When Facts are Optional: Survival in Post-Truth Academia

A chapter from my journey as the Director of the Centre for Women’s Studies, University of Kerala—an experience that taught me not just about leadership, but about silence, misrepresentation, and resilience in academic spaces.

Life has a strange way of surprising—sometimes even shocking—us. Just when we think we’ve figured things out, it throws in an unexpected twist. What I’m about to share is one such turn in my own story. It wasn’t something I planned or even saw coming. It unfolded in the shadows, shaped by people I didn’t know, and spread by others who confused drama for truth. Caught up in a story that erased what was real, they played along in a quiet betrayal. And there I was, completely unaware—unguarded—never imagining the poison silently gathering behind me.

Flashback—

A few years ago, when I was the Director of the Centre for Women’s Studies at the University of Kerala, I came across the announcement of a conference on Women’s Studies organized by one of India’s reputed institutions.

It was a time when the air in India was thick with change. The Supreme Court had just pronounced three judgments that would ripple across the social and legal fabric of the country—Section 377 read down, the gates of Sabarimala nudged open, Section 497 decriminalised. These were no ordinary verdicts; they were tectonic shifts.

In Kerala, the Sabarimala judgment ignited a wildfire of opinions. The state split itself neatly into a binary: “Right to Pray” versus “Ready to Wait.” The din of declarations and counter-declarations filled every public square and private parlour.

I, meanwhile, stood at different crossroads—shaped by the legal literacy I inherited from my father, a lawyer in the High Court of Kerala, and sharpened by the critical edge of my research supervisor. An idea stirred within me, urgent and insistent: what if the Sabarimala judgment could be read beyond the easy binaries that had shaped public discourse? While the progressives raised their fists in triumph and conservatives clung to the sanctity of tradition, I found myself drawn to a quieter, more intricate space—a ‘third pole,’ where neither religious sentiment nor constitutional morality held absolute sway.

This was not an apolitical position but a deeply political one—one that escapes the sense and sensibilities of those who uncritically toe the available trajectories of thought. Their strands of thought were strategically constructed through the unholy nexus between politics and media. Thus, the future naysayers of my ideas could never decipher my viewpoint—one that asked uncomfortable questions about the very imaginaries of femininity the judgment summoned into being. What were the ideas embedded in the judgment regarding ritualisation and the female body? What bodies did the legal text consecrate, and which did it render illegible? The judgment, like all texts, was rich with interpretive possibility—yet the public, the media, and even many scholars were entranced by the clarity of opposites, the drama of a culture war. Nuance, unfortunately, gave way to poor spectacle.

And so, when I came across the conference announcement, I felt a surge of possibility. This could be the space where my reading might find an audience—where I could offer a perspective that neither worshipped tradition nor rushed to celebrate the progressive, but paused instead to ask: what lies beneath?

With excitement, I submitted my abstract—an idea sculpted carefully, refined with the guidance of my mentor. I knew I wasn’t on the official guest list. I had invited myself, yes—but not as a trespasser. I came as the Director of the Centre for Women’s Studies, University of Kerala, carrying the institutional weight of that role, if not the ceremonial garlands usually reserved for keynote voices.

My paper was accepted. But I was invisibilised. I was reduced to a seven-minute slot, tucked away among a group of 20 to 25 presenters. It stung all the more because this erasure happened in a space where I thought I was known, even valued—among people I had, perhaps too generously, called friends.

Maybe I was too trusting. Too unaware of the quiet hierarchies and power games that often script academic spaces behind the scenes. What I experienced was not just a scheduling oversight but a symbolic stripping of legitimacy.

And yet, I prepared. I distilled my thoughts. I stepped onto the stage. But as with most conferences, the invited speakers—those anointed with time and attention—spoke at length, running far over their allotted durations. By the time it was our turn—the lesser-knowns, the marginal voices—the schedule had frayed. I was left to hurriedly race through my argument, speaking into a shrinking slot more commonly handed to postgraduate students trying to find their first footing.

My ideas—carefully formed, theoretically shaped—were reduced to an echo in the room.

And I, too, was reduced. But this, as I would come to see, was only the first ripple in a much larger tide of silencing.

Fast forward to the present—

The years passed quietly. I had settled into my academic life, often working in solitude, with little room or energy for close friendships. I never imagined that while I was immersed in my work, a parallel narrative—crafted by whispers and half-truths—was taking shape behind my back.

Then came the pandemic. Like millions of others, I was overwhelmed—juggling professional responsibilities and parenting two children under the age of ten. Somewhere between endless Zoom meetings and online classes, I realised that I could no longer do justice to my role as the Director of the Centre for Women’s Studies. It was a difficult but honest decision: I requested the University to entrust the Centre to someone who could take it to greater heights. A few months later, I stepped down quietly and continued with my other academic responsibilities.

Time moved on. A senior colleague joined our department, and while I’ve never been great at building connections quickly, over time we shared many heartfelt conversations. During one such conversation, she asked, almost casually, “What really made you step down as Director?”

I offered my honest answer—my reasons were largely personal and circumstantial. But what followed left me speechless.

She had just returned from a Women’s Studies event at a university outside the state. There, someone had narrated an alternate version of my story with absolute conviction. According to this widely circulated tale, I had made a controversial statement supporting the Sabarimala judgment, which led to an uproar at the conference. The story goes that the incident was so explosive that I was allegedly asked to resign by higher authorities.

As my colleague and I traced the threads of this narrative, we discovered how far and wide it had travelled. My name had become shorthand for a controversy I didn’t even know I was part of. I had been labelled, maligned, tagged, and written out of the story—without even the courtesy of being asked for my version.

Like all rumours, this one had a few persistent narrators—people with vested interests in scripting and selling their version of my story. I have always believed that naming and shaming without deliberation is a crime, and I choose not to point fingers. But I do have some unanswered questions—questions that still haunt me:

1. Why was I reduced to a five-minute slot in the conference—despite holding the post of Director? Was a plan already underway to push me out?

2. If there were doubts about my position, why wasn’t I asked to clarify? Was my phrasing so unclear that it led to misinterpretation? Or were certain ears simply unwilling to hear anything that didn’t conform to their pre-set beliefs?

3. Were the “hiccups” I experienced just the natural push and pull of academic life, or were they personal attacks dressed up as institutional procedures?

4. I even heard that a voice clip of my presentation was circulated in various groups to vilify me. I’ve never heard this clip myself, so I cannot verify the claim. But if true—what a violation that would be.

I sometimes wonder if my quietness worked against me. With few close friends and no strong backing, perhaps it was easier for others to fill in the blanks with spice and speculation. Perhaps I was too much—too vocal, too nuanced, too hard to place neatly into a single ideological camp.

But above all, what hurts most is not the falsehood itself, but the deeply unprofessional and unacademic way the entire episode unfolded. No dialogue. No clarifications. Just silence, gossip, and exclusion.

In a space that ought to be defined by debate, dissent, and dialogue, I found myself erased by hearsay.

I have no intention of playing the victim. I stepped down with grace. I moved on with my teaching and research. But this story—my story—needed to be told, if only to reclaim my voice from the silence imposed on it.

Academia, at its best, is a space of transformation. At its worst, it mirrors the hierarchies and power games it claims to critique. If we are truly committed to inclusive, ethical, and feminist spaces, we must ask: How do we deal with dissent? How do we engage with voices that don’t fit neatly into our comfort zones?

Because, in the end, it is not just about me. It is about the kind of academic culture we choose to nurture.