The Rhodes Scholarship interviews are deceptively intimidating: if you approach them even with the faintest degree of self-awareness and self-assuredness, you're capable of turning them into a deeply intellectual conversation in which you remain, for its entire duration, thoroughly engaged and involved. What better way of representing yourself, in all your pomp and splendour, to the gatekeepers of the worlds of possibility and richness that lie ahead of you? This is one of those rare challenges that makes getting out of bed in the morning a worthwhile affair. To an even greater degree, it's an opportunity to seek your future and to accidentally discover yourself on the way.
The Entrails
The crux of an application to the Indian Rhodes Trust is the Statement of Purpose (SoP), which constitutes your best chance of standing out from your faceless rivals. A good SoP cannot be superceded by a good CV; there's no comparison for a lucid and concise appraisal of oneself, written with languid elegance, honest objectivity and lively wit. The remaining application procedures are minimal and not worth getting into a tizzy over, but what must be kept foremost in mind before the interview is this: if you can back yourself to the hilt based on what you perceive are your strengths and your grey areas, and be resolved not to flinch at any signs of trouble, then it's all chirpy birds and sunny skies. You have other factors working in your favour as well: you have the power in that shadowy room to control the flow of conversation based on the length of your answers. It doesn't always pay to be brief and concise: it's up to you to present your full face to the wider world, and if your CV supports your unwavering confidence with hard fact, you've nothing to fear by telling a detailed, well-constructed story about yourself. In fact, they're dying to know all about you - they're ready to engage you in an exchange of ideas within your academic field of specialization, they want to get a sense of the experiences and events that have led to you being in that room, and they're looking for YOU, The Real McCoy.
There is one preliminary round of interviews in November/early December, followed by a final interview to cap things off in the last week of the year. The night prior to this last interview presents a tricky yet interesting obstacle: a formal dinner, Oxbridge-style, with the finalists and the selection panel mingling and conversing, sharing polite pleasantries and awkward silences. This is social anthropologist heaven, for the inscrutably complex dynamics within the room are fascinating to witness and infinite in possibility. Each finalist will approach this night with a unique gameplan: one will choose to try and "promote" him/her-self to as many panelists as time may allow, shifting allegiance every five minutes or so, while another will hold on to one or two big catches for the length of the evening, trying to ensure the advantage and hoping to have made an impression on an influential committee-member. Personally, I favour a minor variation of the latter option: locate and zoom in on the one or two people on the committee who are experts or have know-how in your field, and use that as a fulcrum for displaying your intellectual mettle. That particular choice comes down to two simple truths: firstly, the number of finalists far outweighs that of panelists, and so your chances of engaging in a one-on-one verbal duet with a selector are slender. A proactive approach is the need of the hour and an aspiring Rhodent should have the initiative to decide on a specific target. If this principle is not rigorously obeyed, the odds are that one of your closest rivals has decided to close in for the kill, and you're left stranded in the middle of the room with a plateful of bland food and no one to talk to.
The second truth owes its happy existence to the mammoth emphasis in Cecil Rhodes' will on choosing academically superior and intellectually-inclined students. After all this is Oxford that's up for grabs, the Higher Seat of Learning, spanning centuries and rightfully laying claim to a sizable chunk of mankind's intellectual property. It definitely isn't for everybody, and the laws of natural selection will ensure that only the best remain after the sifting of the sieve. Therefore, it definitely pays to reinforce your scholastic strengths by playing your trump card at the outset, before the panel potentially make various unglorious and fruitless attempts to eat you for a snack the next morning. One can then use the actual interview time to elaborate at length about extra-academic achievements, while not forgetting to remind them of the conversations that transpired the night before.
'I think, therefore I don't'
That said, even the certifiably brainy will feel the pinch in those first few weeks upon commencement of Michaelmas Term in the first week of October the following year. The academic structure there isn't in-built with a buffer that'll cushion your impact on first hitting the books, and I've personally known Indians there whose only recourse to sanity is their amazing ability to endure long periods of academic hibernation; closed to the world at large, tucked away in bedrooms and libraries and classrooms, studying to survive and surviving to study. The madness is complete unto itself, and justifies its own means and ends. For many Indians, the pervasive sense upon entering Oxford's hallowed confines is one of concealed despair, an expression of a dire inability to cope with the routines and demands expected. The blame, if there is any to be apportioned, would fall squarely on the not-so-upright shoulders of our derelict education system. It seems more and more evident to me upon returning to home shores that tuition and teaching in India follow a conveyor-belt approach, wherein various second-hand parts are appended to the child's cerebral development over the years before a haphazardly-arranged drone ends up wrought, crippled and broken at the end of the assembly line. Highly reflective of that exemplary work ethic we're so proud of. Blame, however, isn't really a tangible weapon for those who pursue reform.
One's studies at Oxford require a constant effort to elevate one's mental processes in order to digest the sheer bulk of information that must be imbibed. Lateral thinking, virtually unrecognized and closeted in Indian institutions, is highly prized and worth its weight in grey matter, and is the only solution to many of those seemingly impenetrable problems that tutors set their charges. This heuristic and knowledge-driven approach to education serves to inculcate a sense of self-sufficiency and independence from being spoon-fed, and logically breeds intellectual curiosity and cognitive reasoning. A student caught doe-eyed in the headlights can only expect swift retribution, for the self-study and research involved demands unwavering focus, with only the pale consolation of an occasional boozy and debauched evening out (at least by desi standards). Simply stated, adapting to this new life requires thinking on higher planes, exploring new avenues of thought, and in the process, landscaping the passageways of one's own mind. This represents more than mere culture shock to Indians: in our country at the student level, our minds are as unfamiliar to ourselves as anything else. We just aren't taught to think. There is a direct failure of all systemic machinery, stemming from the horrific expectation of students to learn by rote without comprehension, questioning or rationalization. Teaching is viewed as a mind-numbing chore, examinations and studying in general seen as obligated purgatory; dual-way interaction in classrooms is pitiful, instruction involves little more than repetitive regurgitation, and textbooks are often wildly inaccurate or at best, shoddy or snoozeworthy.
The phrase 'pants in an uproar' comes to mind. It is indeed easy to see through the crackling walls, into the darkness of the abyss, and criticize unabashedly, but in order to bring about change, infiltrating the beast from within is a prerequisite condition. Armchair anarchy is a gala show but its achievements are few, its triumphs hollow. Therefore students themselves (since the system is supposedly built for them) must be allowed to voice their disapproval of a barely-functional structure of learning whose central nervous system itself is unsynchronized with today's reality. The reservation issue demonstrated the stark disparity in mindsets and dislocation of rational thinking that have begun to make themselves prominent in public consciousness of late. The real stories get preemptively overlooked and trampled upon time and time again by our sagely and self-righteous decision-makers. As all those in opposition to the government's proposed policy proclaimed in displeasure, it's time for a fresh round of public scrutiny into our flailing educationalism and to bring about change. But change has to be purged from within, by digging and boring deep down into the very structural essence of this crumbling relic of Olde Worlde Thinking, and re-examine what corrective measures are imperative. All it needs is a lateral perspective.
Static Fiction
Meanwhile, in the very country that spawned our woes as a nation, life is a strange eccentricity, full of moments that you can't believe you're locked into. Oxford seemed to be initially, at least going by the brochures, arcanely medieval and rather uptight about a lot of things; but then, don't judge lest ye be judged. Bizarrely, Oxford finds the knack to live up to the cliché of old academics mumbling through deep intellectual conversation over cups of tea, examinations and formal ceremonies conducted by all in Harry Potter-like school robes, and a generally clenched-arse approach to everything; but I was pleasantly surprised, for these idiosyncrasies are only the outer vestiges of its true self. Behind the opaque veil are layers of multifarious, shifting realities, always in flux and purposeful in motion. It is a tiny microcosm of immense complexity, and sucks you in completely - it isn't even as though one has a choice in the matter. My two-year stay there saw many zeniths and many hellish depths, culminating in several rich and defining memories that all too often just dwindle away slowly into nothing. From having coffee and muffins with Benazir Bhutto at Starbucks one spring morning, being in Hyde Park for Pink Floyd's reunion concert, and backpacking across the most dazzling countrysides and seascapes (the latter two aren't really in Oxford at all, but merit a mention nonetheless) to periods of great introspection, meeting the best of one's planetary contemporaries and celebrating birthdays in pubs on cold winter nights sipping hot chocolate generously spiked with brandy; the experience is complete.
Lurking in the shadows, however, lie stories which aren't so easily forthcoming. These stories are of searing loneliness on a chillingly bitter night, lying in bed huddled and shrunken like a foetus; of aching realisations of just how alien a place this is; of India-pangs, or just the longing to see a familiar face in the bustling streets. This stark picture explains why many Indians, upon reaching the UK, resort only to the companionship of fellow countrymen. You'll often see large clumps of desis glued together, a completely isolated social entity, remaining aloof from the wider student community at large. This apparently peculiar phenomenon is completely justified in every sense: after all, the yearning for the familiar and the comfortable - everyone can just be themselves with other Indians, there's no need for accents or any other pretentions, and one can liberally spew gaalis and know they're being understood - must be satisfied. All I can suggest to aspiring students, at the end of this inane analysis, is to resist the urge to stay desi, and to try and homogenise oneself with the global crew. There are people dwelling just beyond our nationalistic confines, people with wider perspectives and broader cultural backgrounds, who will guide you through new experiences, divergent channels of reasoning and the myriad personalities inside your own head.
Perturbations
Whether you're at Oxford for two years or three, the nature of time itself will gradually begin to change itself for you. The many thousands of fractured moments, snapshots and freeze-frames of life in this corner of the world start to merge into one another, condensed and compressed into neat little boxes, while reality speeds up continually till you're left breathless in sheer bewilderment. Term-time especially just races by, for it's often necessary to submerge yourself in work, steadily paddling onward without distraction (although a perfect work-play balance is achievable, or so I've been told). It is so easy to submit oneself to the onslaught of experience that the future thunders into sight all too quickly, leaving one nauseous, unprepared and frazzled out of one's wits. It's therefore imperative that students plan their life-decisions for post-Oxford, or at least set the wheels of thought in motion. Many subversive factors do seep into the equation - as a word of caution. The idea of staying on in England is just dandy if one chooses to opt for an academic ethos and pursue further studies beyond one's scholarship (assuming monetary funding of some sort, which is a dubious and unreliable proposition in itself), but if you want to land a wankerish corporate job in The City of London, then you've got a problem. Work permits are notoriously and absurdly difficult to obtain, and desperate first-hand experiences with many dozen companies at the fag end of my time there have only consolidated in my mind the view that despite contributing so much to British life and culture, Indians are regularly brushed aside as third-rate citizens. Hostility based on racial prejudice in the UK isn't rife by any means, but it's definitely palpable - in fact, since it isn't overtly stated but instead covertly covered up under a suffocating blanket of political correctness, it's all the more devious and subliminally isolationist. Our expanding migrant workforce is a blatant threat to certain pockets within British society, and in some cases, is viewed with a kind of sepulchral intolerance that sporadically rears its ugly head in the form of hate crimes. This simmering countrywide sentiment makes it particularly hard to break the mould and integrate oneself with the machinations of British bureaucracy, specially within the job market (the UK no longer permits Indian doctors into residency, and alarmingly and inexplicably sources medical staff from impoverished African nations where AIDS and malaria are rampant, and the need for qualified doctors is desperate). It is, however, worth noting that there are a few schemes, instituted by the Home Office and entailing bare-minimal eligibility criteria, that allow certain students and migrant workers to procure a temporary visa or work permit with relative ease (SEGS, the Science and Engineering Graduate Scheme, is one such). All these considerations must ideally weigh heavily in the mind of a student in preparation for life and times overseas.
Nor were my run-ins with British 'bureaucrazy' restricted to prematurely aborted job-hunts. I was
(un)fortunate enough to witness and experience in first person that oft-mentioned red-taped, tight-collared and stiff-necked British approach to governance and The Law. One fateful summery morning post-final exams, I received notification from the University that my B.A. Project (an extended essay carrying roughly 12% of my overall mark) was being investigated under suspicion of plagiarism. This would mean an interview with the Senior Proctor of the University, followed by a University Court hearing if deemed trial-worthy, garnished with a possible nullification of the whole B.A. degree if held culpable. Clutching and clenching my stomach to hold down the bile, I tumbled headlong into the pit.
What transpired remains to me, without comparison, the strongest validation and recognition of the fact that justice always finds a way to prevail. However, this realization was accompanied by the worrisome discovery that a significant number of students happen to encounter the same torturous ordeal, in universities abroad and often in unwitting circumstances. My case was resolved at the court hearing, wherein 75% of the marks for the essay was deducted for 'incorrect methods of annotation and referencing'; this, oddly enough, was the best possible result I could have hoped for, given that the prosecution had argued for a complete wipeout. The same maniacal law enforcement makes itself evident in the cases of several international students (especially from India and the rest of Asia) who are guiltless scapegoats in a larger witch-hunt to locate the truly bad seeds within the academic fraternity. Attempting plagiarism can be an extremely hazardous endeavour, and the baying wolves are quick to close in on a perpetrator; indeed rightly so, for stealing someone else's work and passing it off as your own is a cowardly and dastardly act. There is, as a result, a fair price to pay for all this lunacy: several occurrences of students being caught in the net not because they plagiarise, but because they do not satisfy the University's code for referencing, annotating, punctuating and formatting. There are numerous regulations and articles in place, found in department handbooks and legally binding, that describe explicitly certain norms which must be strictly adhered to; a failure to recognize their significance is seen as flouting the rule of law and a very grave offence indeed. Students inexperienced in writing reports, essays or theses must therefore get firmly acquainted with the precise methodologies involved, unless they fancy a trip to Nowheresville.
'Of all elaborate plans, the end'
At times, it's hard to shake off the feeling that life is make-believe, sometimes a sadist's lucid dream, or on a good day, a highly sentient superbeing's acid trip. The past two years of my life have reflected magical and almost illusionary moments which, despite ebbing into nothing, leave behind their burnished essences. Oxford's wizardry is unique and brilliant, and it unleashes itself upon its inhabitants as a riotous orgy of sensory and meta-sensory stimuli. The gothic stone tapestries and medieval cathedrals that line its cobbled streets; the serpentine Cherwell and Isis rivers that make for magical summer afternoon picnics and punting expeditions; the crusty, chiselled hillscapes that stretch to the horizon; French markets and delicatessens, Evensongs and Christmas snowfall, street performers and bikerides through open meadows; karaoke nights and college socials (or Bops); experimental theatre and pantomime parties; lawn croquet tournaments and whimsical Sunday mornings spent over pints of cider and ale... I could wax eloquent for several pages more. I will, someday - a memoir or a paean would serve as an ideal tribute - but in the meantime, all I can offer is the unflinching guarantee that Oxford holds a wealth of experience for those who eventually do make the cut. I encourage students to apply without second thought, and even if the Rhodes application doesn't quite turn out like you hope, there are other scholarships like the Inlaks and the Felix that could launch you into the great beyond. Do the needful, trust yourself, and then hold your breath...
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