I am a citizen of the world. Born and raised partially in India, in Africa, and the United States, I’ve come to value the diversity and breadth of my experiences in life. The people I’ve met, the places I’ve visited have provided me with a sense of self that has allowed me to connect with the very fundamental building block of humanity: existence.

As I’ve traveled through the past close to two years of my life, I’ve repeatedly come to a metaphorical crossroads in life, one thrusting forward the age-old question of the importance of one’s being, its interactions with others, its place in the vast universe. I’ve found myself constantly struggling to balance the yearning to formulate these relationships with the intense desire to discover my true self, my passions, my dislikes, my visions, and my dreams.

I’ve come to find that pen and paper are my confidants. Words create an irreverent solace, through which I’m able to express, as clichéd as this will sound, the deepest and darkest of my thoughts, wishes, and aspirations.

And with such genuine reflection, as was inevitable, I’ve also come to find that no longer am I my parents’ child. No longer do I see life through their lenses; no longer am can I identify myself as a small part of a large whole.

It’s evident now, more than ever before:

I am independent. I am alone.

We live our lives, in the shadow of our parents, family, and friends – a direct reflection of their ideals, values, opinions, and thoughts. They are the ones we look up to, respect, honor, and emulate. Their vision is one we oftentimes adopt as our own, a future that we often believe we see for ourselves.

However, at some point, the moment arrives – the one poignant moment when you realize that you are, in fact, your own person. That solitary moment is perhaps the most bittersweet in one’s life; it’s the one, sole time when the entire range of human emotion envelopes your core, your being, and you feel helpless and empowered all at once.

You travel through life, one day at a time, redefining all of the things you once thought you knew with conviction, rediscovering your true sense of self, while also evaluating and characterizing the differences between your values and those you grew up with. You come to accept that perhaps life is a series of phases, of chances, occurrences, and lucky breaks after all that characterize the various formative milestones that define one’s existence on planet Earth.

And so, a surreal feeling overwhelms you, the moment that realization of independence and solitude sets in. I say that not to solicit sympathies or reassurance from those around me, but rather to remind myself that my life is mine to live, my decisions – mine to make, my thoughts and opinions – mine to develop and stand behind.

With this realization, comes the inevitable question of the value of solitude and its alternatives. The evolutionary social tale dictates that one transition from a life of familial and fraternal familiarities to interactions of the romantic nature, nurturing the webs of interactions weaved throughout the influential years and milestones of life. This natural progression in the phases of one’s life begs the question of its necessity, and it’s become none too apparent for me in recent years.

Throughout this time, I’ve incrementally become exposed to a nagging of sorts. I’ve somehow grown accustomed to hearing the incessant rumblings throughout familial conversations, hinting, and most recently outright addressing, the lack of familial aspirations I’ve displayed (or rather, haven’t displayed, as the case may be). It’s the kind of banter that I’ve come to send through one ear and directly out the other, without even remote processing…for my sanity’s sake.

However, one comment from my grandmother recently caught me off guard. As we chatted about my current place in life, she asked whether she’d ever see me get married before her time grew near an end. Most strikingly, she inquired what I could possibly do with all of the money I earn as a part of my job…as it couldn’t possibly fill any void that relationships are expected to fill in one’s life. “In old age,” she said, “it’s the people around you who keep you going and look after you…hardly something money can do.”

This last bit rattled me, to say the least. I’d never even considered my career as something that simply earned me money. It’d never dawned on me that my dedication to said career was perceived as a means to a simple end. It’d never occurred to me that there was a need to justify my motivation towards excelling as a byproduct of the passions I possess and the innate desire I have towards positively contributing to something I hold so near and dear to my heart.

And then it hit me.

Perhaps this was the relationship that others find on a daily basis with other people. Perhaps I’ve come to find it in something, rather than someone. Is it indeed possible that I’m destined to embark on a relationship with one of my two passions in life…or perhaps the more appropriate question is, is it actually possible that my one true love is, in fact, an object and not a being?

The consequences and ramifications of such a lifestyle decision are bountifully negative. And I’ll admit that the relatively minimal number of years I have experienced, along with my track record of making life-altering decisions, undoubtedly indicates that I have plenty of additional time to come to a relatively definitive viewpoint on such a subject. Yet, unlike the results of many of my other personal reflections, I have yet to fully draw a conclusion with which I am satisfied and content in accepting. Perhaps this is just an indication of my immaturity and subsequent room for personal growth…I hope this assertion proves to be true, and that I’m one day left with an unwavering, unconditional, completely confident sense of self, whether solitary or attached.

A speck of sand, in an infinite Universe

Over the last hour, I’ve sat in awe in front of my television – not reveling in the storytelling reverie of primetime television, or cringing at the evidence of society’s affinity towards slowly bringing about its own downfall.

No, for once, I sat in awe, goosebumps on my arms, hair raised on the nape of my neck, and heart beating much more than discretely, watching history being made as the first of thirty-three miners, trapped in a collapsed mine, were raised above the Earth’s surface in remote Chile. I looked on in absolute amazement, as their friends and family waited, with baited breath and many tears, for a glimpse of their loved ones for the first time in almost seventy days. I imagine, as many reporters have, that it was much like the anticipation of the first lunar landing that fateful day in July 1969.

Since we first heard of the critical situation, we've also heard repeatedly of professional organizations across the world being called upon for help. And today, as we all watch in sheer astonishment at the feat that was accomplished over these last sixty-nine days, I can't help but find solace and hope.

We just witnessed first-hand evidence of humanity's potential, intelligence, passion, determination, & perseverance.

I can't stress how incredibly poignant that is.

Think about those words: potential, intelligence, passion, determination, perseverance.

In a world where we hear daily of massacres, tragedies, recessions, finger pointing, you name it - the rescue operations today are a sign of hope, of faith in the goodness of the world and of humanity. It's evidence of the extraordinary bond we all share as inhabitants of this Earth, of the gift we've been bestowed to have analytical thoughts and related actions.

Many times tonight, I've heard reporters recount stories of how watching history unfold this way is much like when they, as children, witnessed man set foot on the Moon for the first time. Though amidst political turmoil and uncertainty, the world united as one to look on as humanity extended its footprint past the soils of the Earth and onto an extraterrestrial body. Much like today, we demonstrated on that day over 41 years ago, that we, as human beings, have the potential to accomplish so much, with so little. We proved that intelligence, passion, dedication, and perseverance could help us break the surly bonds of the Earthly forces that dictated our every move for centuries.

And yet, as time eludes us, we forget that humanity is capable of such feats. We allow tragedy and hate to heavily guide our notions, feelings, and actions, without pausing to remember the accomplishments of our forefathers. Somehow, in spite of the progression we make as humanity, we seem to revert to our primal nature, spurring the events that mar our track record of extraordinary accomplishments.

Perhaps that's what draws me so intimately to space exploration. As a child, I still remember pouring over astronomy picture books, gazing intently at the vivid imagery of our Universe. I still remember reading about the Apollo program, seeing still images and video of humanity's first foray onto other worlds. I still remember staring in awe as I stood in Mission Control for the first time, realizing the men and women there were supporting humans in space...actual space!

Working my way through various supporting roles at the Johnson Space Center has provided me with incredible perspective and insight. I tread the same ground as legends of manned spaceflight, past and present, and see the culmination of their combined efforts on a daily basis. I revel in the feats we have accomplished towards furthering humanity's knowledge of the great unknown, beyond the surface of our planet Earth. And most importantly, perhaps, I work daily, through certainty and strife alike, with great hope and faith, that one day our contributions will help humanity sustain life in distance lands.

The allure of the unknown has long enticed mankind - to not just explore, but invent. As I watch still the rescue efforts continue, I'm reminded of the innate characteristics that make us human beings, and of the continued curiosity we've possessed as a species since our inception. As I watch the wheel of the lift turn, signifying the progress the rescuers have made in the last few hours, I'm reminded of humanity's greatest achievements, especially those in the face of adversity, and I can't help but feel hopeful - for the success of these rescue operations; for the return to normalcy for those thirty-three brave, strong men; for our fate as humans on this planet we've made our home. I hope that one day, we will be able to share the perspective that few men and women have been fortunate enough to see while orbiting the Earth, and appreciate our place, not just in the world, but our Universe.

Spend a month at a museum? Yes, please!

A little less than a month ago, I found out about the "Month at the Museum" contest, held by the Chicago Museum of Science & Industry...the grand prize being a month-long stay at the 11-acre museum, documenting the winner's stay, and sharing his/her experiences with the world.

Combine my love for museums, science & technology, & writing...I'm in!

Below is the essay I put the finishing touches on and mailed off, along with the rest of my application package. Here's to keeping fingers crossed - this would be an incredibly amazing opportunity!

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At age eight, I sat in the Mission Control, gazing in wonderment at the consoles and displays tracking the whereabouts of the orbiting shuttle, as the flight control team worked to solve problem after problem during a simulation. I watched in awe as a group of people worked together to help humans live and work in space…the same space that all of my astronomy books talked about, the ones I sat and poured over from an even earlier age.

I left that day, proclaiming to my mother that I would one day work in Mission Control.

Seventeen years later, I half realized that dream, when I sat in Mission Control for the first time and spoke to the crew onboard the International Space Station, whom I had trained. I left that night, my footsteps echoing across the empty parking lot, knowing that I was well on the way towards contributing to a legacy left by the spaceflight pioneers of yesteryear.

As I’ve worked towards fulfilling this dream, I’ve realized the value of all of the formative events throughout my life that have shaped the person I’ve become today, and moreover, continually prepare me to accomplish my goals. As a child, I sat, nose in science books on a regular basis. I designed my own experiments, to apply all of the concepts I read about in those very books and at school. I pursued an engineering degree in college that equipped me with the understanding of and ability to apply principles essential to spaceflight operations. Each day I spend as an astronaut instructor, I gain insight and appreciation for the training that crewmembers undergo to prepare for spaceflight.

Earlier this year, I was given the opportunity to give a talk to the participants of one of NASA public engagement efforts - the STS-132 Tweetup. Though apprehensive at first at the thought of speaking to so many people, I came out of the experience having a deep-seated appreciation for the role that public engagement plays in any organization’s mission, particularly those that strive to educate and excite the public about science and technology. The experience ignited in me a passion for engaging the general public in dialog about my job, about NASA, about my passions, and it’s created in me a sense of obligation to share my experiences and opportunities with those around me.

Each leg of my own journey in life thus far has prepared me in some manner to come closer to realizing the childhood aspiration I proclaimed was mine at such an early age. My avid enthusiasm for science and math has led me to a great number of opportunities and adventures, ones that I’ve been fortunate to share with others. And if given the opportunity, a “Month at the Museum” could afford me another formative event that will further shape me and help me share the value and excitement of science and technology with the world.

I Now Pronounce You...

Somewhere between my first real job and my first friend’s wedding, the process pretty much solidified itself:

“Oh, it’s so nice to meet you!” or “I’m so glad we finally saw each other!” followed by a quick glance at the hand – left, ring finger, to be precise.

I’m not even positive when this quick one-two came to be; I suddenly realized one day that it’s become the commonplace procedure.

Friday night, I reconnected with two high school friends, happily married (one with a kid), after quite some time.

Two words aptly describe the experience: heartwarming and terrifying.

On the eve of my twenty sixth year, I sit at a definitive juncture – one that finds me tussling with issues typical of most twenty-somethings. And yet, the upbringing in a society that has embedded a feeling of self-absorbency in its youth has me tossing and turning, night and day, to find a reclusive sanctuary, where my irrational fears & insecurities can be recognized, appreciated, and allayed…once and for all.

I say all this, not to elicit sympathy or advice, but merely to articulate the very reason for my seemingly severe disdain of all things celebratory of love.

Perhaps it is as simple as some unrequited schoolgirl crush, or perhaps it is the symptom of a deep-rooted expectation, entrenched in not only our society’s view of the life cycle, but humanity’s.

Even a few weeks after the fact, a particular conversation with my grandmother stands out in my mind. Mere minutes after beginning a chat, the first in a few weeks’ time, my grandmother broached the question I prepare to hear each time I have a conversation with her…except this time, it made its appearance in record time.

“When are you going to get married?” followed by the guilt-producing, “Will I even get to see you get married?”

Really, grandma…seriously?

Fine, let’s forget that – I prepared myself to hear that one…it’s definitely not the first time, and I’d be willing to bet a good chunk of chain that it’s not the last (and you’d be an absolute fool to bet against me on that one).

Then, she hit me with another gem…one I hadn’t heard before, but one that really struck a chord with me:

“You can’t just work all the time, all your life. What are you going to do with all that money? It’s not worth it, if you don’t have people to grow old with and look after you.”

My initial, instinctual reaction was to just allow the words to go in one ear and out the other, but over time, her words came back to haunt me. Coupled with the revelation that my mother and her friends were likewise on the lookout for “the one,” I found myself becoming more and more frustrated with the position I found myself in.

Before I really even knew much about boys and marriage, I knew one thing, and one thing alone: I was going to work for NASA. I loved space; I wanted to be an astronaut. That was the end of the story. No ifs, ands, or buts.

Sixteen years later, I found myself setting foot on the ground treaded by legends, past and present, realizing that dream I held for so long. Not merely a job, nor even a career…it’s the embodiment of something I envisioned before I was tainted or biased by societal expectations.

It's never been about money...about prestige. From the very beginning, it's been only about the fulfilling of an innate curiosity, an indulging in true, unbridled passion for the unknown, the unchartered.

Any vision of my life that I’ve ever known, or will ever know (I’m certain), has always included my passion for human spaceflight.

As I sit here, weeks after that conversation with my grandmother, and weeks after that revelation of my mother’s plans, and mere days after the nostalgic night with old friends, I’m left to wonder…as friends tie the knot, have adorable children, and nurture their families…

Will I be ostracized or frowned upon for being so in love with something?

Will my future hold a love that rivals that which I’ve shared with spaceflight (and music – my other, equally weighted passion)?

Or will I be left to cave to societal and familial pressures, compromising my beliefs and expectations, in the pursuit of externally anticipated happiness?

I sure don't know what it is...

Something’s missing, and I don’t know how to fix it.

John Mayer’s tune about life’s tribulations reads like my life story right now.

I’m not alone. I wish I was…because then I’d know I was down because I couldn’t find a friend around, to love me like they do right now.

Last fall, I took a writing course, with the full intention of starting a book project, characterizing the mid-twenties slump that more and more twenty-somethings have been experiencing. Soon thereafter, work picked up at break-neck speed, and I rode those coat-tails for as long as I possibly could.

Alas, it’s with a heavy heart I must report, mostly to myself, that it’s time to hop off the roller coaster and exit the park. I don’t even like roller coasters…well, not real ones, anyway. Figurative ones are OK…except when they lead to ambiguity, uncertainty, and the ever-dreaded disillusionment.

Something’s missing…and I don’t know what it is.

This was the precise struggle I was faced with a few months ago. I got derailed, and now I’m back.

Friends….check.

Money….check.

Well-slept…check.

Opposite sex….well, not quite, but that’s quite alright.

Guitar…an equivalent, so check.

Microphone…likewise, another check.

Messages waiting on me when I come home….close enough.

So, where’s the hopeless discontent coming from? It’s so much harder to fix a problem that you know exists, but can’t articulate or pin point.

Acknowledgement is the first step, right? So, what’s the second?