Unqualified, Uncertain, and Somehow Here

On connecting the dots

One of the stories I don’t often talk about is my very first internship. I was 17. Still in school. I had found it through a tweet, just something floating casually on my timeline. I reached out anyway, sent in a few writing samples from my blog, not expecting much. But they said yes. It was unpaid, but it felt big. Important. At that age, it was everything I wanted, some kind of validation that I was doing something that mattered. That I could belong to a world that felt distant and grown-up.

I wrote two articles a day, edited on the go, balanced it alongside board prep and the mess that is Class 12. Most of what I submitted got published without edits, which felt like a win.

Then, one day, I made a mistake. A small one. I said sorry. I explained. I thought that would be enough. Minutes later, I got a call. It wasn’t a conversation. Just sharp words and raised voices. A lecture I couldn’t hold on to, the kind that leaves you frozen even before it’s over. And then, all of a sudden, I was being let go. The call ended with a line I still remember word for word: “With this kind of attitude, you won’t make it in the real world.”

That sentence stayed with me. It played in my head for months like background noise I couldn’t turn off. I sat on the edge of my bed, still holding my phone, my face hot and my stomach weirdly cold. I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t know how to. I felt embarrassed, like I had failed not just at the work, but at some unspoken test of character. I started to believe maybe he was right. That I wasn’t ready.

But of course I wasn’t. I was seventeen. Still figuring things out. Not knowing wasn’t a flaw, it was natural. I didn’t need to be told that with anger.

Now, when I think back, I don’t feel grateful for how it happened. But I do see what it taught me. That version of me that was eager, scared, and just starting wasn’t lacking. And starting shouldn’t be punished. She didn’t need praise. She deserved space to learn, space to make a small mistake without it becoming a permanent label.

Since that first internship, I’ve had the chance to work with teams that brought both kindness and rigour, experiences that didn’t just teach, but helped me grow. My time with Trice in 2023 and NDTV in 2024 were especially formative in their own ways, and I have written about both in earlier newsletters.

I have thought about that first experience a lot in the past month, because after a long, uncertain stretch of not knowing what came next, I have found myself working. And yes, in case you haven’t been looped into my parents’ social media platforms or bumped into me recently, this may come as news.

I realise the irony that my last post, just two months ago, was about feeling lost in the real world. And now here I am, showing up again with: um, hi, actually I’m working now.

Unqualified and Uncertain

That last piece caught a lot of attention. Mostly concerned, which I deeply appreciated. The check-ins, the quiet encouragement, the messages from people who said, “I feel this too”, those moments made me feel like I wasn’t alone in that strange, in-between space that follows graduation. That post didn’t offer a resolution. It wasn’t meant to. It was simply me saying, “I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m still here.” And somehow, just naming that was enough to feel like I had started moving again.

And then, almost without warning, things shifted. A conversation here. A phone call there. A stretch of waiting that didn’t feel like waiting for anything in particular. And then suddenly, I was in.

And now, a month in, I still don’t entirely know how to talk about it. I didn’t want to write a tidy “I got a job!” post. It felt too final, too neat, too not-me. What’s the point if I can’t reflect on it through a slightly messy, very human, very me kind of piece?

I’ve never felt more out of place and never felt more determined to stay anyway. And sometimes, in those quiet in-between moments, I wonder if I’ve only made it this far because of luck. Which is a good place to pause?

Luck. Privilege. The question of whether I’ve earned any of this. These aren’t just passing thoughts; they’re the ones that return often, shaping how I write and how I see myself.

We’re told a clean story: work hard, believe in yourself, and everything will fall into place. It’s comforting. Linear. Easy to digest. I don’t find myself convinced on this.

Yes, I’ve done things. I’ve started projects, followed through on ideas, and shown up even when no one was watching. But lately I’ve been asking myself: would those dots even exist, those pieces of work people now point to, if I hadn’t had the conditions to make them possible?

Because the truth is, I had the time to try. I had the language to articulate what I wanted. I had mentors who replied to cold emails, communities that welcomed me in, and parents who said “go ahead” instead of “be careful.” I had schools that gave me a head start, and networks that others spend years trying to reach. And that’s what we call luck. Not the lottery-ticket kind. The kind that feels invisible until you start noticing how many people never had it. The kind that accumulates over time and shapes the floor beneath your feet, without ever announcing itself, almost like a trampoline (iykyk) to bounce you back up.

So when people say, “you’ve earned this,” I don’t disagree, but I also don’t let that be the full sentence. I have worked, yes. But I have also been held up. The dots I connected weren’t floating in empty space. They were placed within reach. The circumstances that made that possible: proximity, safety, timing, and access are part of the story too.

This job, then, isn’t just the result of what I have done; it’s a reflection of what I’ve had the chance to do. A reminder that I moved through systems and safety nets that made the trying possible in the first place.

It doesn’t undo the effort I’ve put in. It just reminds me that effort was never the only thing at play. And that’s a humbling thing to hold, especially when people think you made it all on your own.

That every attempt I’ve made, visible or not, has shaped something in me. This newsletter. A podcast. A failed startup. An international forum. A hundred drafts that never got published. Each one added something. Each one was a dot. And now, this job feels like a line drawn through those dots. Not a perfect line. Not a straight one. But a line I can finally see. And that means something.

I’m beginning to learn that we rarely arrive anywhere feeling fully ready. We arrive with our questions. With our awkwardness. And if we’re lucky, we get to stay long enough to grow into the version of ourselves that feels more sure-footed. So no, this isn’t a “look how far I’ve come” post. It’s a breadcrumb I’m leaving for myself. A reminder.

Which brings me here, finally. If you made it through all that to the reveal! I now work at Arka Mediaworks, as part of the marketing and fan engagement team for the Baahubali 10-year re-release and the journeys that follow. It feels surreal to type that out—stranger still to say it aloud. Like stepping into a world I once watched from a distance, now suddenly handed the map and the key. To be part of something this grand, this mythic, feels a little like standing at the gates of Mahishmati, not as a spectator, but with a seat at the royal table. It feels like it belongs to some shinier, more polished version of myself. But it doesn’t.

And maybe that’s the point. This dot, this moment, this job, it wasn’t planned. It wasn’t forced. But it arrived. And it makes the blur of the past feel a little more coherent.

Maybe things are coming together in ways I won’t fully understand yet. Maybe what feels like drifting is actually movement. I’m not sure. But maybe that’s okay. Some things only make sense when you look back.