Before I left Burdwan for Kolkata, my father didn’t give me a long list of advice. He’s not that kind of man. He believes in silence and action more than words. But on the day I left, standing at the edge of our rice shop, he looked at me with steady eyes and said something simple:
“No matter what happens, don’t quit. You’ve started this—now finish it like a Pal.”
It wasn’t dramatic. He said it casually, like he was telling me to carry an umbrella if it rains. But that one line—that one rule—stayed with me as I packed my bags and boarded the train to Kolkata.
I was going to pursue a PGDM. Everyone at home was proud. I was the first in my family to go this far in academics. Relatives came over with boxes of sweets, some with advice, others with envy. “You’re going to be something big,” they said. “Don’t forget us when you’re successful.”
And I smiled, like everything was under control. But inside? I was scared.
Kolkata was loud, fast, and unfamiliar. The minute I stepped into the hostel, I could feel the difference. My roommates spoke fluent English. They had laptops loaded with software I hadn’t even heard of. Everyone seemed to have worked at companies already or had relatives in big firms. Me? I came from a small town with big dreams and zero exposure.
The first week at college felt like someone had dropped me in the middle of a sea without telling me how to swim.
In class, professors spoke fast. Concepts flew past me. Excel sheets, case studies, presentations—I was trying to catch up, but the race had already started. During group discussions, I’d hesitate to speak. Not because I had nothing to say—but because I was afraid of how I’d sound.
At night, I’d sit in my room, going over notes while everyone else laughed in the corridor. I missed home. I missed the warm chaos of our shop, the way Maa used to call out for tea, the familiar smell of soil after rain in Burdwan. In this new city, everything smelled like pressure.
Then came the internship applications.
I tried for several. I prepared my resume, wrote cover letters, asked seniors for tips. But one by one, the rejection mails started piling up. Companies I had pinned my hopes on didn’t even shortlist me. Every ding on my phone made my heart race—only to crush it again.
One particular evening, after getting rejected from an internship I thought I had a good chance at, I remember walking aimlessly through the hostel corridor, thinking, What am I even doing here?
I went back to my room and sat in the dark.
No music. No lights. Just silence and a heart full of questions.
I opened the IRCTC app and checked the next train back to Burdwan. There was one in the morning. I even packed my bag halfway.
Then, I called Baba.
I didn’t know what I wanted him to say. Maybe I expected anger. Maybe I wanted him to beg me to stay. But he didn’t do either.
When I told him, “Baba, I don’t think I can do this,” there was a long pause.
Then he said, “Okay. If it’s too much, come back. But just know—your little sister keeps telling everyone her brother is going to be the most educated person in our family. She’s proud of you. Don’t disappoint her if you can help it.”
That line shook me.
My throat tightened. I couldn’t speak.
I sat on my bed, phone still in hand, and cried for the first time in years. Not because I was weak—but because I was tired. Because I didn’t know who I was anymore.
But I knew one thing:
I couldn’t go home—not like this. Not without trying one more time.
That night, I unpacked my bag.
The next day, I went back to class.
Was everything magically better after that? No. It was still hard. I still struggled. I still felt like I was behind. But this time, I was fighting. Slowly, painfully, I started building myself back up.
I watched YouTube tutorials late at night to understand topics. I stayed back after class to clear doubts. I asked questions—even when my voice trembled.
One professor noticed my dedication and gave me a small research project. I poured my heart into it. It wasn’t perfect, but it was honest. He appreciated it—and that small appreciation felt like a spark.
Over the next few months, things changed.
I didn’t become a topper. But I became confident. I stopped hiding. I spoke more in class. I helped friends who were struggling with topics I had now mastered. I started mentoring juniors and speaking in college events. I even started participating in small competitions, just to push myself out of the corner I used to sit in.
One day, during a class presentation, I stood in front of 50 students and spoke for 15 minutes straight. No stammering. No fear.
When I finished, the class clapped.
That sound—those few seconds of applause—meant more than any certificate. It meant I had returned.
That evening, I called Baba again.
He picked up and said, “Kemon achis re?” (How are you?)
I said, “Baba, I think I’m doing okay.”
He replied, with a smile in his voice,
“I knew you would. After all, you’re my son.”
Yes, I broke the rule once.
I packed my bag. I checked the train. I even said out loud that I couldn’t do it.
But maybe sometimes, breaking a rule is what teaches you its real value.
I didn’t give up in the end—and that’s what matters.
Now when I think back to that night in the hostel room, I don’t feel ashamed. I feel proud. Because that boy sitting in the dark chose to stay. Chose to fight.
And I think about that line Baba said—“Finish it like a Pal.”
I did.
And now, whenever someone asks me how I survived the hardest part of college, I don’t talk about marks or projects.
I tell them this story. Of fear, of doubt, of family, of one phone call, and of the rule I broke—and rebuilt myself with.
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