through the gushing water and scream in delight. She would squeal excitedly every time she did it, like she was doing it for the first time every time. I instantly felt jealous at the innocence her age allows her to have.

    I try to be a good son and when my parents call me, I don’t tell them that if I stay here one more day I would probably lose it. I miss my dad the most on Sundays, because that is when he made his special French omelet for me and my brother. And I miss my mom the most when I come home tired and there is no one to ask how my day was. Someone recently asked me, ‘What’s the first thing you will say when you see your mum?’

I said, ‘I don’t think there will be much talking, only lots of crying.’

  During one such phone call my dad spoke to me. I had never heard him like that before. I sensed the quivering in his voice.

He said, ‘Son don’t worry about anything. If you want to study further, just let me know. Be happy. If you get tensed, we get tensed. And before his emotions could take over him, he passed the phone to my mum.

Once when I was on one of my walks, a group of pigeons were pecking at corns strewn around by passersby. There were greys, there were whites, there were whites with grey spots, greys with white spots all cooped up in one corner and than there was a brown one, on its own – much like myself. It reminded me of the way I have my lunch at the Uni – in one of the vacant benches, looking at the others who always have someone to talk to. I bought a pack of popcorn and spilled it in front of the bird. The moment I did that, the others came in hordes and sidelined the brown one again. I stood there for a while, wondering whether it too came from India, before I made my way back home – or the make believe home.        

 I suppose one of the miseries of being an international student is the rate at which, your food gets over. You might find yourself making a bowl-full of noodles, but within a matter of seconds, and without even a semblance of satisfaction/fulfillment of having had a meal, you will notice the noodles disappearing into the dark, suddenly infinite corners of your mouth and then the stomach, till you would be left slowing your pace to a deadly halt, twirling your fork at the last remnants of the spicy noodles with the hope and optimism that it will somehow, magically reappear or refurbish itself. And it also makes you realize that one can survive on the most basic of food items.

 Money is always an issue and I feel guilty to ask my parents to help me out. If It's a thousand dollars for me, for them it is forty thousand rupees in local currency. And it is not a child’s play to arrange money on a moment’s notice. The time difference makes it all the more difficult. I can’t just pick up my cell and call them anytime I want to, even though I might be at my lowest then, I have to wait, till it is a sane enough time back home. And the frustration of not being able to call often gets to me  – I wish, just for a day the long-distance call becomes a domestic call – so that I have enough time to tell my parents how I really feel.  

 I had heard stories about intolerant Australians and their prejudices against Indians, but experienced it only recently. I was in Chatswood, on foot, as I mostly am. Just as I turned around a corner, a half-eaten apple came from nowhere and hit me right on my stomach. More than the impact, the shock of being subjected to such a treatment hurt me. I saw two Australians jeering at me and driving away. What did I ever do to them I thought. I guess I will never know. I picked the apple and deposited it in one of the bins. Does skin color and language make that much of a difference? Does it change the fact that we all have flesh and blood? When my parents said, ‘how can someone do such a thing?’ I said, ‘may be these are just some of the complications of being made in India.’ I believe what mattered then, matters now as well – a sense of belonging – which might never happen - It’s like riding someone else’s car – you might never feel comfortable.  

 During such times, I am forced to think about those who went abroad say even ten to fifteen years back. How would’ve they communicated without any internet/e-mails/webcams? The expensive phone calls and rare letters must’ve made it unbearable for them and their parents. I often picture the child’s mother waiting outside her door in the scorching heat – her eyes eagerly waiting for the postman to come with that letter with a foreign stamp. Nothing much has changed really. The way an international student was marginalized then, he/she still continues to be marginalized even today.

 I often think why I left home. I miss my mom’s morning tea - here it’s coffee; butter-laden stuffed Indian bread with spicy pickles - here it’s cereals or toast with vegemite; the steaming lentils and rice - here it’s steamed vegetables, soup or macaroni and cheese; the liveliness of the markets and roads - here it’s hard to see a soul after six; my friends - here everyone’s so busy and aloof; the pollution, the crowded trains and buses, the noise - here it is the silence that disturbs me; the love and warmth of my people - here everyone’s all business; the welcoming aroma of food in every home - here everything is either canned or frozen; the old classical music records - here it’s some loud dinchak-dinchak-dinchak gibberish; the golden sun in the morning - here even the sun didn’t look the same; the stressful life - here it’s only a fake-sense of well-being.

 
 I came to Australia looking for happiness, looking for my identity…may be I should look harder, may be I should look elsewhere…may be…I should just go home.