I left Chennai on September 29, 1985, for a Commonwealth Scholarship in Reproductive Medicine at Nottingham. My departure was a chaotic race to the airport against political rallies, severing me from my pregnant wife and young son with a hurried, incomplete goodbye.

The journey was a trial. A packed, smoke-filled flight magnified my isolation, anchored by my veganism and teetotalism. London’s first gift was a thick fog, diverting us to Manchester. In 1985’s silent world—no phone, no email—I travelled by bus through strange countryside, guarding my meager foreign exchange, too anxious to eat. I arrived at my friend’s London house not as a scholar, but as a drained refugee from my own life.

My first anchor was the efficient British Council the next day. They directed me to the General Medical Council (GMC) for registration—the next ste ...