On choices: reflections from two beautiful books

From time to time, social media erupts with debates about "right" choices and "wrong" choices. The subjects of the choices revolve around marriage, children, and lately, the working hours of a PhD student. I have often found these discussions leading to an angry (almost vitriolic) exchange of opinions. Somehow, this theme touches people in a rather raw way at the most vulnerable spots in their minds and hearts. This makes it nearly impossible to have a reasonable discourse on these forums.

In complete contrast, two books that I read recently presented thoughtful perspectives on the theme of choice, and helped me to reflect (without unnecessary noise and anxieties) on how we make and own our choices.

The two books, "The Memory Keeper's Daughter" by Kim Edwards and "The Real Deal: Lessons, Learnings and Laughter for Girl Scientists" by Karishma Kaushik belong to wildly different genres. The first book, based in Kentucky and Pennsylvania, is a fictional narrative spanning three decades from the 1960s to the 1980s. The second is the memoir of a contemporary Indian scientist who has experienced the scientific ecosystem in India and USA, and who has contributed to science in multiple ways: as a medical doctor, researcher, educator, science communicator, and as a leader of a national science programme.

"The Memory Keeper's Daughter" is based on a premise reminiscent of Bollywood movies from that era: Dr. Henry, who helps his wife deliver twins at his clinic, realizes that the second-born child shows signs of Down syndrome. While his wife is unconscious, he hands over the baby to the nurse, Caroline Gill, with instructions to take the child to a nearby institution. The wife, on regaining consciousness, is told that her baby is dead and has been cremated. Caroline, on entering the premises of this institution, is so revulsed by the atmosphere that she makes an instant decision to adopt the child. As the wife mourns the demise of her daughter, Caroline relocates with the baby to a different state (after informing the doctor), and starts a new life. So far, this is a dramatic (and if one may say so, hard to believe) story. But soon after, the book evolves into a reflective account of the individual journeys of the protagonists: how they face the consequences of the sudden choices made by them over the years, and how people close to them are affected without even being aware of what had transpired in the first place. 

We see Dr. Henry living under the pressure of his choice, and gradually becoming distant from the rest of his family because he cannot communicate with them. While there is an effort on the part of the author to explain to the reader why he made the choice he did, there is an undercurrent of regret, guilt and missed opportunities, an undercurrent that he is consistently aware of. With respect to the relationship with his family, "the lie had grown up between them like a rock, forcing them to grow oddly too, like trees twisting around a boulder." [1] He finds solace in photography and finds recognition as a photographer, hosting art shows all over the world. However, he is painfully aware that photo after photo, he has been trying to "make an image powerful enough to obscure the moment when he turned and handed his daughter to Caroline Gill." [2]

Caroline, on the other hand, patiently raises the child, building a supportive community consisting of her understanding employer, a loving partner and other parents raising children with Down syndrome. She fights the education board of Pennsylvania to get her daughter (and other children like her) a place in the formal education system, witnesses the milestones in her growth and makes arrangements for the time when she would no longer be around to take care of her daughter. What keeps her moving forward is her acceptance that while this was not the life she had imagined or dreamed of, it was "her life, built with care and attention, and it was good." [3]

Based on how the lives of both the protagonists play out, we learn the difference between being imprisoned by a choice versus being nurtured by your choice (and, in turn, nurturing your choice through resilience, love, and community). Dr. Kaushik's "The Real Deal", while belonging to a completely different genre, has plenty to offer with respect to the "nurture/nurturing" aspect of choices. The book, is, of course, about much more. The first half of the book is an account of her experience, struggles, learnings and reflections as a scientist donning multiple hats, while balancing her career and family, especially motherhood. The second half is an exposition of larger issues surrounding science in India, including factors which prevent women scientists from growing into their full potential. Some comprehensive reviews have been written on the book; see, for example, this excellent review by Aditi Jain. 

I have read the first half of the book so far. It speaks straight to the heart on the theme of choices, both in the professional and the personal context. We read the story of a woman who actively makes choices based on her interests and strengths, and works hard to meet the challenges that the choices entail. There are honest accounts of vulnerable moments when she feels she may have hit a wall. For example, she describes the time when she did not hear back from grad schools in her first attempt to apply for a PhD: as a medical doctor with an MD from one of India's most prominent medical institutions, she wondered if her career was over before it started. Through discussions with her spouse, she found a way around this impasse and went on to pursue a PhD. Mr. K encouraged her to volunteer her time at a laboratory in the University of California system, close to where they lived. This would not only give her an experience of the American research ecosystem, but also add strength to her application the next time over. For someone keen on doing a PhD, this was a resourceful and productive way to deal with the situation at hand. As we read the book, we come to learn about several situations beyond her control where a less resourceful person would have given up or descended into cynicism. The book does not shy away from recounting the challenges in pursuing a science career. These include insufficient professional support for young mothers doing a PhD, inadequate resources at state universities, mind-numbing bureaucracy, and incoherent hiring policies at several institutions. But, the undercurrent in this book is that of optimism, openness to opportunities (even when one does not have everything figured out from the word go), and high-agency behaviour.

While reading "The Real Deal", I also got a chance to reflect on another valuable component of "choice-making": learning to make a choice from the point of view of strength rather than a point of view of weakness. We must learn to develop an accurate understanding of our skills, preparation and strengths (professional and otherwise), and keep these at the center of our choices. I observed the protagonist practicing this at many places, and this is among the features that I loved most about the book. She weighed her options and made choices based not only on what an opportunity was offering to her, but also on what she was going to offer to the opportunity. An adequate conviction in our "strong points" gives us the emotional flexibility to consider all angles in our choice, and to be true to our priorities and goals. Choosing and acting from a position of weakness, sadly, does not gain us any brownie points. Instead, it makes us ignore important factors in a choice. It also enables other people to cross boundaries and make unreasonable demands on our time and energy.

Sometimes, our circumstances dictate a certain choice. Sometimes, the choice makes itself. That is, even as we are noting the pros and cons of different options, an event beyond our control leaves us only with one option. Responding to such choices is an exercise in character-building: one tries to find the best way forward while not letting the feeling of victimhood take over our response. On the other hand, in some situations in life, we find ourselves at the crossroads of multiple possibilities, with the freedom to choose the path that suits us best. This is also an exercise in character-building. We learn to balance different parameters of a choice, including our professional training, personal preferences, and family commitments (not necessarily in this order). We learn to discuss, with an open mind, the choice with multiple stakeholders who will be affected by the choice. We learn to seek support for our choices from the right people, and also provide support to them in their choices. We learn to let go of the frustration when a choice does not work out, fully accepting our agency in that choice and also acknowledging that not everything pans out as we thought it would.

I am really glad I redirected my energies from scrolling on social media to reading both these books while reflecting on what goes into making a choice and owning it. Reading these books gave me an opportunity to observe choices from the perspective of those making it. In social media discourse, people judge and question the choices of others on the basis of their own personal needs and desires. But reading well-written books helps us develop the maturity and nuance to view situations from the point of view of people making their own choices. This, in turn, can often generate valuable lessons for ourselves. Can we practice the self-discipline and humility to not burden protagonists with our own voices when reading or hearing about their choices and lives?

[1] Page 258-259, "The Memory Keeper's Daughter" by Kim Edwards, Penguin Books, First Edition, 2005.

[2] Page 274, "The Memory Keeper's Daughter".

[3] Page 253-254, "The Memory Keeper's Daughter".

Only with time

This semester, I am teaching a batch of students from the 4th year of our Integrated BS-MS programme. Technically, they are at a level equivalent to first year MSc students. Last week, while discussing properties of the Fourier transform with them, I suggested that in case they forget a certain property or formula, but need it, they should not hesitate to work it out by applying the basic definition of a Fourier transform. "Since there's only a handful of you, you will almost certainly get extra time to finish your quiz or exam," I joked. Before I knew it, I started reflecting loudly on an important change that happens gradually in our lives around their age. Up to a certain point in life, academic success almost exclusively depends on how quickly one can answer questions (correctly) in a time-bound exam. But, as we transition into adult life, success or progress in a career (and other parts of life) depends on how much time we are willing to give to a task at hand. 

I was thinking about what my students would be doing in their fifth year and onwards: working on research projects for their MS thesis and beyond. This would involve learning new topics on their own outside of a structured curriculum, often from research papers which are not easy to read. It would involve spending time on answering a new question for which no hints are given at the end of a textbook. There will be no assurance that the answer will arrive, or about when it will arrive. Any progress will be visible after long days and months of tedious calculations and focused thinking on a topic. One will make mistakes, and correct them time and again. The same holds for other areas of our lives: health, fitness, developing personal relationships or learning new skills. A functional adult life is a direct consequence of how much time we devote to whatever we take up (sometimes by choice and sometimes by compulsion), and how patiently we wait for growth or progress.

Many games that we learn in our childhood, such as arranging jigsaw pieces, building objects out of lego pieces and playing chess train us to be generous with time along with concentration. For that matter, even in the exam-dictated part of our lives, the ability to perform well in restricted timelines comes from long hours, days and months of dedicated, unapologetic practice. Thinking or taking quick action on your feet when time is short comes when you have practiced something for long. For example, while learning to play tennis, the backhand motion takes long to learn for many of us (true at least for me). But, a few months of practice down the line, we don't even think for a second when there is a need to use it. Delivering a decent lecture requires a long preparation time. The shorter the lecture time, the longer you have to spend in organizing the essential ideas in order to communicate them without going over time. As Pascal pointed out, even writing short letters takes time. Almost everything meaningful in life requires time and patience. 

Taking time to do something has multiple aspects. The first is the "woodpecker" aspect: the basic "action" level of spending time on activities. This time is to be devoted, either in short, regular chunks of time, or in long chunks, based on the situation. On a regular basis, we set aside time daily for an activity, preferably during hours when there is minimal chance of being disturbed. When a project is stuck or nearing completion, we dedicate larger chunks of time to it, at the cost of ignoring or postponing some other tasks.  During collaborations, things often get sorted out while the collaborators are visiting each other, as opposed to meeting online. While time-bound, regular online (or offline) meetings ensure progress, a collaboration visit nudges all parties to put aside other activities for a while, and spend long hours thinking about something at a stretch. This often accelerates a project out of a rut, and this is precisely why summer time (when we don't have to worry about teaching schedules) is so valuable for scientists. But, in any case, whether in regular periods or in larger, continuous chunks, the woodpecker aspect is about chipping away at something.

The second is the "washing machine" aspect [1]. This aspect is about putting in the time to go through a process. For example, this involves waiting patiently for an experiment to run its course and yield the results. Situations, where we take action, and wait for the consequences, however long it may take. Those of us who waited for visa appointments in the Covid and post-Covid periods will relate to this. There is nothing we can do while the process is going on, other than regular monitoring and paper-work.  The medical treatment to recover from an illness is part of this category. We go through the course of treatment and wait for healing. To a large extent, the endeavour to get fitter could also be considered as an example here. One makes a (hopefully, sustainable) diet and exercise plan, follows it diligently and waits for as long as it takes for the body to respond. 

Then, there is a third "flower blooming" aspect, one of the most important aspects of any scholarly activity. This aspect is about working with a new idea or method, and waiting for time to shape it into different manifestations and applications. Our duty, which is the equivalent of watering and nurturing a plant, is to actively reflect upon the meaning of the idea by thinking about it, making a regular effort to write and rewrite it, and by finding out its connections with other ideas and problems. We try not to let it go unheeded, as we wait for it to "bloom". As an idea blooms, we revisit, polish, review and reframe it over time. As students, this aspect of time comes into play in our journey of learning. While a course introduces a topic, the learning, understanding and absorption of the content will take much longer than a semester and will be each student's individual journey. Here is the translation of a beautiful Sanskrit verse shared by my colleague, Professor Pavan Kumar: "One fourth from the teacher, one fourth from own intelligence, one fourth from classmates, and one fourth only with time".

[1] Most posts on this blog are written during long linen-wash cycles. 

One day at a time, one step at a time

An experience that most functioning adults face is that of building up a routine with great effort, only to have it come crashing down in the face of an unexpected adversity.  Sometime in the summer of 2024, I found myself in such a situation. A health crisis in my family meant that I had to stay away from IISER for about six weeks.  My family dealt with the crisis wisely by putting together all the support systems and structures.  We all did what was necessary, and somehow managed to keep our work lives going (even if remotely). In my case, that meant regularly corresponding with my students and colleagues, and taking care of other urgent administrative work (such as preparing budgets for conference grants, following up with our grants office, submitting course outlines etc).  But, I soon realized that I was unable to focus on anything that required "deep work": I could not concentrate on my ongoing research projects, and my usual writing routine could not withstand the shock of the situation. One of my collaborative projects was gaining speed at this time, and while I joined all the meetings, it was actually the collaborators who were pulling all the weight during this phase while I started blankly at the screen. 

After the family situation was better, I returned to campus.  Nevertheless, there was a thick fog in the mind, possibly due to the stress of the situation and several weeks of irregular sleep. I was finding it hard to recover despite being back on home ground. Soon, there was another month-long phase of travel, and the writing routine seemed at its lowest ebb.

The redemption came in September in the form of an eight-day-long vacation in Kashmir that I had planned long before the family crisis had erupted. I was to stay for the whole duration in a quiet hill station called Yousmarg, known for its beautiful meadows. While planning the vacation (or more appropriately, the stay-cation), I had hoped to be in a completely relaxed state of mind after a summer of conferences and paper submissions, and to possibly start something afresh. But, it was not to be: the version of me that reached Yousmarg was terribly anxious at falling behind in all her research projects, and was struggling with low attention span. This could not continue.

So, I made a plan: I decided to focus on just one project and devote a few hours every morning to it. I also planned to work on the project for the rest of the day, but the latter part could be more flexible, combined by walking around Yousmarg, reading [1], or taking a nap, based on my mood and energy levels. The strategy was to start small and do a little bit every day.  In fact, I started with proof-reading some parts that had already been written by my collaborators, and promised not to judge myself even if it took me all day to understand some steps of a proof.  The important thing was to make some progress everyday, and regain my attention span in small increments.

It worked! 

The lack of internet at the hotel worked like elixir for someone looking to regain their attention span. I waded through all the project-related material (downloaded before the travel), line by line, step by step. Since I could not type on Overleaf or connect to my collaborators, I made notes and zeroed down on a couple of points that looked troublesome. The walks around the hotel became more pleasant while I thought these points over [2]. 

By the end of my trip, I found myself up-to-speed with all that had happened in the project during the summer, except for a couple of points. This may well have been the first ``vacation" in which I got to relax, while also working without anxiety. Soon after returning to Pune, I resumed my teaching duties (the post-midsem part of a second year course on probability to a large class) and regular meetings with students. At this time, I spoke to a friend who had recently overcome a similar challenge. She had survived a much more difficult situation, and was able to walk me through the different stages of regaining focus. "When the fog lifts, you will know; until then, one has to keep doing whatever we can."

While the ``fog" had still not lifted completely, the sunlight had started to filter in. My energy levels and attention span were both coming back, and the stability of not having to travel for the next three months motivated me to double down on the project. On the morning of the Mahalaya, I made a to-do list of literature search and writing needed to take care of some sections of the paper. The aim, everyday, was to not leave the study table until the task for that day had been completed. By the morning of Vijaya Dashmi, I had completed multiple sections, and had also corrected the points which were troubling me in Yousmarg. 

For those who know what I am talking about, these points had to do with some subtleties in the relationship between the symmetric-power L-functions for Hecke newforms and the Rankin-Selberg L-functions; with the corrections in place, all the subsequent sections had to be modified.  Our project is to find explicit constants in the zero-free regions for modular L-functions, and every estimate has to be noted and incorporated carefully and precisely into the "master" equations.  Soon after Diwali, our team of collaborators resumed our weekly meetings (we are working between three countries and four time zones).  In complete contrast to the summer, I was now eagerly engaged in the meetings, and would enthusiastically look forward to them through the day.  This is when I knew that the fog had lifted completely. We started working on each section, and over the last month, have cleaned up the manuscript and written out the proof of our main theorem. We are now in the final stages of the article, and the month of December will be spent in proof-reading and finalizing the draft. The feeling of showing up well-prepared for every meeting and absorbing all the insights from collaborators to improve one's understanding of the project is priceless. I enjoy working on this project every morning, and it is such a relief to have overcome the writing inertia of the summer months.

The writing routine is back, but with a realization that adversities and shocks can strike unexpectedly. Regaining one's focus requires kindness to oneself and some flexibility in work habits. It requires us to control where we spend our time and energy, but without slipping into victim mode (as my friend wisely pointed out). Above all, it is about taking one step at a time, one day at a time, consistently. If something looks intimidating (as it naturally will, if we are recovering from a situation which took us away from something we were doing regularly), break down the task into small steps, and focus on one step at a time without negative self-talk. Replace "Why I am I so stupid?" with "What exactly is the problem in this step?" Replace "Why am I so slow?" by "What progress have I made since yesterday? What can I do next?" If the next step seems to invite procrastination, break it down into even smaller steps. 

In time, we build things back (we really do, however "low" we start), and at the same time, become non-judgmental observers of our own growth and progress. For those of us who have to write regularly, the progress becomes visible in the form of all the new sections that were typed up. It can be quite revealing to compare the current version of something with what it was a month ago. While you were taking one little step every day (and possibly wondering if this was enough), your draft was growing bigger and more wholesome, the extent of which can be noted a month later.

Starting tomorrow, I will be busy with preparations for a major conference from 09-13 December at IISER Pune.  The rest of the month will be spent in conference travel and time with my family. Will I be able to guard my morning writing routine through all of this? And if there is a crack, can I bounce back to normalcy by taking one step at a time? We will leave these questions for a future blog post.

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[1] I specifically chose the letters and poems of Emily Dickinson because the Sangarmal hotel at Yousmarg, where I stayed, reminded me of her homestead. But, I may have chosen the wrong collection of letters. This particular collection contained many letters in which she is exhorting her friends, in moving language, to reply to her letters and not ignore her. These letters made me very angry with her friends, and may have drained my mental energies a little. 

[2] The walking, however, had other consequences. People in Yousmarg are extremely friendly; the thought of a (female) tourist walking all alone on a cold day is unbearable to them and they will take you to their homes and serve tea. The personal connections made through such interaction are invaluable, and sometimes, one just has to postpone the Math to the privacy of the hotel room and garden :-) 

Thoughts on a semester gone by

Some time in the middle of January, after concluding a three-month long stretch of nearly back-to-back travel (mostly for conferences), I was relieved to be back at my work desk. The Spring 2024 semester had just started, and a plan for the next four months (which, fortunately, did not involve any travel) had been chalked out: there was a course to be taught, and a couple of research projects to be pursued. Preparation had to be made for upcoming departmental evaluations, and plenty of reviewing work loomed ahead. In addition, buoyed up by my self-discipline (most of the time) in eating habits during this particular phase of travel, I resolved to give my best to personal fitness goals for the few travel-free months ahead. I now saw the "home front" as a valuable resource to be leveraged (and guarded zealously) for personal and professional goals. 

I've had varying degrees of successes and challenges in different activities. Let me start with a mini-success: I've kept a regular running, Yoga and strength-training routine going over the last few months, in addition to a well-balanced diet. As a result, I am now down to a weight that I last enjoyed more than 12 years ago, and continue to make progress. Both my gym trainer and Yoga instructor have expressed satisfaction at my improvement in exercise performance and Asana practice; in fact, the Yoga instructor has encouraged me to move up to the next level of training. In June 2024, I will start training at the intermediate level (up from the newcomer to continuing beginner level at which I have trained until now) at Pune's most formidable Yoga institute, and have to make an even bigger commitment to regularity, concentrated efforts and personal practice.

Yoga is not for narcissists. It gives you a sharp reality-check about what you've been doing to yourself all these years. It forces you to face your weaknesses squarely, and work on them with patience and humility. Needless to say, the larger goal of Yoga practice is for this attitude to expand to other areas of life beyond the Yoga mat, and life does give you plenty of opportunities (and hard knocks) to apply these learnings.

Post mid-semester, one challenge after another presented itself. Some of these challenges were pleasant in as much as I looked forward to doing the work to meet them. For example, one of my research projects is currently going through a phase of trial and error in which we are trying many different techniques to execute an important calculation. No sense of intuition is coming to our aid to suggest a way forward, and we continue to hammer on. Another interesting thing that happened was that in my class of six well-prepared and motivated students, we managed to finish more than 90 % of the syllabus before the midsem. Based on student feedback and requests, we moved to an advanced topic which was, frankly, quite new to me as well. The lecture preparation took very long, and cut into the time reserved for other work, including research projects, but has been a valuable learning experience (certainly for me, and hopefully for the students as well). Nevertheless, challenges in research and teaching only motivate us to work harder, and every little step of progress brings joy.

The problem arises when academic challenges such as the above are overshadowed by other incidents that are not in alignment with our professional training and goals. In the last couple of weeks, the institute collectively faced an unexpected and distressing situation, which drained out a good deal of energy and enthusiasm from many of us. As I prepared myself to face the situation with patience and resilience, it took much of the sheen off my academic activities: my primary energies, which should have gone into research and teaching, were now occupied in apprehending what was to come next. Thanks to the persistent efforts of our registrar, and proactive engagement by some of my colleagues, the situation is now resolved. 

I wish I could say with honesty that I welcomed the new experience, and that I am grateful for it. But, I cannot. The only silver lining through this whole episode was that it taught me to show up for everything else in my schedule, including research, teaching, and workout sessions without making excuses. It also taught me that however terrible or anxious you are feeling, spending time doing math and pursuing fitness activities (basically, following your structure to meet your own goals) helps. Sometimes, "self-care" just means getting your work done so that a situation does not get worse. This was my lesson for the semester: how not to make things worse for myself and others.

Ten years at IISER Pune

It's a day for celebration and reflection. I officially complete a decade at IISER Pune. This marks another interesting milestone: this is the longest that I have ever lived anywhere. The previous record was spending 5 years at Queen's University in Kingston where I got my Master's and PhD. Other than that, I have never lived at any place for more than three years. 

The move to IISER Pune was an adventure, and happened in a rather sudden and unexpected manner. I have written about it here. Nonetheless, it turned out to be one of my best decisions, even though restarting a faculty position here was not without struggles and anxieties. 

1. 2013 - 2016. 

As I look back, I feel that the first three years, 2013-2016 were the most difficult: this was the phase when all sorts of challenges presented themselves in rapid succession, personal as well as professional. I experimented with new projects and many of them failed one after the other (or perhaps, I did not spend enough time on them due to an inherently anxious nature). As I now understand, this is an essential part of academic growth and happens to many early career scientists. But, at that time, it caused a good amount of grief and with every successive failure, I had recurring thoughts of self doubt. The healthy, non judgmental, non competitive peer support available during graduate school and postdoctoral training days had disappeared: I could no longer talk openly about my struggles with peers.  I felt stressed out and disempowered. There just did not seem to be any respite, and at one time I even wondered if I would always be unhappy, and left alone at the sidelines. [1]

2. 2016 - early 2020.

2016 was when things took a positive turn. This is the time that support systems around me (which I had only been vaguely aware of) kicked in through multiple channels. The first support system was at the level of mentorship at my institute. I spoke to a senior colleague who encouraged me to keep trying and not give up. Simply put, there is no denying these challenges: they are real and one has to put up a strong fight. I received some extremely helpful and empowering career advice at this stage: this was not a time to doubt one's abilities, but a time to put in concerted efforts. 

The second support system was at the level of my larger research community. I started writing to an expert in the topics that I was interested in: although he did not know me personally, he took time out to respond to my queries and generously shared his knowledge and ideas in great detail. His suggestions proved extremely valuable and helped take my work forward. This was also the phase when a project with my then PhD student, Neha Prabhu worked out beautifully. We had struck the surface of a beautiful theme at the interface of number theory and probability, namely central limit theorems in number theory, and received feedback from the reviewers and other experts that pointed to a bigger picture. It presented a wide variety of new questions to explore. This and other related questions that connect probability and number theory are now my main research interests. 2016 - 2019, therefore, was the phase when I gained clarity and confidence in my core research programme, and looked forward with hope. Nevertheless, some anxieties still simmered within, and I could not celebrate important milestones with much joy. 

3. March, 2020 - present.

In 2020, I feel that I entered a far more self-aware phase in my academic journey.  When the pandemic struck in early 2020, the solitude imposed by the lockdown forced many of us to look within with a keen eye. I noticed that I was vacillating between two contradictory feelings: the excitement presented by future research possibilities versus despondency and overwhelm that came with questions such as, "Is this it? Will I go further?" Why did I feel so low on energy and enthusiasm, I wondered. Thanks to self-reflection and efforts, 2020 - 2022 has turned into THE most important and fulfilling phase in my academic journey at IISER Pune. 

I learnt to focus on a few chosen research projects related to my core interests, and to grow consistently through these projects, step by step. I gained control over my time and energy: a few hours of writing each day brings a lot of self-assurance, generates energy and gives me the motivation and time to serve the academic community in ways that I am equipped to, such as teaching, mentoring, editorial work and science communication. At the same time, I have to consciously work on bringing about a balance in all these activities. One of the most important skills I've learnt is to set healthy boundaries in professional life as well as in personal interactions. I've learnt to recognize and say no to tasks which I know I would not be able to handle. In the pandemic times, I prioritised providing a listening ear to those who reached out for conversations and support. But, I also learnt to back off when the other party crossed boundaries without any thought about how their words and actions can affect other people. I've learnt to deal with anxieties. I've learnt to value feedback from experts and mentors, but I've also learnt not to seek validation from anyone other than myself. I've learnt to recognize the strong "inner critic" as one among many voices in my head, and not the sole voice to debilitating effect. While learning all of this has happened over a period of 10 years at IISER (or even longer), I do feel that most of it happened at the proverbial "last moment", that is, in the last couple of years.

I do not claim anything special in any of the above. Most of us learn these lessons at some point in our journeys: some, a little sooner than others. The reason I am mentioning all of this in a post on 10 years at IISER Pune is because I am grateful that my work place has provided me the space to learn these lessons, experiment, make mistakes and grow under its watchful (but not intrusive) gaze. The efficient administrative systems and the infrastructural framework at this institute act as enablers in every good way, and do their best to help people focus on science. As a glaring example, this was most evident in the pandemic phase when the institute administration kept us safe, healthy, and well-provided for in a city that remained a Covid hotspot for a long time.

What I am most grateful for is that over the last 10 years, IISER Pune has helped me become academically, professionally and personally independent in many ways, while also providing support networks at times when I needed them the most. From taking tottering steps in the beginning, I've learnt to take ownership of my journey. 

During evening walks, I often take the circular route in front of the main building. Sometimes, I simply stand and gaze at the building, and it seems to smile and say, "Keep going. I got you."

[1] I think I was the academic version of the protagonist in this famous Bollywood song in those days, forever searching for the elusive theorems.  The words "... another year later.." keep flashing on the screen as she looks increasingly morose.

Harivansh Rai Bachchan: an inspiring PhD story

We know Harivansh Rai Bachchan to be among the most distinguished and prolific poets in the 20th century.  Although he primarily wrote in Hindi, his formal academic training was in English literature, and he served as a faculty member in the Department of English at Allahabad University for several years.  He had a rich, multifaceted and eventful life, which he documents in his four-volume autobiography. The first volume describes his family, early life in Allahabad, his student days, and culminates in the passing away of his wife, Shyama ji, who succumbed to tuberculosis at a very young age.  In the second volume, he describes his further training and search for stability in his professional and personal life, meeting Teji Bachchan and starting a new life with her.  This volume essentially concludes with him getting a regular faculty position at the Allahabad University.  The third volume is the motivation behind this blog post: it covers the period in his life when he travels to Cambridge as a visiting student to pursue a deeper study of the poet William Butler Yeats, and stays on to obtain a PhD, becoming the second Indian (after Balachandra Rajan) to obtain a doctorate in English literature at Cambridge University [0]. In the fourth volume, he narrates his life after quitting academia, his move to Delhi to join the Ministry of External Affairs, and further developments as his children grow up. I am only a few pages into this volume, and have not been able to immerse myself fully into it.

A common theme in the first three volumes is that of the nearly continuous stream of struggles and upheavals in his life, and how he faced them with resilience and tremendous self-discipline.  He shares his emotional journey with candour, and does not hesitate in letting us see (and feel) his vulnerabilities as he deals with bereavement, career struggles, unexpected disappointments, rejections and failures. Poetry enthusiasts will appreciate his attempts to describe his creative thought process, and to explain some of his poems in the context of his life events at the time of composition.  

The third volume, "Basere Se Door" describes his PhD story, and offers us much to reflect upon and learn.  Many aspects of his journey mirror issues and situations that we think about and live through in academia.  This includes figuring out our academic goals (on our own, even if they are starkly different from that of our peers), taking steps to fulfil them (often involving life-changing decisions), staying focused on research while also dealing with anxieties due to not having job-certainty for long periods of time, balancing a feeling of contentment with a desire for growth in the phase when certainty arrives, the willingness to see oneself as a student all through our lives, and the mental flexibility to make tough choices if our perspective towards academia changes or if academia can no longer meet our needs. 

After finishing his Master's, he spent nearly 10 years holding temporary academic positions, including that of a high school teacher, research scholar and short term lecturer. After 10 years of uncertainty in his professional life, he obtained a regular position as a lecturer in the Department of English literature at Allahabad University in 1941.  Although he experienced a feeling of contentment after obtaining this position, he simultaneously encountered the common acquaintance of almost every academic: the impostor syndrome.  He was sensitive to gossip around him about a Hindi poet being at an English department [I suppose multidisciplinary skills weren't valued much in those days].  As was his usual tendency, in response, he devoted an unusually high amount of time and energy on his teaching assignments. [1]  

 While he grew into his role as a teacher, he also observed the academic atmosphere in the university, and reflected upon what career progression meant to people there. Why is seniority relevant in the context of university, he wondered.  Can intellectual growth be measured by a wall calendar? The mind expands or shrinks according to the work that it engages in. He felt that research and self-study demonstrated in a concrete form through scholarly publications should be used as a parameter for progression as opposed to counting age, in order to prevent stagnation of the mind.  

"Admittedly, it is difficult to determine criteria to evaluate intellectual ability, but if universities don't make an effort to do this, who will?"

[Basere Se Door, Page 23, 2013 edition, Rajpal and Sons (The translation is mine, and I apologise for any deficiencies.  I don't have access to the English translation of his autobiography.)]

His observations proved to be prescient.  Despite being a meeting ground for intellectual giants in all fields in pre-independence and early independence days, Allahabad University lost its eminence over the next few decades (as did many of our older universities), mired in bureaucracy and unhelpful policies that did not nurture academic growth. 

Harivansh Rai Bachchan spent the next 11 years teaching at the university, and describes these years as those of good health, professional stability and personal contentment.  He raised his children, and spent time in study and creative writing, but stayed away from formal movements taking place in the Hindi poetry world. But, instead of settling down into complacency, his mind was agile, and open to opportunities to learn and grow. Therefore, at the end of 1951, when the British Council announced some travel support for faculty members to spend six months at a British university, he decided to apply.  He revived a research project that he had initiated several years ago on the work of William Butler Yeats.  Putting his plan into action was not easy: after receiving invitations to spend a few semesters at both Cambridge and Oxford and getting a sabbatical from AU, he had to arrange for finances for a 15-month stay in England.  This required negotiations with publishing houses who published his poetry, and dipping into family savings, but he received whole hearted support from his wife in his plans [2].  When he did not get any reply from the education ministry to his application for financial support, she encouraged him to write straight to the Prime Minister.  Pandit Nehru not only gave him an appointment, but also immediately approved the entire amount that was required.  Meanwhile, the British Council did not approve his application for traveling expenses, and he had to make those arrangements on his own.  Finally, in April 1952, at the age of 45, this professor with a permanent academic position left his secure establishment in Allahabad, and flew to England to become a student again.  I was personally quite inspired by this episode in his life, because it teaches us to not let age or complacency come in the way of our intellectual goals. 

At the time of his voyage, Mr. Bachchan had not made any plans for pursuing a doctorate. His plan was to explore some questions about the work of Yeats while spending six months in Cambridge, followed by nine months in Oxford.  At Cambridge, he met Professor Thomas Rice Henn, who agreed to supervise his work, and gave him access to all his collected books.  He writes about his daily schedule:

"I would go to the university library after breakfast, and study there until 1.30 pm.  After a light lunch, I would go to Mr. Henn's office, and study until 6 pm.  Often, he would drop in during that time, with questions and suggestions about my reading.  After dinner, I would either attend a seminar, take a walk, or enjoy theatre or cinema.  After that, I spent several hours reading anthologies of modern English poetry, making journal entries or writing letters before going to sleep."

In Henn, he found a hands-on advisor who provided him the necessary guidance and resources for his project.  Naturally, with the progress that he made on the project, he started to consider the possibility of staying on at Cambridge and expanding his work into a doctoral thesis.  He was encouraged by a friend, Vishwanath Dutt to follow this plan.  Henn enthusiastically agreed, but explained that since Bachchan had only two years, he would have to formally register for a Master's in Literature, and write a thesis: if the degree committee found the thesis and his performance in the viva strong enough (and this would be exceedingly hard), they would consider the thesis for the award of a Ph.D.  With the further support of his wife, therefore, he registered for an M. Litt. and started working on his thesis.  

His doctoral studies started full steam.  His description of Henn as an advisor is touching: Henn met and guided him regularly, kept his project goals on track, gave him feedback on his writing (this included approving thesis chapters which contained a point of view very different from that of Henn, as long as they were supported by literary evidence and proper analysis), and often invited him home for meals and long discussions.  He was also sensitive to Bachchan's mental anxieties on account of his family in India (especially the financial and other hardships that his wife was facing bravely on her own [3]).  

As part of his thesis preparation, Bachchan also visited Ireland to meet Mrs. Yeats and other people associated with Yeats.  They met him graciously, and answered all his questions. He describes a heart-warming episode at the end of his stay in Ireland, when he invited Mrs. Yeats and some others for a farewell dinner.  After dinner, the hotel manager refused to accept any payment for the dinner gathering, because he was a guest of Ireland.  Bachchan suspected that Mrs. Yeats had secretly paid the hotel bill herself, so as not to strain the finances of a struggling PhD student. 

The book is full of such incidents and many others, which tell us about the importance of deep and regular work for a thesis, staying focused [4], good mentorship and a support network of peers from graduate school. His housemate was a statistics student by the name of Ranvir Singh Bawa, who taught him how to live with minimal expenditure, and supported him emotionally through good and bad times.  

One of the most exciting parts of the book is the period after his thesis submission in 1954. He prepared thoroughly for his viva.  Although Henn had advised him to focus on his research work and not get distracted by anxiety about results,  Bachchan was conscious of what was at stake.  He had heard scary dissertation stories.  Would they tear the thesis into bits during the viva, he wondered. Would he be able to answer all their questions? During the four-hour long viva, he desperately searched for hints about what the committee thought of his work, but all members maintained the proverbial British "stony face" during the proceedings.  Post viva, in which he thought he did well, he had to wait for a few weeks before the final decision of the committee.  Finally, on the day the results were declared, he walked with Bawa to the main office.  It was Bawa who had the first look at the notice board, and confirmed that the 47-year old Bachchan had indeed received a Ph.D.  His instant reaction was the same as that of his wife when she got the good news later, "Izzat Reh Gayi." [5]

Dr. Bachchan's life was full of interesting contradictions: on the one hand, he was unable to afford a gown for convocation.  On the other hand, when he returned to India, he was welcomed and hosted by the families of some of the richest industrialists of India.  He returned a happy, content and confident man to Allahabad, and rejoined the university with renewed hope.

But, the biggest "anti-climax" was yet to happen.  Instead of appreciation from his colleagues for his academic accomplishment, he had to face jealousy at the work place.  The university could no longer give him the work satisfaction and intellectual stimulation he was hoping for, and he was disappointed by the toxic reactions to him.  And so it was that one of India's greatest poets, and a knowledgeable English lecturer who had achieved a nearly impossible academic feat decided to quit academia.  He was invited by Pandit Nehru to join the Ministry of External Affairs as an expert who would supervise the translation of all documents and communication of MEA into Hindi, and to introduce new initiatives to promote the use of Hindi at the work place [6].  

It was with a heavy heart that he left Allahabad with his family, after having spent nearly all his life there.  After devoting years to scholarship and teaching, he moved into an entirely different sphere of bureaucrats.  This, he realized, was what would make him happy at that point of time, and he did not hesitate to change course.  This also makes us reflect upon the deterioration in the work culture at universities in India in those days, and how they lost several bright minds as a result. 

One final thought: it requires great integrity to accept and appreciate the academic accomplishments of others, and great clarity of vision to support and nurture such talent.

[0] There seems to be some ambiguity about this. Some online portals mention that Harivansh Rai Bachchan was the first Indian to obtain a PhD in English literature from Cambridge University.  But, in his book, Mr. Bachchan mentions that his friend who encouraged him to try and obtain a PhD gave him the example of B. Rajan as the only person from India until then to have obtained a PhD in this subject from Cambridge.

[1] He also consciously underplayed his identity as a poet in the university.  He insisted that his students address him as Mr. Harivansh Rai, and not Mr. Bachchan (or Bachchan ji).  He mentions his conscious efforts to dress, walk and behave "like a lecturer of English".   

[2] In the book, he expresses his gratitude to her on several occasions: she was a remarkable woman who braved anxiety and unpleasant situations in Allahabad in his absence, but provided unconditional support to him in all his academic plans.  

[3] He describes a rare occasion when Professor Henn flew into a temper.  One morning, Mr, Bachchan was excited to see a frozen lake for the first time, and walked over it to come to office.  When Henn heard this, he got extremely upset at this irresponsible and dangerous act, and questioned Bachchan about how his family would cope if something happened to him. Bachchan was grateful for the concern. 

[4] which is undoubtedly hard while also facing financial pressures.  Pandit Nehru, who had been generous in the beginning, refused his request for further support: apparently, some colleagues of Bachchan had spread malicious rumours about him. Bachchan had to further dig into family savings to finance his doctoral study.  Today, PhD students receive their fellowship as part of well structured schemes, but one cannot help thinking about students in India who routinely do not receive their fellowships on time, and battle disappointments and anxieties on this account. 

[5] Hard to share the sentiment in translation.  Roughly, they are both relieved at not having to "lose face".  

[6] This, in itself, was a difficult task, as he had to contend with contemptuous English-speaking civil servants.  His experience at the ministry, and later life is described in Volume 4.  

Where there is structure, there is victory

We all have been coping with several work-life balance issues during the pandemic. While people have to balance their professional and home responsibilities even in ordinary times, the pandemic created a situation where the latter skyrocketed with children having to be home schooled and domestic work having to be managed without any external support.  A colleague of mine once said with exasperation that in the midst of sweeping and mopping, the latest literature in his field had started evading him. The hours that many people typically spent doing their academic work had to be recalibrated as their children were no longer going to school. My former postdoc mentor, Matilde Lalin wrote this lovely article describing (in "real time") how mathematicians like her conducted their research during COVID times.

Some of us found ourselves away from our families for a long period of time due to the unexpected lockdown announcement. In my case, all other parameters were fine. I was in good health, safely placed inside the IISER campus and assured that my family members, though far away from me, were safe and healthy too. When the first lockdown was announced, the solitude promised to be a golden opportunity to concentrate on learning and writing. With no possibility of traveling in the upcoming days, I was all set to put the song "Mono Chalo Nija Niketane" (translation: "Let us go back once more, O Mind, to our own abode") into action [1]. I was only going to step out to get groceries from a store in my building and spend the rest of my time in "Nija Niketana" doing Mathematics. 

A few days down the line, I realized that my grand plan was failing: Nija Niketana was turning into Netflix Niketana and the monster was starting to occupy more space than bargained for. What exactly went wrong? I had lots of goals to work on and lots of time. Had I lost the ability to focus on research and writing? Was this the end of everything? 

Soon, I realized that I was not alone in this predicament. Several people in my situation were facing this challenge. In this context, I heard about an acquaintance, who was all set to go on a sabbatical when the pandemic struck and messed with his plans. Unable to travel, he had two options. One was to continue his sabbatical at home, work with collaborators online and not have to worry about teaching. The second was to cancel his sabbatical and get back to active university duties. He chose the second option and requested the university to let him get back to teaching that semester. He recognized at the outset that all alone in his apartment, in the event of not being able to make a research visit elsewhere, he needed the structure provided by a regular university schedule to function optimally. I was encouraged to hear this story and also got an idea of how to proceed: I had to build a structure around daily activities.

A large chunk of time in solitude is undoubtedly a golden opportunity to concentrate on learning and writing. But, it can also be a double edged sword: our teaching duties, seminars/colloquia, interaction with students and colleagues provide a structure around which we can organize our daily activities in a time bound manner. In reserving time blocks for these activities, we also end up reserving time blocks for research work. There is little leeway to move around the time blocks for activities like teaching, talking to collaborators/students and attending seminars (more generally, any activity which requires a commitment to another human being). We therefore stick with the research time blocks because we must. In other words, for many of us, to be able to make the most of research time, there needs to be a structure to the day that involves a healthy dose of other meaningful activities like teaching, seminars, regular workout sessions and pursuing hobbies.

Structure is also the best antidote to anxiety. I started working to incorporate a daily plan in a way as to not procrastinate during the day time and then, feel empty and anxious in the evening (which leads to another cycle of procrastination). Making a ``formal" commitment (even if to oneself) by writing to-do lists and following through on it by writing "got-done" lists goes a long way in making sure that we don't postpone something just because we can.  My efforts to avoid empty "got-done" lists were centred around three tiny principles. I had heard of these before, but was forced to implement them diligently upon realizing that the pandemic was, indeed, playing havoc with my mental world. 

The first principle is that of showing up. When pulling the mind out of inertia, it is important to avoid an all-or-none approach. For example, if unable to start some planned work at a certain time, it helps to "show up", as long as the time planned for that activity is still left. Consistently noting afterwards how much of the work could get done instead of writing, "I got nothing done" uplifts the mood like nothing else, and with each passing day, one starts showing up for more and more tasks at the allotted time. Here, I am referring to tasks that are most in danger of getting postponed: ones that do not require coordinating with another person and have no immediate deadline.

The second principle is to give precise instructions to ourselves. Showing up on time for a task, but without a clear idea of what is to be done is a recipe for not getting it done. So, goals like "typing" or "typing Section 2" got converted into goals like "Write Lemma 3", "outline the proof of Lemma 3", "arrange the index of notations" etc. Much to my surprise, in a project where I had been suffering from a serious writer's block for weeks on end, I saw progress to the tune of 15 pages in 6 days. It is, of course, not always possible to count the output of work done in terms of pages. It is also not easy to come up with precise goals when starting to explore a research project, which is why people end up procrastinating the most at this stage. But, it does help to isolate exactly what part of a problem or project one wants to explore and stay focused on that. 

The third principle is to get work done on the go.  At some point, we all make peace with the fact that we want to do (or need to do) much more than we have time for. It is not a moral defect, therefore, to allocate short bursts of time to activities that we enjoy or care for, but which get relegated to the background as we seek to fulfil more urgent responsibilities. These bursts of time can be snatched from other things that are happening around us. I have managed to read, for example, two volumes of Shri Harivansh Rai Bachchan's autobiography over the past few weeks while waiting for the geyser to heat the water. Occasionally, I have also planned some work within the time that the washing machine takes to complete a wash cycle [this puts a nice timer on the activity concerned as well]. Sometimes, the time period can be as short as the 2 minutes during which a meal is being heated up in the microwave. This blog post has been written in the last few days in similar situations. In fact, this particular paragraph is being written up as a friend, who joined me for coffee, has stepped out to take a phone call.

This would be a good place to conclude the blog post. After a wholesome Sunday spent reading, preparing for classes, reflecting on the importance of structure and finishing this post, it is time to lock all doors of my abode and truly go within.

I would love to learn more productivity/structure tips from readers.

[1] This song is famously recognized as the song which Swami Vivekananda sang when he visited Shri Ramakrishna for the first time.

Keeping the head down

Several years ago, I started my first faculty position. Like many others in this position, I faced a wide variety of situations for the first time: developing an independent research programme on my own, balancing research and teaching with service duties, being responsible for students as their advisor, juggling administrative committee work and learning to interact with colleagues (the nice ones as well as the not-so-nice ones). While navigating this new territory, I learnt a lot of things, made progress, but also slipped, faltered, took wrong turns, not infrequently. In sore need of an outlet to express and make sense of it all, I started writing this blog pseudonymously.  The blog found a handful of readers [mostly young postdocs in North America], who engaged regularly.  For a year or so, I don't think that anyone outside of this small group knew about it. My colleagues certainly had no idea.

Then, thanks to a rather kind post by Professor Abinandanan from IISc (the author of Nanopolitan, one of the most popular academic blogs in India), this blog suddenly saw an exponential increase in engagement by an Indian audience who could more easily relate to what I was writing about.  Blogging became an enjoyable activity amidst the isolation imposed by being at a temporary campus of a new institute in rural West Bengal.  I continued to document several experiences, including the move to IISER Pune and starting all over again.  By then, it no longer made sense to keep the blog "anonymous".   

The blog was updated for a few more years, but I started falling short of generating genuinely new posts. As I grappled with professional challenges that I was no longer comfortable talking about, this blog started turning into a repository for posts written for other portals as well as guest posts or links to posts by other academics on topics such as science communication, outreach etc. Occasionally, I resorted to writing Scoopwhoop type of posts as well. This was also a time when many people were gravitating towards Twitter for social media interaction and this seemed sufficient for my "self-expression" needs as well.  So, sometime in 2017, this blog was taken offline without much ado. This time seemed appropriate to simply "keep my head down" and focus completely (and silently) on professional goals and challenges.  

Keeping one's head down has many advantages: there is an entire category of Yoga asanas called "Inversions" that emphasize on keeping your head down (more technically, keeping your head below the heart).  The "harder" inversions include shoulder stand, head stand, elbow stand and the hand stand.  Our Yoga instructor ensures that we perform some inversions in every class and also encourages us to incorporate them in our daily practice.  Apart from physical benefits such as improving balance and core strength, learning and practising these asanas also helps to strengthen concentration and mental stability (for obvious reasons: doing a head stand with a distracted mind is not recommended and an inversion can only be held as along as the mind is stable). When she started introducing these asanas in our classes, my first reaction was that of fear. But, we were taught to build our strength step by step. We started off by taking support from props (eg, for the head stand, one learns to position oneself in a door space or between two walls in a narrow corridor).  Then, as core stability improved and the fear reduced, we started requiring fewer and fewer props. Some of us can now do a complete head stand without any wall support, while some require a wall to position their heels. Each member of the class has had a unique learning curve and learning pace in this regard.  Some of us, who would feel dizzy at the very thought of placing the head down, can now hold a head stand for several minutes.  We got here by not giving up and by staying regular with our practice.  In moments of weakness, our instructor ensured that we did not give up. What's more, in this class of responsible adults, we learnt to focus on our individual asana practice without the need to diminish that of the others or comparing ourselves to others.

This has so many analogies with an academic journey.  An academic career (any career, really) is impossible without learning to "keep one's head down".  We build up our "core" research programmes by focusing on our own work and by pushing ourselves forward, one step at a time.  Proper administrative structures and peer support at the workplace provide us with the "props" to do so.  In moments of weakness, some of our colleagues inspire us to continue the journey by providing mentorship or in some cases, by simply lending an ear . With these in place, we just need to stick to our programmes quietly and for long enough without comparing ourselves to anyone else.  Then, we realize one day how far we have come and how much strength we have to move further ahead.  We learn to appreciate our own expertise without diminishing that of our colleagues. Anxieties and fears get replaced by a sense of balance. 

These are some lessons I have learnt in the last four years.  So, the blog is ready to go up again. What occasion better than our 75th Independence Day to do so?