I was filled with immense joy when the University of Exeter in the UK selected my paper for presentation. It wasn’t just a professional milestone—it was a moment of personal and symbolic significance. Like many Indians, the idea of going to the UK for study or presentation—“to London”—carries an almost mythic weight. Families speak of such journeys with pride, as if a son or daughter going abroad represents not just personal achievement but collective progress. Maybe now it has become more common, but for someone like me—coming from rural India—it still holds deep cultural pride. I was especially happy for my father.

For me, it was also an intellectual pilgrimage. As a student of civilization studies, the idea of stepping foot in a country that once colonized India stirred many emotions. We often criticize the West, but when opportunities come, we welcome them with joy—and perhaps, without hesitation. I wanted to see for myself: How do people live there now? What kind of civilization have they built with the wealth they once extracted from places like mine? Sir Syed Ahmad Khan once said—perhaps with some exaggeration—that “England is like heaven.” I wanted to see what truth lay behind those words.

From the Air: How London Appears

I was grateful to have a window seat. It was around 1:00 PM in the UK, and as the plane tilted for landing, I looked out to see the landscape of London slowly unfolding. It felt like a quiet “wow” moment. Of course, the earth always looks amazing and mysterious from above, especially during descent—but this moment was different. I was excited. This was England. I watched with childlike curiosity, taking in every detail and trying to capture it all in my eyes.  

I saw neatly divided fields, farmland that looked carefully crafted, clusters of elegant homes, and lines of green trees. There was greenery everywhere, clean and well-maintained. There was not a single particle of dust in sight. Even from the air, the UK appeared orderly, lush, and meticulously planned—like a civilization that had spent centuries refining itself.

In that moment, living seven years in Istanbul, where I had believed that it was the most beautiful city, I whispered to myself a couplet by Iqbal:

“Sitaron se aage jahan aur bhi hain,
Abhi, ishq ke imtihan aur bhi hain.”

Beyond the stars, there are more worlds.
Love has more tests yet to face.

At the UK Border

At passport control in Stansted Airport, I noticed the sign above: “UK Border.” Therefore, I was about to cross the border. It was intriguing that my passport control officer was South Asian—perhaps Indian, Pakistani, Sri Lankan, or Bangladeshi—but now British. He spoke in a perfectly polished British accent. I smiled instinctively, maybe from excitement or quiet recognition. Despite everything—the long history, the displacement, the power shifts—there was something intimate in that moment, a silent thread still connecting us back to the subcontinent.

Train from London to Exeter

Since I had no luggage, I rushed to catch my train to Exeter. I had landed at 1:30 PM, and my train was scheduled for 2:30 PM. From Stansted Airport, I took the train to Liverpool Street Station and then, through the Elizabeth Line, to Paddington Station. From there, I had to train a long way to Exeter. 

On the way to Liverpool from Stansted, I was amazed by the speed, comfort, and quiet elegance of the journey. Even more captivating was the landscape: lush green fields, gentle hills, scattered farmhouses, beautiful natural ponds and lakes, and small boat houses in ponds. My excitement was only just unfolding. From the plane to the train, I couldn’t take my eyes off the land.

At Paddington Station, I was hungry and had a bit of time before departure to Exeter. I got into the cafeteria. At a small open café in the center of the cafeteria, there were two women working—one wearing sindoor (a Hindu symbol of marriage) and the other in a hijab. I asked which sandwich was halal, and the hijabi girl guided me warmly. I asked the woman in sindoor where she was from. She said, “Nepal.”

I smiled and said, “Then we’re neighbors! I’m from Madhubani, Bihar—we share a border.”

And then I asked her name. She said her name is Eliza.

I said, “You know I came here on the Elizabeth Line.”

Then, we both burst into laughter, and the conversation grew warm and lively. When I told them I had just landed in London and was going to the University of Exeter to participate in an academic workshop, she was thrilled and said, “You are lucky.” “Not everyone gets a UK visa. So see everything you can! Learn everything you can.”

I said that I like the UK. She said, “Yeah, but slowly this feeling might change.”

Then I asked for a small coffee. I had paid for a small coffee, but they gave me a larger one—it felt like a little welcome gift.

The Somali girl at the café also smiled generously. When I asked where she was from, she replied sweetly, “I’m from Somalia, brother,” in a charming British accent. That moment—coffee in hand, surrounded by voices from Nepal and Somalia—was my true arrival in London. I didn’t feel foreign. I felt like part of a deeply cosmopolitan rhythm.

Throughout Paddington and London, no one seemed surprised or curious about me being Indian. Unlike in Istanbul, where people often ask, “Where are you from?”—and conversations start from there—London felt different. Istanbul has its own warmth, but here I found another kind. Maybe if I lived longer in the UK, I would discover more. However, for now, I was adapting to the local rhythm.

What struck me most was how workers from everywhere—South Asia, Africa, Eastern Europe—were part of the city’s daily flow. It felt vibrant, diverse, and open. Police officers and station staff, whether British or not, were equally patient and gentle. I was surprised to see such courtesy in a city packed and busy.

I couldn’t sleep on the way to Exeter. One station after another passed, and I found myself recalling train journeys in Bihar—when we travel between cities, watching villages and fields go by, and talking about the crops: whether the season would be good or bad. On that train, far from home, I suddenly felt very close to it.

Half-jokingly, I thought: there is a deep connection between us and the British—that is why I feel close to this land. Maybe we have a blood relation. After all, they’ve sucked our blood for centuries! But sarcasm aside, there were genuine similarities. Even the train tickets and train networks reminded me of India. And honestly, I still think India’s old train stations are more beautiful than now.

The train wasn’t crowded, but it was expensive. All the trains were privatized, and different companies were running them on the tracks. The presence of Wi-Fi allowed people to work comfortably while traveling. It was a quiet, reflective ride—one that helped me arrive, slowly and deeply, not just in Exeter, but into the space of the journey itself.

I will write about my time in Exeter in the next issue. And my time in Exeter is more exciting. Until then, bye.