A late-night reflection on growing up in India’s IIT-JEE culture, choosing science over writing, and realizing that life isn’t something that begins after the finish line. This episode traces 17 years through IIT, a PhD, academia, ambition, burnout, and the quiet process of learning how to jee (to live) along the way.

I went to an all-girls Catholic school in the early 2000s. One of my least favorite classes at the time was needle work - a class we took from grades 6-8 where we learned embroidery, knitting, and crochet. The final project was a fabric-based item involving the skills we learned all year, and your final grade in class was entirely determined by the completion of this project and how clean the work was. I can tell you now, I almost did not make it through high school because of this class - and I have a PhD now.

From the moment I learned about the existence of this class, I loathed it. I was a tomboy committed to my act, with a knack for arguing my way out of things. I convinced myself with great ease that this class was beneath me. After all, I was a young millennial woman brought up in the age of the internet. The world was full of possibilities, I could be anything I wanted to be - and a mother knitting a hat for my unborn child was nowhere on that list. So when the time came, I brought my final project - a pillow cover I was supposed to hand sew and embroider all year - to my mother, one week before it was due and begged her to help me finish it. She then proceeded to finish a whole pillow cover in a week, while deliberately doing a bad job (so it seems like my own work), and berating me for waiting until the last minute.

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So you can imagine my confusion, when I found myself driving to Michaels one winter evening, on a mission to find some knitting needles and yarn, convinced that this will be the year I learn to knit.

And learn to knit I did. Over the past couple of months. I’ve completed a few projects and am halfway through several more. I have now managed to commit to memory what the difference is between k2tog and ssk, and understand the role of German short rows in the construction of a sweater.

What I thought would be a simple escape from life’s complexities ended up unraveling my teenage arrogance—knitting, it turns out, is anything but simple.

candymaking and the art of measuring temperature

Any baker or pastry chef worth their salt, will tell you - sugar is a precise science. In order to make caramel, for example, you start with a mixture of water and sugar on the stove, stirring gently and using a pastry brush to carefully dissolve the drying sugar crystals that form on the walls of the pot. This step is critical - if you let the sugar crystals come in contact with the caramel, it can lead to a process known as nucleation and the whole caramel can crystallize. As soon as the mixture comes to a boil though, you absolutely have to stop everything, no stirring, no brushing, no moving. Now you stare at the caramel until it gets to the correct temperature - usually ~ 350 F - and turns a rich amber color. Here, you have about 30 F of a leeway, which sounds like a lot until you realize caramel can go from perfect to burnt in the blink of an eye. This is why most recipes will recommend you use an instant read thermometer, so you’re not simply guessing by the color. Don’t have a thermometer? Good luck to you.

And yet when my Paati makes mysore pak, I have never seen her use a thermometer. I don’t even think she owns one. It starts the same as caramel, you boil a mixture of sugar and water, but in this case you add the flour before it actually gets to the caramel state. This is the tricky bit - add the flour in too soon, the sugar will be too cold and your mysore pak will end in a crumbly mess; wait too long, the sugar will get too hot and you will end up with mysore pak that can double as assault weapons. But somehow paati has figured out the correct temperature of the sugar for mysore pak, simply based on how it pulls away from your finger.

And despite this, Gordon Ramsay is a world-renowned chef with multiple Michelin stars, and she’s just… Paati.

textiles, technology and the dichotomy therein

When I embarked on this journey to begin knitting, I first downloaded a free pattern from ravelry for a sweater. I did extensive research - I watched three Instagram Reels and talked to a colleague who knits - and confirmed that this was a beginner friendly pattern. I figured this should be straightforward, how hard could it be? Answer: HARD.

Because when I opened the pattern on my computer, these were the instructions I was met with -

A string of numbers with random interspersed letters and something about a short row of Germans? So instead I found a different pattern for a headband with fewer numbers and letters, so I could begin to decipher this strange new language.

This was palatable. k stands for knit and p stands for purl and once I taught myself how to do those, I slowly began knitting this headband, unravelling a few times, until I started to understand the language and how it translated to twisting the yarn in a specific, codified way to generate a stitch. Knit stitches get the yarn to make V shapes and purl makes a small pearl-like blob. A string of stitches makes a round, and several rounds make a headband!

Soon after my first project, I started noticing how changing the order of these stitches gives your fabric different patterns - simply knit stitches next to each other give you this nested chevron texture, called a stockinette, while alternating knit and purls gave you a rib texture, like the sleeves of your sweater. In a relatively short amount of time, I managed to get to the point of actually being able to follow my sweater pattern.

And then it dawned on me.

This pattern is code.

A program, written in a universal language, that gives me the exact instructions to manipulate a ball of yarn into the exact 3D shape of a sweater. I thought I was some sort of genius to have figured this out, only to realize that the Greeks did it several hundred years ago. In fact, the word ‘textile’ and ‘technology’ literally derive from the same Proto-Indo-European word ‘tek’ which translates to ‘to weave’!

So why then, had I spent most of my life treating one as trivial and the other as transformative?

the failure of modern education

The trouble with technology is the price you pay for its efficiency. When a technology becomes scalable and widely accessible, it obfuscates the ancient knowledge behind it.

We’ve seen this before. When textile mills in Manchester, England, began weaving reams of cotton in a matter of minutes, they didn’t just put Indian handlooms out of business, they disincentivized the transfer of skill. After all, when you have access to a dozen clothes at the swipe of your thumbs, why would you ever learn the difference between knit or woven fabrics? In many ways, you’ve given up literacy. This intuitive education of how to care for natural fabrics, any why you cannot machine wash your knits is irrelevant in a society where it’s normal to replace your sweaters come winter season.

But I think we need to teach people these things.

This type of knowledge lived through generations of Japanese monks who preserved the art of folding paper for millennia, until one day a NASA engineer found use for this craft to design collapsible solar panels for the Mars rover.

Maybe that’s why I learned to knit. Not because it’s simple, but because it isn’t. It’s a life that lives outside this efficient, goal-oriented daze that is modern day. In the act of making something by hand - by mending a button, embroidering a tshirt, or fermenting kombucha from scratch - I am recovering a kind of knowledge I was taught to overlook.

Knowledge that isn’t archived in books, but lives in the memory of our muscles and the warmth it brings us. Like the avakkai my Paati makes every summer, or the sarees inherited by my mother, her sisters and cousins from their mothers. Each one a time capsule - capturing the rich history of the loom it came from, the hands that wove it, and the bodies that wore it.

And one day, unbeknownst to generations prior, one of those sarees was worn by a young bride on her wedding day about to embark on a new life. Six yards of silk fabric that carried the weight of the lifetimes of the women that came before her.

Who knows, my slightly asymmetrical sweater might just be the technology that weaves the fabric of our future Martian life.

From Scratch is always chaotic and always free! If you are having a good time, tell a few good friends about it. It helps me stay motivated :)

I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions. I believe in spring cleaning my entire personality.

Starting with my house. If I could build the perfect house, I would never leave. It would be beautiful and comfortable, yes, but also slightly unhinged. Absolutely no empty white walls or floor-to-ceiling windows.

This house would have obnoxious wallpaper in every room, and dark, moody bathrooms that feel like showering in a mine, a hundred or so bookcases to house a thousand tiny knick-knacks. Outside, an overgrown pollinator garden in the front yard, and somewhere—importantly—at least one stained-glass window.

It would be small and somewhat remote, with a long driveway leading up to it. The kind of driveway you need high beams for at night. The kind of house that makes you think of that Beatles song—

The long and winding roadThat leads to your door…

Or, depending on your pop culture preferences, the kind of place your loved ones would simply call the cottage.

Regardless of the reality, this dream house has found a way to seep into every place I’ve lived, across every tax bracket I’ve passed through. And it probably will continue to do so until I finally find it… or download my brain into a simulated version of it, whichever comes first.

yes, we’re going to talk about interior design

At the start of spring, when the grey winters are replaced by warmth and color, I find myself experiencing a strong desire, to somehow mimic this transition. When I first moved to the US I became aware of the term “spring cleaning” - a period in between March and April when people are consumed by a growing urge to deep clean their whole lives. I have never bought into a trend so fast.

Since then, every Spring I spend multiple weekends, donating old clothes, sweeping cobwebs from the hard-to-reach place behind the fridge, reorganizing the kitchen pantry to the complete befuddlement of my partner, and, of course, redecorating every square inch available to me. And like everyone with an internet connection, I have come to develop my own opinions about how this should be done. Strong opinions. So, if you too are itching to change up your space, or wondering where to start, here’s what I’ve found makes the most difference for me -

* Clean sporadically but consistently. The worst thing about a planned weekend of cleaning is having to do it all at once. It’s way too overwhelming and feels like it will never end, so it’s impossible to start. I realized that game-ifying cleaning, by randomly setting a timer for an hour every day or every other day, and tackling one space at a time, is much more pleasurable and achievable.

* Marie Kondo a few things. She was onto something. You cannot bring in new things without making space and you cannot make space if you don’t throw away that birthday card from 2012 with the questionable-looking blob (what cake is green?)

* Think about the smells. Every house has a distinct scent. You may have noticed when you come back home after a trip, the scent of your own house is noticeable. That’s the unique scent of your house - over time your nose is desensitized and you stop noticing it, but your guests still do. So, be intentional about what that scent is going to be. Mine is currently a mix of dhoop, kombucha and lavendar.

* Art. Bigger and more than you think you need. You don’t need to commission an artist. There are so many cheap and original digital prints online. Also, everything is art. A dried flower in a frame, your jewelry on display, backpacks on hooks, a kitchen towel with an interesting print… stick it on the wall and it counts.

* For the love of God, bring in some color. Your house should reflect the life that lives in it. So stop living in black and white cinema and get one thing that has a primary color in it. It doesn’t have to be a whole painted wall, but a pillow? A piece of art?

* Hang art in your bathroom. Why not?

* Invest in comfortable, durable furniture that can be easily cleaned. And then clean them. I literally live on my couch. I eat on it, work on it, nap on it, and occasionally use it for its intended purpose. And if I drop some haldi-laden dal on it, I have a darn good stain remover and a few chemistry tricks up my sleeve.

* Buy frustration-free cleaning products. If you’re arguing everyday about who should be doing the vacuuming, splurge on that roomba and automate the routine. It’s worth the hairs you don’t pull out.

* Stop being precious about your stuff. It’s just stuff. As someone whose personal design style is “knick-knacks,” my house can feel like one of those antique gift shops with the “you break it, you buy it” signs. But when you walk in, you’re encouraged to throw your coat on a chair, your bag on the table, and fully commit to the couch. And if that doesn’t convince you that I don’t care about my stuff, give it a minute—I’ll inevitably walk into the bookshelf and send a porcelain vase to its untimely demise.

* Buy flowers. Always real, never fake. Stop waiting around for special occasions to be gifted a flower bouquet. Use your freewill and adult money to buy yourself flowers. NOW. It immediately brightens your mood and your space. They don’t have to be fancy - I often buy the filler flowers at the grocery store. They’re cheap, colorful and fresh. On that note, stop buying fake flowers because they “last a long time”. The point of flowers is that they’re transient. They bloom, spread joy, and when they’re done, you can replace them with more flowers. Fake flowers are basically dust-mite collectors, and yet another thing to clean. Don’t like the idea of flowers? Buy a plant. I have a ZZ plant that survived 3 months of neglect without a drop of water during COVID, and is STILL THRIVING. You do not need a green thumb.

* Exhibit your personality. The craziest thing I’ve seen on the internet lately is this trend of organizing your books with the spine facing inside so they all match …

* But instead of trying (and inevitably failing) to hide the unsightly things, maybe try to embrace it? My partner is very fond of video games, and that stark white PS5 is very much, not the vibe. But this is his house too, so we made him a display cabinet, with fancy spot lighting - his very own video game altar.

* Invest in decor that doubles as conversation starters. Example, an unopened bottle of coke from 1996 displayed on our bar cabinet. Everyone that walks past it asks us about it and we invariably end up in a long-winded conversation about what is the best Coke - it’s Coke zero.

* Lastly, TURN OFF THAT OVERHEAD LIGHT. It immediately takes your home from comfortable to hospital. Buy about a dozen lamps, with varying heights and vibes and throw in a soft-white LED light in there. If it’s hard to see, that is exactly the point. Your eyes will adjust. Your brain works during the day when there’s sunlight and needs to turn off at night. No wonder your circadian rhythm is all over the place with lights as bright as the sun.

proof that we live here

All of this to say, my dream house is really just a house that reflects us—the humans that live in it. So when you come over and see the quilted throw pillow made from old sarees, the unopened bottle of Coke from 1996, the assortment of Pokémon plushies and strategy board games, the record collection that jumps from The Beatles to Miley Cyrus, the artwork inspired by synaptic networks, and the hand-painted gouache flowers climbing up the bathroom walls—you’ll know it could only belong to two nerdy, Coca Cola-obsessed, Indian scientists with a curious taste in music and a penchant for flower-themed art in the poop room.

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Not that anyone’s counting, but I’ve been off this website for about eight months.

A lot has happened in this time. Most of it has to do with my professional identity—as a 30-something who’s just realized I never grew out of the “what do you want to be when you grow up?” mindset. Which is unsettling, considering that by most definitions, I am, in fact, a grown up.

At my age, my parents had two kids, a house, retirement accounts, and—from the perspective of my six-year-old brain—an unshakable aura of we’ve got this figured out. Meanwhile, I’m applying for my first real “adult” job in academia, at a time that feels like the wild west. At the ripe young age of 32, having spent the better part of a decade in academia, I’m still fantasizing about what life will be like when I finally grow up and get the academic equivalent of a real adult job.

Only now, the fantasies have changed.

Instead of saving the world or going to outer space, I dream about a salary with an IRA, job security in a very tumultuous market, and the kind of granite kitchen that feels emotionally stable.

the burden of a curious mind

For as long as I have had a conscious brain, I have loved to learn and try new things. As a child, my parents realized that my hyperactive brain needed constant stimulation and engaged me in a range of extracurricular activities. I count myself as one of the lucky ones because in addition to developing a variety of interests, I developed a personality that was stimulated by learning, more than the task itself. Perhaps, it is this enthusiasm for learning that pushed me towards science. To this day, when I’m learning how to do a new experiment at work, learning to use a new piece of equipment, or teaching myself a new hobby, I am filled with the same excitement I had as a child to receive a new lego set or the newest Harry Potter. Over time, I have realized that novelty more than anything else is a source of serotonin for my brain.

And that’s where things get complicated.

Because every new hobby doesn’t just stay a hobby—it briefly becomes a new life.

I don’t just bake sourdough; I consider becoming a food blogger. I don’t just knit; I wonder if I should open an Etsy shop; or … hear me out, what about a hobby cafe and bakery where patrons can come and learn new hobbies, while sipping coffee and sampling fresh artisanal sourdough that they can take home with them?

For a while, it feels real. Convincing, even. Maybe this is what I’ll be when I grow up…

And then, inevitably, reality intervenes.

Deadlines creep in. Applications are due. The academic calendar reasserts itself. The same brain that was happily obsessing over fermentation or knitting patterns suddenly locks onto a new fixation: getting a real job.

And just like that, everything else gets pushed aside.

Days go by, then weeks, then months. Planning experiments, submitting applications, going to conferences, being socially awkward and psyching myself to talk to strangers begging to be considered, while secretly wishing I could be in the hotel room knitting, refreshing my emails 1000 times an hour hoping for life-changing news to be delivered, feeling anxious that life-changing news wasn’t delivered, rinse and repeat.

High-functioning anxiety is hilariously isolating—it’s loneliness with a full calendar.

Which is how, sometime in September, my sourdough starter—dough-by—ended up forgotten in the back of my fridge. Replaced by takeout containers and quick, efficient meals. Cooking, like so many other things, was joyful when I had the emotional space for curiosity. When the summer days were long, the air was warm, and the future was filled with possibilities.

And somewhere along the way, I seemed to have forgotten - science started as a hobby. The only one I never fully gave up on for any length of time, and maybe that’s where we lost the plot?

starting from scratch - hello world, again.

So now my dear friends, if you stuck through that cyclone of spiraling thoughts, you deserve to know what’s next. For me, and for this blog, that started as, yet another obsessive, all-consuming, hobby :)

The truth is - I don’t know, and I want that be okay. I want this to be a free space - like the back of a notebook, where fresh thoughts and ideas are scribbled in an almost illegible hand.

So if you’re up for it, I would love for you to stay on through this thought-spiral, exploration of what it means to be me - a 30-something with a multi-faceted, complicated personality that sometimes cooks, but also does other things.

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