The Cost of Trusting Oneself
A story about a Prime Minister’s felicitation, family doubt, and learning to trust my own compass
When I was starting high school, I was at crossroads of chosing a stream of courses, as goes in the Indian education system. I had to decide between studying either economics or computer science. AI hadn’t yet become a household buzzword. My family, with roots in multi-industry business, saw computer science as a narrow, uncertain path, especially when not having enough examples in their experiences to validate the path. Economics, on the other hand, was respectable, versatile, safe and would most importantly keep the doors wide open, in a traditional sense, for all of business, academia and government services.
I chose computer science.
My reasoning was mainly a hidden passion with a flavor of practicality that computer science is a skill‑based knowledge. While I spent my afternoons and nights tinkering with my personal computer, I could see myself wanting to learn it deeply under structured guidance and practice. Economics, I believed, was something I could pick up later if I chose to run a business, through life. [1] I couldn’t explain this well at sixteen. I only knew I had to try.
The skepticism was polite at first, then persistent. “Are you sure? You might regret this.” I wasn’t sure, how well my statements made sense. I just knew I have always had a lovely relationship with computers and I would like to maintain it.
Years later, when high school was done where I had performed the highest in the computer science subject than any other, and now I was in uni pursuing my Bachelors in the subject, I came across an email that I would brush off in a first glance as spam.
I had been selected for felicitation by Narendra Modi, the Prime Minister of India at the time, for one of the early active participation in digital governance. The invitation felt surreal. I told my parents as they lived through their usual, rushed daily life, brushing it off as spam without even looking at the screen. Digital scams were really too active then and it was an extraordinary claim to accept when not having seen a physical evidence. So I didn’t go.
Weeks later, the ceremony aired on national television. My family was gathered in the living room when the segment began. There, on screen, were the dignitaries, the venue, the very event I had described. Looking at fellows get felicitated by the Prime Minister, my dad turned to me. “Why aren’t you doing such rewarding deeds?”
I exclaimed, “You called it a scam when I told you!”. A little sheepishly with a hint of pride they looked at the email that I hadn’t yet deleted.
Did my family stop questioning my plans after that? Not entirely. The pattern had started earlier, and it would continue.
In college, I threw myself into building ALiAS, a community for Linux and open‑source enthusiasts. I organized events, attended meetups, spent evenings in empty classrooms talking about kernels and pull requests. To my family, it looked like I was spending time and money on something with no clear return.
“Shouldn’t you focus on your studies?” they’d ask. “Is this really worth it?”
I didn’t have an answer that would satisfy them. I only knew that building something alongside passionate people felt more valuable than any grade. So I kept going.
Over time, the community grew. ALiAS became the most active tech club on campus. We introduced Python into the university curriculum. Students made their first open‑source contributions. Chapters began appearing in other cities. The recognition came, not just in awards like the Shri Baljit Shastri Award for being the Best in Human Values in my entire university, but in the quiet satisfaction of seeing me mentor others and help them come out of problems I was once drowned in.
My family saw it, too. The same relatives who had questioned my choice of computer science began pursuing master’s degrees in the field. The same parents who doubted the value of my “meetings” started asking about the next event. They didn’t apologize. That’s not how it works in an Asian household. But they no longer doubted.
My family, like any higher genration, wanted me to be safe externally while I was chosing it in trusting my own compass even when the map was unclear.
Now, when I make a decision that looks uncertain from the outside, I welcome the questions. They help me see perspectives I might have missed. The final direction comes from within.
Reflecting, when I see someone navigate a similarly uncertain path, I aim to offer what I would need, that is, trust without the wight of conditions.
Patience, though not easy, is well worth it when doing the slow, steady work of building something worth believing in.
Eventually, the evidence arrives on its own. You just need to show up.
[1]: Here, the value of economics in my life was put up for more on-ground applicability like running a business, rather than an in-depth understanding of the subject.