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Recently I happened to meet a school mate and we both remembered an incident, let me share with you. It began when I was a child who went to a convent (Christian) school, about 30 years ago. Back then, the number of schools was limited, and this one had an international reputation, since its head branch worked outside India. It offered high-quality education and ensured the multifaceted development of its students.
However, a few rules—originating from missionary sources outside the country—were hard to accept. One such rule forbade girls from wearing a tikli (a circular dot on the forehead). While the school welcomed students of all religions and castes, this rule was met with resistance—not just from students, but also from a few teachers.
Along with a few other girls and the support of some teachers, I stood united against this rule. Despite being told not to, we continued to wear the tikli fearlessly. I was too young to understand what happened at the administrative level, but a few days later, discussions must have taken place. The rule was revoked, and we were never stopped from wearing the tikli again.
That small, symbolic act became a lifelong metaphor for me. Because I stuck to the tikli, the tikli stayed stuck to me. It came to represent holding onto what is right—no matter the circumstance.
After school, I chose the science stream in Gokhale Education Society’s Bytco College for my 11th and 12th grades. I was an outlier—most of my school friends had chosen commerce. I was fascinated by microbiology and went on to graduate in the same subject from Gokhale Education Society’s RYK Science College.
In the final year of my graduation, my father was diagnosed with an incurable liver disorder. Around the same time, I was selected for postgraduate studies at the Department of Microbiology, Pune University, in the very first merit list. I was allowed to pursue it on one suggestion: that I enroll in the ‘Earn and Learn’ scheme. Most of our finances were directed towards my father’s treatment, so affording my education in Pune was nearly impossible.
Under the scheme, I worked to support myself. In the first year, I assisted in the medical certificate section for foreign students, health centre. In the second year, I distributed tokens in the girls' refectory. I earned ₹15 per hour. It was enough to afford two meals a day, but not breakfast. On Sundays, there was no dinner in the hostel—I would either have a ₹5 vada pav or a packet of Parle biscuits, or sometimes, nothing at all.
I wasn't preparing for UPSC or MPSC exams, so I never thought of writing a book about my struggles. But the struggles continued—into my PhD as well. I chose a research topic close to my heart, even though it received no funding. To survive, I worked as a visiting lecturer in Manjri, Hadapsar, and completed my PhD alongside. I then worked as a lecturer in Gokhale Education Society’s college. I maintained a habit of reviewing every lecture of mine and correcting the flaws or gaps in it. With this precision and honesty, we were also involved in testing samples for covid. In the pandemic we accurately analysed and reported 1 lakh 40 thousand samples in a government hospital.
Throughout this journey, I’ve consistently attempted the harder right. And yet, I have often watched others settle comfortably—smartly, even—by choosing the easier wrong.
But here's what I’ve learned: comfort may come easily, but courage creates meaning. The road I chose wasn’t paved with ease or certainty, but with values, resilience, and self-respect. Every obstacle, every hungry night, every difficult decision stitched together the fabric of a life I can call my own—with pride, my skin!
A few people don’t settle for easy wrongs—they choose the harder right. Life, in turn, tunes itself to a frequency of constant struggles and hardships for such individuals. They still don’t give up.
Because sometimes, sticking to your tikli is not about tradition—it's about identity, conviction, and the quiet strength to stand tall in a world that often asks you to bend.
