April 26, 2015 10 p.m. Saadiyat Island

It is my birthday and I am in the Black Box of the NYU Abu Dhabi Arts Center, close to collapsing. I’m in the middle of my second to last technical rehearsal, very obviously breaking down as I am unable to rehearse my own play, while everyone else, apart from my dedicated and loving team, is outside jamming and dancing to Just A Band. Lizzy, my tech manager, tells me, “Go home Krush. You’re not going to get much done within the next hour. Get some rest and make the last tech worth it.”

My mom sent me a cake to celebrate turning 22. There is a picture somewhere on Facebook where I’m holding that cake and I can’t believe what I look like in it. I’m smiling but my eyes tell a different story — I am sad and terrified of everything coming my way, in that moment frozen in time.

The day I graduated was probably one of the saddest days of my life. I made faces, walked successfully in my heels, sang Learn to Love and Live and smiled with everyone. Outwardly, I was fine because I was graduating. On the inside, I was a drowning ship. My friends were going away to graduate school on scholarships and were going to start fancy jobs after graduation — everyone seemed to have a plan. All I could think of was how my dad, who should have been there, wasn’t. All I could worry about was when my dad would call and if I would be able to find the strength to not break my phone into pieces. All I could feel was the constant burden of keeping it together on the one day that was supposed to be mine.

After graduating, I stayed on campus until July. To say that those hot, sunny months of Abu Dhabi were the darkest I’ve seen in my life is an understatement of gross proportions. I had a comfortable roof over my head, a sufficient supply of food and a summer research position that paid me very well but I was depressed — dreadfully depressed. Anyone who knew me then knew this. My world had broken apart before my last January Term because of my parents deciding to split, causing every plan I had for after graduation to fall through. All my friends were managing their capstones and job applications during their last semester. I was scrambling to make it from one day to another without considering dropping out so close to the end.

I didn’t find a job until January of this year. In the span of August 2015 to January 2016, I was practically friendless in my hometown, sitting at home, sending out multiple versions of the same resume and cover letter to anyone who cared to look, while I dealt with a silent and systematic ostracization of my mother and me due to my parents’ imminent divorce. I watched all my friends score great jobs and have a fabulous time in graduate school while all I did was sit at home, waiting for an employer somewhere, anywhere, to notice that I was worthy of employment.

And it killed me. This wasn’t the narrative I expected, this wasn’t the narrative I ever wanted to be telling anyone. But the truth is this — NYUAD is gorgeous and beautiful. The real world, not so much. Nobody wants to tell you this narrative because it doesn’t match up to the optimism of the videos they play at graduation. I lost touch with professors I cared about, I disconnected from my friends because their Facebook posts made me sink deeper. I wanted to be in London, New York, Sydney, Mumbai, anywhere. I didn’t want to be in Muscat and I was sitting here, unemployed, depressed and far from where I dreamed I would be after finishing four years in a place I came to love more than life itself.

April 26, 2016 11.30 p.m. Muscat

It is my birthday and I am driving alone on the Qurum-Darsait flyover, belting out Beyoncé’s Sorry because Lemonade just dropped and why wouldn’t I? It’s Beyoncé. I’m jamming to the music, my middle fingers waggling as I follow the lyrics — middle fingers up, put ’em hands high — before resting back on the steering to keep it steady because my car is just shy of touching 120 kmph on the dashboard.

I learned how to drive about seven months ago. I’ve always been terrified of vehicles, always hated the idea of driving anything after nearly crashing my cousin’s scooter into an old man’s car as a 13-year-old. But when you’re in Muscat, your ticket to freedom is driving and there’s no other way of getting around it. And so, I learned. I took baby steps — I reached out to any contacts that I had, kept driving around, kept meeting people through the only friend I had in the city. Today, approximately a year later, I’m happy — a statement I was convinced I’d never be able to say. I have a job that teaches me everyday, I have a small but faithful group of friends I passive smoke with religiously and a life that is hectic but filled with things that help me work toward my goals, despite the fact that money is sometimes short and time is sometimes too slow.

Life at NYUAD was like being a princess in a castle where everything actually worked. NYUAD was a well oiled machine with its wheels moving smoothly enough, save for a few solvable glitches here and there. There was a solution to everything — okay, well almost everything. Life after graduation has been a long, long drive that doesn’t seem to end. You stumble a lot figuring out when to use the brakes and when to use the accelerator and then somehow you coordinate the two. You can’t stop midway because that’s going to cause an accident. You have to keep driving until you get where you are. Potholes will get your car stuck in a rut and sometimes, your car will simply break down. Most times, you’ll have no clue where you’re going. Most times, you’ll want to hit the brakes but you won’t be able to. Often, you’ll land up in the wrong place and you’ll need to turn back to get to the right place. Some people will hop in for a ride with you and leave on the way. You’ll have some great conversations about the road ahead, about the best kind of music. You’ll meet people at pit stops that will change how you feel about the road ahead. And the best part of it all is that you’ll get really tired along the way but you’ll keep going.

And so, I learned to drive. Drive fast. Drive away. Take sharp turns. Be a little reckless, but only just a little bit. I learned how to drive away from NYUAD but I’ve got some sand in the back of my car to remind me that I was there. I wish I could say, “I never left.” But that’s not true. I left, in the wake of sadness, and found my little corner of happiness as I drove away, back to my hometown. I drove into the rough underbelly of the real world and I am grateful for the darkness I left in. I found the light a long year later and it can get really bad, but it can be really good too, if you only realize that your heart is truly strong and your education gave you something beyond just a degree — it gave you the freedom to think, to feel and to love.