“Golden days in the sunshine of a happy youth, Golden days, full of innocence and full of truth ...”   Thus sang the hero of “The Student Prince”, a light opera from Grandpa’s days. And no doubt, apart from his doomed romance with a commoner, the prince had good reason to be happy, having had all his arrangements made for him, much like the tremendous number of students who go abroad for higher education nowadays, with most if not all arrangements made by Mummy and Daddy, who are only an email or a skype call away, regardless of the thousands of miles between them.

Times have changed so much, competition in today’s world is so fierce, and it is quite a joy to hear parents say that their children are studying literature, music and so on — in whatever part of the world — despite the current trend of taking degrees pointing to careers in finance or management, with the background music of crumbling banks and sinking consumer economies.

I myself grew up in what the mystical poet and artist William Blake would have called “the green and pleasant land” of New Zealand, with no industrial or other revolution looming as in his England. We’d wake up to the joyous chirping of blackbird, thrush and sparrow, while the perfume of Mum’s red roses and Michaelmas daisies wafted in through our open windows. Venturing out onto the verandah we’d see the mysterious forest on the neighbour’s land, the kingfishers sitting on the power lines, the primary school just across the paddocks.

We never gave university a thought, as that was the haunt of the genius, born with one silver spoon in his mouth, and a couple more in his pocket for good measure. But one day after our mid-year exams in Standard Four (age 10-11), the headmaster descended upon our classroom, not to admonish us, but to embarrass the life out of me by heaping praises upon my innocent head for my exam essay on coal, and to encourage me to do my utmost in school and prepare for a university career.

I paid no heed to this, but finally it was time to enter high school, with the word “university” ever ringing in our ears, and our teachers grooming the studious among us to take degrees, and to be ready to do battle amongst the arrayed forces and the tumult of the conch shells as future leaders in society. In those days, I might add, even to be attending university was really marvellous in the eyes of most citizens, while to have a bachelor’s degree was to have reached the pinnacle of success.

Entrance to university depended upon a University Entrance exam pass certificate, unless one was at least 21 years of age, and could furnish proof of education at least up to School Certificate standard. UE as it was commonly called entitled one to a small bursary paying half of one’s lecture fees and enrollment expenses, the system being designed in part to help those wanting to help themselves.

Nowadays the minimum requirement for New Zealand nationals is a pass in the New Zealand Certificate of Education exams, and universities boast of giving $NZ 30 million per annum in grants that cover the course fees of $600-$1000 per subject per year, and may provide living expenses as well. But a lot of this is repayable, and places a tremendous burden upon those who in today’s world just cannot find jobs at home or abroad. And for those living abroad with jobs or without, there’s always the chance that a New Zealand Government collection officer will come pounding on your door, demanding an explanation for non-repayment. So with the current trend of “no degree, no job”, many parents who would otherwise have been proud to see their children ploughing their own furrows, support them through university rather than have them start their careers under crippling debt.

Anyway, against the advice of my parents and Grandpa, who insisted that I was batty, I sallied forth a couple of months after the exam ordeal to enroll in that holy of holies, the University of Auckland. To a child raised in the heart of the countryside, this was an adventure equal in magnitude to St. Brendan’s 5th century voyages of discovery. And for one used to a high school with a couple of acres of green playing fields, creeping alone with sinking heart into the university campus by the back gate — since that was close to public transport — was like entering a huge and austere labyrinth to which there was no key.

After all, what was the value of my prized ideas and ideals compared with the rumblings of the universe? And what did life hold after graduation anyway? Had I entered from Princes Street, facing the well-manicured and utterly lovely Albert Park, and featuring the ornate facade and towers of the main building, which gave the place the nickname of “the Wedding Cake”, I might have felt more joy, and been closer in fact to the administration department from where I received my enrollment and course plan forms.

Accustomed to student tears, the professors of the various departments gave me very good and kind advice in plotting my course. Then on 3rd March came the first English lecture, given by the diminutive, prematurely grey Dr Sheppard in her proportionately diminutive voice. Her subject, Old English, was quite unpopular, but when I asked her one day to lend me her lecture notes, since I hadn’t understood her lecture at all, she blossomed, and gave me a short list of very helpful books to consult. Dr Pflaum of the Philosophy Department was a different kettle of fish, one who delighted in inviting us to ask questions, giving explanations “ignotium per ignotius”, then ridiculing the brave and confused petitioner. To this day Political Philosophy Professor Anschutz’s laughing remarks about planned obsolescence still ring in my ears, along with the jokes of Willie, the goofy student cafeteria genius, whose aim was to dispel the pre-exam black depression gnawing at one’s vitals.

Nowadays, despite the cost there are many more students, and many more options including the special Maori PhD courses designed for the original Polynesian settlers in New Zealand, plus Cook Island immigrants. And one looks back happily on one’s student days.

The writer lives in Karachi and is a student of Tibetan Buddhism.