What is your scientific background? Why did you choose to become a scientist?
I didn’t grow up thinking I’d become a scientist. In fact, I didn’t even know what being a “scientist” could look like outside of labs and white coats. What I did know was that I loved stories about forests, animals, and people—especially how they all intertwined. Over time, I realized science could be a powerful way to tell those stories, not through fiction, but through fieldwork, data, and policy.
How did you choose your field of study?
It happened slowly. During my undergraduate days, I was introduced to ecology and ethnobotany, and something clicked. My curiosity about why some plants were worshipped while others were weeded out led me to field research. From there, I got hooked on the messy, layered dynamics between people and wildlife. I wanted to understand not just what was happening, but why—and how we might do things better.
Do you come from an academic family?
Yes—research is definitely a bit of a family tradition. My uncle is a retired nuclear physicist from the Inter University Accelerator Centre, and my cousins are pursuing their PhDs and postdocs in different parts of the world. Even my sister is about to begin her PhD at the University of Exeter in the UK. So, in some ways, the idea of research as a life path wasn’t entirely unfamiliar. But despite this, my choice to work in the forests, with communities and wildlife, still raises a few curious eyebrows at family gatherings! I like to think I’ve added my own twist to the family legacy.
Besides your scientific interests, what are your personal interests?
Writing has always been my first love—especially creative nonfiction and short stories. I find joy in shaping small moments into something meaningful, and recently, I published a book in my mother tongue, Malayalam, which was a dream come true. I’m also part of Hridyam, a volunteer community where we read chapters, modules, and stories for blind students, basically voice-donation. It’s one of the most grounding things I do. Knowing that my voice can help someone learn or imagine is a gift that I don’t take lightly.
Beyond that, I’m actively involved in outreach programs where I speak to college students about a range of topics—scientific thinking, environmental issues, the importance of literature, and even social concerns like drug abuse. These conversations matter. Sometimes, all it takes is one honest talk in a classroom to spark change or give someone a new perspective. I see science not just as a tool for discovery, but as something that should be shared and lived.
Did you ever doubt your abilities as a scientist? Why? How did you handle these situations/feelings?
Absolutely. Fieldwork can be isolating—sometimes you’re the only woman, sometimes the only researcher, and sometimes you’re simply lost in your own thoughts. There were moments when I seriously questioned whether I was “doing it right,” or if I even belonged in this space. Everyone around me seemed older, more experienced, more sure of themselves.
I remember once confessing to my PhD supervisor, that I felt like an imposter. That maybe I didn’t belong here among people who had already done so much more than I had. She looked at me calmly and said, “you’re here because you have talent. Don’t ever doubt that, your age and your youth are not weaknesses—they’re your strengths.” That moment stayed with me. It reminded me that it’s okay to feel uncertain, but not to let that uncertainty define me.
What really helped over time was realizing that self-doubt is almost universal—even the most brilliant scientists I know have felt it at some point. Talking about it openly—with peers, mentors, and through journaling—helped me slowly loosen its grip. It’s still there sometimes, but it doesn’t hold the same power it used to.
What kind of prejudices, if any, did you have to face? How did that make you feel? Were you able to overcome these?
I consider myself really fortunate that, so far, I haven’t personally faced direct gender-based prejudice in my field. I’ve had supportive mentors, colleagues, and field teams who’ve treated me with respect and equality. But I’m very aware that this isn’t the case for everyone. But just because I haven’t experienced it directly doesn’t mean I’m blind to it. I know it exists—loudly and quietly—in many corners of the scientific world. That’s why I believe it’s important to stand up for equity in science. I strongly feel that science belongs to everyone—regardless of gender, caste, language, or where you come from. It shouldn’t take a struggle to feel like you belong. Even if I haven’t had to fight that fight myself, I stand with those who do—and I try to make space, listen, and speak up when it matters.
What (or who) motivated you in difficult times?
For me, it’s always been two things: my family and the gym. My family has always been by emotional safety net. They don’t always understand what I do, but they always believes me. And then there’s fitness—my accidental but essential coping mechanism. I started working out and got into personal training when everything else in life felt like it was spinning out of control. When my brain is running 27 tabs at once, doing maybe three sets of leg day pain really puts things into perspective.
Some days you nail the reps, some days you fail—and that’s okay. It also made me realize that teachers aren’t always found in classrooms or academic settings. My personal trainer became one of the most important teachers in my life who taught me to focus on what’s right in front of me, to take things one rep at a time—whether that’s in the gym, in life, or in research. In the chaos of academia, fitness gave me mental clarity, emotional balance, and a sense of control. It reminded me that I can rebuild myself.
If you had the option to give advice to a younger version of yourself, what would that be?
Aww, that’s interesting—if I could talk to a younger me, I think I’d tell her to love herself a little more. I’d tell her it’s okay not to have all the answers right now, and that not knowing is part of the journey.
I’d remind her to stop being so hard on herself, the world can feel big and overwhelming, but she’s doing the best she can. I’d say, “hey, you’re enough just as you are.” And may
be, I’d give her a big hug and tell her that she’s going to surprise herself in the best ways.
Most of all, I’d tell her to trust her own voice and follow what feels true—even when it’s scary or different. Because she’s braver than she knows.