Chapter 2: First Impressions

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.

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