What I wanted to be Vs what I am doing Right now

Between Stars and Stoves
When I was in Grade 5, I didn’t know what dreams were supposed to look like. Around me, most of my cousins were walking toward the medical field, and I thought maybe that was the only respectable road that existed.
But in Grade 8, something unexpected happened—I met the universe.
I read “A Brief History of Time” by Stephen Hawking, and suddenly the sky was no longer just blue; it was full of questions. Black holes, time, gravity, dimensions—everything felt magical. Around the same time, I fell in love with science-fiction films: Inception, Gravity, The Martian, and above all—Interstellar.
Interstellar didn’t feel like a movie to me. It felt like a doorway. I still remember staring at the screen, thinking, How can imagination go this far? Christopher Nolan didn’t just make a film—he built a universe. Years later when the real image of a black hole was released, it looked so similar to what the film had shown. I read that scientists were consulted while creating those scenes. That moment made me realize how art and science can breathe together.
For a long time I was sure—
I will study Astrophysics.
But dreams are never singular.
Along with stars, another world lived inside me—the world of food. I love baking more than I can explain. The smell of a cake rising in the oven feels like happiness taking shape. I can cook Sindhi kadhi-chawal, upma, simple omelettes, even my little experiments like aglio-olio maggie and endless versions of coffee.
During the pandemic I used to watch “Raja Rasoi Aur Anya Kahaniyaan,” hosted by Dr. Pushpesh Pant, and I became fascinated by the idea that food is history, culture, emotion. I started dreaming of becoming:
• a pastry chef
• a culinary anthropologist
• a food historian
I truly believe:
“Food is symbolic of love when words are inadequate.”
And maybe it’s true that the way to a person’s heart really is through their stomach.
Then there was music.
The flute especially.
Whenever life became too loud, music held my hand. It healed parts of me I never spoke about.
So by the end of 10th grade, I was a girl made of many dreams—
stars, cakes, classrooms full of small children, and soft flute notes.
And then reality knocked.
After 10th, my parents asked me to choose science. I didn’t fight much. I love them, and I know they were not trying to kill my dreams. Maybe they were only afraid—afraid that passion would not pay bills, that I would struggle the way they did.
But somewhere in that decision, I lost a part of myself.
Since then I have been studying what I’m supposed to study, not what my heart runs toward. I get decent marks, I do what is expected, yet nothing feels like it belongs to me.
I don’t hate my parents.
But I also don’t feel seen.
Their love feels conditional—attached to report cards and percentages. And I have started wondering: Who am I without grades?
Since 10th grade I have felt a quiet sadness following me.
Not dramatic, not loud—just a feeling that I am living a life designed for someone else.
I often think maybe this is why our country ranks so low in the Happiness Index. We raise children to survive, not to live.
But still, inside me, all those versions are alive:
• the girl who looks at the sky and thinks of black holes
• the one who measures flour and sugar like emotions
• the teacher who wants to sit with preschool kids
• the flutist who believes music can save a day
Maybe I don’t have to kill any of them.
Maybe I am allowed to be many things.
This blog is my first step toward that permission.

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