The airport was crowded, yet Rohan Mishra felt completely alone. His mother wiped her tears with the edge of her saree, while his father stood beside her, arms crossed, trying to look composed. His younger sister, barely old enough to understand what was happening, clung to his backpack like she could stop him from leaving.

Rohan had never been away from home, not even for a school trip. Now, he was about to fly across continents to a country he knew nothing about. Russia. A land of freezing winters, an unfamiliar language, and people he had never met.

"Why did it have to come to this?" He looked at his phone screen one last time, scrolling through his NEET result. A few marks short. Just enough to miss a government medical seat in India. Private colleges were too expensive, and this—this was the only option his family could afford.

"Beta, take care of yourself," his mother said, her voice breaking.

His father cleared his throat. "Don’t waste time there. Study hard. We are sacrificing a lot for this."

Rohan nodded, his chest tight. He wanted to say something, but what? That he was scared? That he didn’t want to go? That he wasn’t sure if he could survive on his own?

The airport announcement called for boarding. It was time.

With one last deep breath, he turned away from his family, dragging his suitcase behind him. As he walked toward the gate, he checked his phone again. His only connection to home, his only guide in the unknown world ahead.

He stepped forward. Russia awaited.

As the plane touched down in Moscow, Rohan’s heart thudded like a drum, each beat reminding him just how far he was from home. He peered out of the tiny airplane window, his eyes widening at the endless white—snow blanketing the ground, rooftops, trees, and even distant roads. It looked like a land frozen in time, pure and intimidating. So, this is Russia, he thought, shivering despite being inside the warm cabin. He took a shaky sip of water, wishing he had stayed back home where things made sense.

The intercom crackled as the flight attendant made an announcement in rapid Russian, followed by English. Rohan only caught a few words—something about collecting luggage. Around him, passengers were already gathering their belongings, speaking in a blend of Russian and other languages he couldn’t identify. For a moment, he just sat there, frozen—not by the cold, but by the reality that he was actually here. Alone.

His hands trembled as he fumbled with his seatbelt, nearly dropping his phone in the process. As he finally managed to stand, his knees felt weak. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to move, putting on a forced smile as if that would magically make everything okay.

The terminal was a whirlwind of noise and movement—a sea of unfamiliar faces and voices. It felt like he’d landed on another planet. People hurried past him, some dragging massive suitcases while others navigated with backpacks and coffee cups. Announcements echoed through the vast hall, but Rohan couldn’t make sense of them. He pulled out his phone and opened a translation app. Typing in "Where is the exit?" he hit the audio button, and the app responded with a robotic voice in Russian. A few people glanced at him, and his cheeks burned with embarrassment. He quickly lowered the volume and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

He followed the stream of passengers to customs, where the line seemed to stretch on forever. When it was finally his turn, an imposing officer gestured for him to step forward. Rohan swallowed hard and handed over his passport and visa, his palms clammy. The officer, tall and stoic, examined the documents without a hint of emotion. He glanced between Rohan’s passport photo and his face multiple times, as if trying to catch him in a lie. Rohan tried to stay calm, but his mind was racing—was there something wrong with the papers? Did he miss a crucial detail?

After what felt like an eternity, the officer finally stamped his passport and handed it back with a curt nod. Relief flooded Rohan as he hurried away, his suitcase thudding along the tiled floor. At the baggage claim, he spotted his worn-out suitcase inching along the conveyor belt and grabbed it, feeling oddly triumphant—one small victory in a sea of challenges.

Stepping outside the terminal was like being slapped by winter itself. The freezing air hit him so hard that his nose stung, and his breath came out in thick, white puffs. He scrambled to put on his jacket, only to realize it was hopelessly inadequate. His fingers felt like icicles, and he stuffed them into his pockets, trying not to panic.

Near the exit, a stout man held a sign that read "Rohan Mishra" in bold, uneven letters. Rohan hesitated before approaching, managing a weak smile. The man gave a quick nod and motioned for him to follow. They didn’t speak a word—mostly because they couldn’t. Rohan tried to break the silence with a polite nod, but the man just grunted in response. After a bit of awkward struggling with the luggage, they finally loaded it into the car.

As they drove through Moscow, Rohan couldn’t help but press his face to the window, taking in the grandeur of the city. Towering buildings with intricate architecture lined the streets, their ornate designs dusted with snow. People trudged along sidewalks wrapped in thick coats and scarves, their faces barely visible. Cars zipped past, splashing slushy snow onto the curbs. Everything felt so strange—like a movie set he didn’t belong to.

They passed a park where a group of kids was building a snowman, laughing and throwing snowballs at each other. Rohan’s chest tightened as he remembered his own childhood—no snow, just mild winters and cricket in the street. In the distance, a massive cathedral with golden domes shimmered faintly in the pale winter light, looking almost magical.

The car pulled up in front of a drab, worn-out building—his hostel. The driver gave him a quick nod and drove off without a word, leaving Rohan standing there, suitcase in hand, feeling oddly abandoned. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the creaky door and stepped inside.

Chaos slapped him in the face—voices overlapping in a mix of Russian, Hindi, and other languages. A speaker blared Bollywood music from one room, while someone cursed in frustration over a broken heater. A group of guys sat on a tattered couch, arguing over a game of cards. For a second, Rohan considered just turning around and walking right back out.

“Hey!” A loud voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Rohan turned to see a guy with messy hair and a thick accent grinning at him. “You new here?”

“Yeah... Rohan,” he replied cautiously.

“I’m Alexei. You Indian?”

Rohan nodded, and Alexei’s grin widened. “You’ll survive. Maybe.” He slapped Rohan’s shoulder with a laugh and wandered off to join the card game.

Dragging his suitcase down the narrow hallway, Rohan found his assigned room—a cramped space with two beds, a tiny window half-covered in frost, and a radiator that looked more decorative than functional. He dropped his suitcase on the bed, feeling the exhaustion sink into his bones.

His phone buzzed, and he pulled it out to see a message from his dad: "Reached safely?"

Rohan hesitated, glancing around the room with its peeling wallpaper and faint smell of mildew. He wanted to say how cold it was, how lost he felt, and how he already missed home. But instead, he typed a single word:

Yes.

He sank onto the bed, the mattress squeaking beneath him, and closed his eyes. Outside, someone shouted in Russian, and laughter echoed down the hall. Rohan couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take to feel at home here—if that was even possible.

For now, all he could do was survive.

The door creaked open as Rohan stepped into his new home—if one could even call it that. The dimly lit room was small, almost claustrophobic, with walls that had once been white but were now an uninspiring shade of beige, marked with scuff marks and faint stains. A radiator beneath the frostbitten window hummed weakly, as if struggling to breathe in the bitter Russian cold. His bed, an old wooden frame with a thin mattress, let out a tired groan as he sat down, feeling the exhaustion settle deep into his bones.

For a moment, he just sat there, staring at nothing in particular, letting the unfamiliar silence swallow him. A part of him had expected some grand, cinematic moment—maybe the realization that he was in a foreign land, chasing his future. Instead, all he felt was an unsettling emptiness, as if he had somehow lost a part of himself the moment he stepped off the plane.

His fingers trembled slightly as he pulled out his phone. No signal. He sighed and connected to the hostel Wi-Fi, relieved to see a flood of messages from home. His mom had sent a dozen texts—asking if he had eaten, if the hostel was warm, if he had made any friends. His dad’s message was brief but comforting: We are proud of you. Be strong.

Rohan typed out a quick reply, assuring them he was fine. It wasn’t exactly the truth, but what else could he say? That he already felt like an outsider in his own life? That the silence of this foreign world felt heavier than the bustling streets of home?

A sudden knock on the door snapped him out of his thoughts. He hesitated before opening it.

Alexei stood there, grinning as if they had been best friends for years. “You look lost.”

“Uh… just tired,” Rohan mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

Alexei chuckled. “Then you need chai. Russian-style. Come.”

Before Rohan could protest, Alexei had already started walking down the hallway. With no better alternative, he followed.

The common area was alive with a chaotic mix of cultures. Students from different countries sat in clusters, engaged in lively conversations—some in English, some in Russian, others in languages Rohan couldn’t even recognize. The air smelled of something spicy and unfamiliar, and the warmth of human voices was oddly comforting.

Alexei led him to a small kitchen at the corner of the hall, where a battered old kettle was steaming on a portable stove. A tall guy with glasses—probably another student—was stirring a pot of what looked like tea, but the color was darker, richer.

“This is Ivan,” Alexei said. “Ivan, meet our new Indian brother, Rohan.”

Ivan pushed his glasses up and gave a slight nod. “Chai?”

Rohan hesitated. He had grown up with the sweet, milky comfort of Indian chai. This was different—no milk, no cardamom, just a strong, almost smoky scent.

“Try it,” Alexei urged. “This will warm your soul.”

Rohan took the cup Ivan handed him and blew softly on the surface before taking a sip. The bitterness hit first, then the warmth spread through his chest, almost like liquid fire. It was strong, raw, but strangely… addictive.

“Well?” Alexei asked, watching him expectantly.

Rohan exhaled, feeling his body thaw slightly. “It’s… intense.”

Alexei laughed. “Welcome to Russia, my friend.”

They sat on a couch near the window, the frost clinging to the glass like delicate lace. Outside, Moscow stretched out like a dream—golden streetlights glowing against the white snow, the distant outline of buildings disappearing into the cold night mist. A few students outside were throwing snow at each other, their laughter rising into the air like music.

Rohan took another sip of the tea, feeling something shift inside him. Maybe he didn’t belong here yet, but for the first time since he landed, he didn’t feel completely alone.

He glanced at Alexei, who was rambling about something—his words a blur of Russian and English—but Rohan wasn’t listening. He was watching the snow, the city, the unfamiliar beauty of it all.

Perhaps, just perhaps, this place wasn’t so bad after all.

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