Svadesi or Svidesi? An NRI’s meanderings on a long and winding road

An NRI’s meanderings on a long and winding road (with apologies to The Beatles)

I grew up (at least vertically) in Bombay in the late eighties, when the air was thick with exam fever. Everyone around me was preparing for engineering entrance, medical entrance, or the SAT/TOEFL. The instruction manual was clear: graduate from an engineering college (bonus points if it had an IIT in front), secure a Master’s in an incomprehensible subject somewhere in America, land a job in a company with three initials, and return “home” once a year flashing a new accent and a blue or maroon passport.

Laudable? Absolutely. But ‘tis not my story.

My own grasp of maths and science was shaky at best – I could count to twenty (with assistance from fingers and toes) and learned about “denaturation” from my mother’s yelling when the milk boiled over. I was the language nerd. While others wrestled with equations, I was writing essays on The Autobiography of an Umbrella. Discovering French in high school only made matters worse. Now the umbrella had a French accent: L’autobiographie d’un parapluie.

I studied French Literature and Economics, emerging as a Bombay University “first” (technically true: I was the only one to pick that combination). Then I hit a career conundrum: my father wanted law, my mother offered unconditional support, and I wanted the Army. The Army, in turn, politely suggested that my eyesight might fell more crows than enemy combatants.

Fate, of course, had other plans.

An internship at a French bank in Bombay put me in the path of a boss who nudged me toward management studies in France. A few months later I walked into ESCP Business School in Paris – the world’s oldest business school. At twenty-three, I became its first Indian student. It felt like carrying the tricolour on my shoulders, though really it was just a heavy suitcase and a French accent practised in the mirror.

I pictured myself brainstorming ads for L’Oréal in a Marais café, revolutionising shampoo bottles. Instead, Europe introduced the Euro and promptly put its job market into a coma. French citizens struggled to get jobs; I didn’t even make the radar. The education loan monster lurked, my visa ticked down, and the Parisian dream evaporated faster than a puddle in the Sahara.

When Paris shut its doors, Africa flung open a window. Cue Nigeria. A company manufacturing industrial durables offered me a role in Lagos, managing export sales to French West Africa. My first product line? Not shampoos but aluminium roofing sheets. It was a job – albeit in a country under military rule, on a continent I’d never set foot on. Nigeria, and West Africa in general, was chaotic, charming, and occasionally terrifying. Soldiers with AK-47s melted when offered a can of coke. My sales office had a goat stationed loyally at the front door. I built sales teams, negotiated in markets where rules changed daily, and learned to laugh when things inevitably went wrong.

Nigeria was a crash course in humility and adventure. It also planted something in my spirit: a taste for the “non-traditional”.

I returned to India with a contract from L’Oréal (beware of dreams coming true). After three years of marketing hair colour and creams, my restless spirit (discovered one evening in Amsterdam) pushed me into advertising in Bombay. This fugue state continued until a Mumbai flood left me stranded in a car for two days, and I decided to move anywhere without rain. A call from a friend in Dubai sealed it. I naturally landed on the one day it rained in Dubai.

Dubai has been home for nearly two decades. Lovingly called “India’s cleanest city,” with governance and systems that work. Where the dirham is called rupya, Arabs speak Hindi, and Shah Rukh Khan is part of the furniture.

Professionally, my road zigged and zagged. I made award-winning ads and some that were suited to a ward. I produced the world’s first reality singing show for blue-collar workers in the UAE – not glamorous, but deeply human.

And then, like for everyone else, Covid arrived.

Covid drove me into what LinkedIn politely calls “skills enhancement.” Digital marketing, social media, and finally, wine. France had planted the seed years earlier; lockdown gave me the time. I studied about, wrote about wine, and recently started a Sunday blog about wine, weaving it into non-traditional cultures such as India and South East Asia. In September 2025, I became the first Indian to win the Judges’ Choice Award in the Jancis Robinson Wine Writing Competition. I also published my first book – short stories inspirited by the challenges of Covid, in English and French.

Looking back, the pattern is obvious. My career (and life) has been less “ladder” and more “rollercoaster.” Paris, Lagos, Kolkata, Dubai, with stints in Amsterdam and London in between – each journey taught me something about resilience, humour, and the universality of human ambition. Speaking five languages didn’t just open doors; it opened hearts. Whether it was a Yoruba trader in Kano, a Malayali shopkeeper in Dubai, or a French poet quoting Baudelaire in a smoky bar, the accents changed but the emotions didn’t.

What I’ve learnt along the way:

1. Planning is a choice. Resilience is not.
2. Humour is the best survival skill when life insists on chaos.
3. Languages open more worlds than passports ever can.
4. The road less travelled is slower, but the scenery is worth it.

As for what comes next – since Dubai doesn’t offer permanent residency or citizenship, I may yet end up back in India as a “Newly Returned Indian.” But whether I’m Svadesi or Svidesi, I’ve learned that the road less travelled rarely has signposts – but it does come with better stories. And if my meanderings inspire others – well, I’ll raise a glass of wine to that!

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About the Author

 Shishir is a communications consultant, wine blogger, and author. Many years ago, he packed his dreams for Paris and ended up in Lagos, which turned out to be far more interesting. After meandering through eight countries, he now lives in the UAE.

Shishir has written two books of short stories in English (Stillness In The Air) and French (Respire, Résiste, Réinvente), though he’s still unsure which language makes him sound more profound. He also writes a blog on wines for non-traditional cultures, timed to land in inboxes just around Sunday lunch.

When not pairing wine with instant noodles, he reflects on the strange, often hilarious ways life reroutes us. This story is true, unfortunately. He can be reached on shishir.baxi@gmail.com