PROBLEMATIC MEN

A Note to Readers: This is a longer post than others, and slightly difficult to read. It covers a conversation I had with someone I met at the airport. I have included a great deal of internal monologue in it, which is in italics. I have tried mentioning before/after each dialogue who said it, so I hope it is easy to understand, and I will clarify that either Adarsh or I speak here. There is no 3rd person. I also have no pictures from that time, so I have added general London pictures. Anyway, happy reading!

***

Before I can reply, Adarsh points towards a group of men entering the immigration check booth, a beaming smile on his face, ‘Finally. I was wondering when they would come.’ I look at them, wondering if they feel pressed about coming to work at 7 in the morning. I would. Not that anyone would employ me but hypothetically, I would hate to stamp passports of overexcited travelers when I haven’t even had my morning coffee. The thought of coffee makes my stomach grumble and I stare down at it, embarrassed.

Adarsh is gazing at me, waiting for me to tell him my name. Do I really have to? Should I lie? ‘I am Hina, nice to meet you.’ No, it is not nice. I want to run away. ‘Are you visiting UK for the first time?’ he inquires, and I give him a curt, ‘Yes,’ hoping the conversation ends here. It doesn’t. ‘Ah, we are in the same boat. I have no idea what to expect. Are you here for education? You seem to have a lot of luggage.’ I just have two small bags, why is he throwing shade? Now I have to justify my packing preferences to a stranger? ‘I am here to study, yes. How about you?’ I don’t even want to know. Who cares?

‘Well, I do not intend to study much. Just have fun. I mean, we only get one year. Why should we spend that time reading boring books?’ This is when it hits me - he is a Post-Graduate student, and he thinks I am too. I fake a laugh, which sounds close to a strangle, and say, ‘Right? Books are drudgingly long. Clubs and parties, that is where I feel at home.’ Not. Maybe he’ll detect the sarcasm in my tone and stop talking to me. ‘You are right on. So, are you travelling alone?’ My brain stops working for a second. How do I answer this? Do I tell him that yes, I am an 18-year-old travelling alone, or should I lie (when I am awful at it) and tell him my family is in the bathroom? ‘Is that really something you need to think about?’ he comments, and I curse under my breath. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I lost track of my thoughts there. I am travelling alone. You?’ Stop egging him on. Terminate the conversation, why are you asking follow-up questions?

We have moved a few spaces up in the queue, but it is still moving too slowly. I am worried the Uber I had booked to take me to the hotel would leave. ‘Of course. What would it say about a 24-year-old boy like me to travel with family? Come on, we are at an age where we cannot be mollycoddled by our mothers and fathers, can we? Besides, the freedom of travelling alone is something.’ He is how old? Does he think I am his age? Do I really look that old? Should I let slip I am not? Someone save me. ‘Which university are you studying at, maybe we could meet at university?’ Meet why? I don’t want to meet you. Stop. ‘Ah, I am at King’s College, what about you?’ He looks at me with a certain glint in his eyes that I can’t decipher. ‘Wow, you’re smart enough to get in? I am at University of Westminster.’ I nod knowingly, suddenly feeling judged and vulnerable. Why did he say ‘smart’ like it is a bad thing?  

‘Where will you stay? Our accommodations could be close to each other since both universities are in Central London.’ Now he wants to know where I live? Does he not understand I am not comfortable? ‘I’ll be staying in university accommodation, and I don’t really know where it is. I don’t remember,’ I utter, hoping he doesn’t dig into this. ‘Hey, I think I never asked.’ Well, we just met. Obviously there is tons you haven’t asked, and I’d be happy if you did not. ‘Hm?’ is the only response I can think of. ‘What course are you doing?’ Oh boy. This will be fun. ‘I’m studying Psychology.’ He raises his eyebrows, as though waiting for me to justify my choice. ‘You want to study crazy people? And read their minds?’ I would punch you if we weren’t standing to enter the country where I will spend the next three years. Unable to hide my annoyance, I roll my eyes, ‘That is a reductionist view of the discipline. I’ll let it pass because I hardly know you. What are you studying?’ He laughs. What is so amusing? ‘Physics.’ Of course. We are halfway to the counters.

‘What will you do after the year ends? Will you stay and look for a job?’ He is still going on. Okay, time to drop the bombshell. It’ll shut him up. ‘My course is three years, so I suppose I have time to think about it.’ His hands, which were holding his phone close to his chest fall to his sides, ‘You are an undergraduate student?’ Well, at least the disbelief on his face makes the conversation worth it. Barely, though. ‘I am. Did I not mention it?’ He shakes his head, ‘I can’t believe that you came here all alone when you’re so young. You are a girl too.’ Excellent observation, he’d be a good scientist. ‘So?’ I ask, almost daring him to say something sexist. He doesn’t disappoint. ‘It must be so difficult to do everything yourself, as a woman.’ Because of people like you, right? ‘Well, I am managing.’ I laugh, and this time, it feels genuine.

‘Why don’t we exchange numbers? That way, if you need anything, you can just text me.’ It is my turn to look at him with disbelief. You want my number? Are you for real? But despite alarms going off in my head, I tell him it, and he gives me his. ‘Text me on WhatsApp, so that I know it is you,’ he says, smiling ear to ear. Lord, give me strength to not snatch his phone and crush it under my foot. I text him, and he shows me the text he received. I check the time on my phone, and it is almost 10:30. How has it been three hours? We are at the end of the line, and as he goes to Counter 5, he waves goodbye to me and I smile in return, relieved. When I am called to Counter 7, he is going through the gates, making a call me sign towards me. I scoff and present the papers for stamping. It takes less than fifteen seconds, and I am through. All that wait (and dreadful conversations) for this.

As I walk down the corridors of Heathrow airport, officially allowed to step into the UK, the first thing I do is add Adarsh to the blocked numbers on my phone, wondering why all numbers in the list belong to (problematic) men.