When I arrived in the UK in 1974, my official reason was simple: to become an engineer. That’s what I told immigration, what I wrote in my college application, and what my father believed when he waved me off in Sylhet.

But within a couple of years, I had traded textbooks for trade licenses. I left the classroom behind and threw myself into something far less predictable — running a business on Brick Lane.

I didn’t quit engineering because I lacked discipline or ability. I quit because I found something more urgent, more alive, more demanding: the business of survival, service, and, eventually, legacy.

Let me tell you why it was the best decision I ever made — and why I’ve never once looked back.

The Dream Was Noble — But It Wasn’t Mine

Becoming an engineer was never my dream. It was the dream passed down — from village elders, from my hardworking father, from a community that saw education as the golden ticket to security.

And they weren’t wrong. Education was the escape plan — from poverty, from colonial legacy, from rural limits.

But the reality I walked into in East London didn’t match that map. Rent was due. My brother’s shop needed help. I was working part-time, studying full-time, and learning more about business behind the counter than I ever did in the classroom.

I began to question the script I had inherited.

The First Sale That Changed Everything

One afternoon, I was working in the shop when a man walked in asking if we had music cassettes from Dhaka. We didn’t. But I told him to come back in two weeks.

In those two weeks, I found a supplier, ordered five tapes, and put them on display.

He came back. He bought all five. The next day, he brought three friends. Within a month, I was ordering boxes.

That one transaction showed me something engineering never had: I could create demand. I could solve problems. I could move fast and be rewarded immediately.

It wasn’t theory. It was action. It was mine.

The Day I Left Class — And Never Returned

I remember it clearly. It was winter. I was sitting in a lecture, surrounded by students from all over the world, listening to a professor talk about circuit design.

Outside the window, the streets of Whitechapel buzzed. I thought about my brother restocking shelves. I thought about the customers asking for new products. I thought about the energy of the market — fast, loud, unpredictable.

That’s when I knew: I don’t belong here. Not right now.

I walked out. Not in anger. Not in failure. Just in clarity.

I had found my calling. And it wasn’t buried in blueprints.

What I Gained by Leaving the Classroom

People assume that if you leave formal education, you stop learning. Nothing could be further from the truth.

When I left college, my real education began. I learned:

• How to negotiate in four languages.
• How to spot trends before they became mainstream.
• How to handle angry customers and fragile suppliers.
• How to price, present, pitch, and pivot.

I studied the street like a syllabus. Every invoice was a lesson. Every sale was a grade. Every mistake was a pop quiz I had to pass or pay for.

And over time, I earned my credentials — not on paper, but in pounds, partnerships, and reputation.

The Backlash — and the Proof

Of course, not everyone approved. My father was heartbroken. Some relatives whispered that I had “wasted my chance.” Even some friends called me foolish.

But I didn’t argue. I just kept building.

And when I opened my first warehouse, when I started distributing electronics across the UK, when I flew to Japan as a Panasonic partner — those same people started asking for advice.

The best response to doubt is not defence. It’s results.

A Message to Anyone at a Crossroads

If you’re reading this and feeling torn — between the safe route and the one that excites you — I won’t tell you to follow your heart blindly. I’ll tell you to listen carefully to what you’re learning from life.

Sometimes, the classroom will take you far. Sometimes, the street will take you further.

I don’t regret leaving engineering. I’m grateful for it. It taught me precision, logic, structure.

But business taught me people. It taught me resilience. It taught me how to build something that lasts beyond a job title.

Final Thoughts

I didn’t set out to sell cassettes. I set out to create freedom — and cassettes happened to be the first door that opened.

That door led to Harper, to property, to politics, to legacy.

And it all started when I chose to walk away from the expected path — not in rebellion, but in alignment with what life was trying to teach me.

Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is leave the thing that looks like success to find the thing that feels like purpose.

I did. And I’ve never looked back.