Merit is supposed to speak for itself.
Motherhood is supposed to come naturally.
Institutions are supposed to be fair.
And yet, many of us learn—slowly, painfully—that excellence often needs translation, care work remains invisible, and power rarely announces itself loudly.
This is not a story of triumph.
It is a reflection on delay, endurance, ethical refusal, and survival—written from the intersection of womanhood, academia, care labour, and institutional silence.
If you have ever felt behind despite doing everything right, this may sound familiar.
A Note on Time, Serendipity, and Beginnings
To those who pause to read my writing, I offer my deepest gratitude—for in a world addicted to speed, attention is the rarest form of generosity. This blog was not born out of strategy or ambition. It emerged through serendipity—unplanned, unannounced, almost accidental. Then, perhaps not so accidental after all.
Those who know me personally are few—countable on fingers. They are familiar with fragments of my academic and personal journey. I say this not to self-congratulate, but to situate what follows honestly: I had a reasonably strong academic record from my undergraduate days at Maharaja’s College, Ernakulam, through my postgraduate studies and doctoral research at the Institute of English. Entering collegiate service midway through my research only reinforced a sense of continuity—a belief that I had found my life’s track and would keep running it with discipline and dignity.
Inherited Ethics and Earned Naivety
My father and my research supervisor shared a belief that shaped my worldview early on: integrity, intellectual honesty, and academic excellence would guarantee a peaceful life. They lived these values with quiet conviction—never compromising professional ethics, always nurturing young talent in their institutional spaces. Watching them, I assumed that sincerity and hard work were self-sufficient currencies.
Looking back, I realise how profoundly naïve I was at twenty-five. Introversion shielded me from the world’s darker undercurrents. I did not network instinctively, nor did I cultivate alliances. I believed ambition needed only labour; excellence needed no translation. Professional commitment, for me, was not performative—it was a way of being. I had not anticipated the storms that would test not my competence, but my endurance.
A Claimer, Not a Disclaimer
Rather than disclaimers meant to neutralise discomfort, I offer a claimer: these writings are reflections—drawn from lived experiences, mine and others’. Many who loudly proclaim “the personal is political”—a slogan inherited from second-wave feminism—often retreat when that politics enters their own corridors. Institutional anxiety quickly replaces ideological commitment.
When my early blogs provoked discomfort, I almost erased this space altogether. But perhaps destiny intervened. I returned—to write not as an accusation, but as testimony. These are stories of bruises earned simply by choosing to exist without shrinking.
Silence, Systems, and Strategic Anonymity
I do not name those who complicated my professional life at different junctures of my journey. Partly because the worlds we inhabit are fragile, and consequences rarely travel in straight lines. In professional spaces, harm is seldom loud; it circulates quietly, wrapped in procedural language and polite gestures, making discretion not only a choice but a form of survival.
More importantly, the faces I remember are not individuals but embodiments of structures. Many who read my recent writings later recognised their own stories within mine. This blog is thus not an indictment of persons, but a dialogue with systems. It is also a quiet assurance to those navigating erasure: truth may be delayed, but it is never denied indefinitely.
Womanhood as the First Political Condition
Like most such journeys, mine begins with being a woman. Despite professional success, marriage—regardless of support—introduces gendered expectations that crystallise most sharply around motherhood. I was twenty-eight, old enough to know better, yet still persuaded by a familiar promise: that a supportive husband and family would ensure professional continuity. This promise, still offered to women today, remains dangerously abstract.
What sustains a working mother is not ideology but everyday, embodied support—especially during pregnancy, childbirth, and the early years of childcare. Without this, excellence becomes unsustainable. During my probation period, with leave exhausted and a nine-month-old baby, I navigated the trauma of leaving him, sometimes even when he had a cough or cold, at a crèche—scribbling medicine instructions to ayahs before rushing to work.
Service, Seniority, and the Myth of “Take Leave”
The oft-repeated advice—“Why not take loss-of-pay leave? You’re in government service”—misses the point entirely. Service matters. Seniority matters. Time matters. For academics, reading, reflection, and preparation beyond office hours are not luxuries but obligations.
I stood torn between a crying child and a professional ethic inherited from two mentors who taught me that learning must be lifelong. My husband was supportive, but the system excuses underperformance in mothers—never in fathers. Performance metrics remain resolutely gender-blind in rhetoric, gendered in practice.
Polytechnics, Prestige, and Academic Arrogance
With two children, no extended family support, and dreams intact, I encountered another wound: institutional hierarchy disguised as meritocracy.
Though UGC norms, designation, and service conditions remain identical, my posting in a polytechnic college invited condescension from peers in arts and science colleges. Their certainty that institutional location reflected intellectual worth was perhaps the most painful betrayal—especially because they knew better.
I stayed—not for want of alternatives, but because professional ethics required rigour and motherhood required availability. The syllabus was lighter; my children were still fragile with need. The decision to occupy a post that demanded less of my labour continues to haunt me as trauma, even as it clarifies a hard truth: children are never solely their mother’s responsibility, however relentlessly society works to naturalise that fiction.
Time, Theory, and Deferred Recognition
Ironically, years later, exposure to academic events revealed how misplaced my early assumptions were about the academic growth of some of my peers who were posted in prestigious arts and science colleges. Institutional prestige had not necessarily translated into intellectual depth. When I now teach Critical Theory at the Institute of English and recognise that paper as central to my personal, professional, and political self-definition, I see clearly that my years in polytechnic service delayed—but never diminished—my scholarly engagement.
Validation came slowly, painfully, through endurance. To carry full responsibility for Critical Theory papers and earn students’ trust is no minor achievement. If I stand confident today, it is because I survived years of quiet delegitimisation.
Learning as Inheritance, Not Ambition
When I joined the University, my children were older, and time returned—haltingly—to me. I remain convinced that only a lifelong student can be a good teacher. This ethic—genetically inherited from my father, intellectually from my supervisor—continues to anchor me.
Yet new systems demand new negotiations. Introversion was misread as disengagement; unfamiliarity bred misinterpretation. Institutional literacy, I learned, is not intuitive—it is learned through bruises.
Feminism, Institution-Building, and Fatigue
As Honorary Director of the Centre for Women’s Studies (2018–2020), I attempted to cultivate meaningful conversations on gender and sexuality—inviting scholars and activists, curating dialogues, and initiating an anti-dowry campaign aligned with International Women’s Day 2020.
Good intentions, however, do not guarantee institutional translation. Timing conflicts, structural inertia, and limited resources intervened. The pandemic that followed amplified everything—care burdens, emotional exhaustion, professional fragility.
When survival consumes energy, leadership becomes untenable. I stepped down—not as failure, but as refusal to perform hollow resilience.
Quitting as Ethical Choice
My decision to quit set in motion another round of quiet rumours. But I come from a lineage where integrity matters more than optics. My father chose voluntary retirement at forty-five, even while serving as an Assistant Commissioner in the Sales Tax Department—a position from which he could have risen much higher—choosing instead not to compromise his ethics and to rebuild his life with dignity as a lawyer in the High Court of Kerala. I stand by such decisions. Sometimes, leaving is not cowardice. It is an ethical refusal.
Writing as Return
In the aftermath—amid rumours, misreadings, even astrological consultations born of desperation—I lost the ability to write. Language abandoned me when I needed it most.
Yet, quietly, I was rebuilding. Not to fight, but to reclaim belief in my own competence. This blog, begun in 2024, became a release valve—never planned, but urgently necessary. Perhaps destiny works in deferred rhythms.
After the Fire
I once believed I would wilt like weaklings after forest fires. But maybe survival itself is nonlinear. Maybe another journey begins here—not triumphant, not vindictive, but grounded.
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