Organism and Organization

Why fight the system when you can make it work for you?

We like to think of ourselves as free-willed, independent, self-made beings—captains of our own ships, authors of our own destinies. But more often than not, we are creatures of our environment, products of the ecosystems we inhabit.

And yet, I have always loved fighting ecosystems.

It started early. As an undergrad, I was technically an electrical engineering student. Technically. In reality, I spent most of my time lost in the world of computer vision and machine learning, topics that weren’t even part of my coursework. I skipped classes—not out of laziness, but because I found something else so captivating that the classroom felt like a prison.

While my peers were focused on circuits and power systems, I was deep into self-learning, building my own understanding of how machines could see. And this wasn’t just an act of defiance—it actually paid off. Through my self-study, I cracked Google Summer of Code (GSoC) twice, securing prestigious internships where I got to work on open-source projects with international mentors. Not only did this validate my decision to ignore the standard curriculum, but it also earned me a good amount of money—far more than the typical campus internship. While others were grinding for college exams, I was getting paid to work on projects that genuinely excited me.

Then came campus placement season, where students transformed into code-crunching, algorithm-memorizing machines. The well-trodden path was clear: grind for interviews, land a job in Bangalore or Pune, and slide into a predictable IT career. I refused.

Instead of preparing for a stable, well-paying job, I set my sights on U.S. universities. The application process was exhausting—exams, essays, recommendations, the constant doubt of whether I was making a terrible mistake. But something in me couldn’t just go with the flow. I had to resist, even if that meant leaping into uncertainty.

In grad school, the pattern repeated. I found my place in a lab working on computer vision, parallel computing, and precision agriculture—applying machine learning to analyze crop health, optimize farming techniques, and process large-scale imaging data. My two years there passed in a blur of research, code, and sleepless nights. I felt I had finally carved out a niche that was entirely my own.

And then came the real world. To get a software engineering job, I was forced to return to the same data structures and algorithms I had once resisted. The irony wasn’t lost on me. In undergrad, I had rejected this material because it was being imposed on me. Now, no professor was forcing me—I had to study it simply to survive. I learned just enough to pass interviews and then let it go, feeling relieved that I had once again outmaneuvered the system.

And just when I thought I had finally escaped the cycle, something unexpected happened. I started working in New York, and suddenly, a new obsession took hold of me—Indian philosophy. Vedanta, Advaita, Sri Ramakrishna, and Vivekananda weren’t just intellectual interests; they felt urgent, as if my mind had been waiting for years to discover them. I juggled both worlds—spending my days writing code and leading engineering teams and my nights unraveling ancient philosophical texts. Once again, my mind resisted its given ecosystem. My job was supposed to be my main focus, but here I was, pouring hours into something that had no direct career benefit.

At least, that’s what I thought until recently; something clicked.

I realized that I wasn’t fighting my environments but learning from them. Ecosystems change, but patterns remain. Every structured environment—whether an engineering program, a corporate job, or a philosophy study—demands specific skills. But beneath the surface, the most valuable skills remain the same across all domains.

Right now, my role as a software engineering manager demands precise communication. Writing well, thinking clearly, and articulating complex ideas to different audiences. And what do I need to do justice to my study of Indian philosophy? Writing well, thinking clearly, and articulating complex ideas to different audiences.

Instead of seeing my job as a distraction, I now see it as an opportunity to refine skills that will benefit both my professional and personal lives.

This was the missing piece.

The realization that meta-skills—structured thinking, clear articulation, problem-solving—are universal. They transcend fields, roles, and industries. They are the real currency of growth, not the specific tasks or technologies we obsess over. Once you recognize this, the resistance melts away.

These days, after work, I go to the Vedanta Society library or an NYPL branch, finding quiet corners to sit and write. My old instinct to resist my structured environment has transformed into a deeper awareness: I can use it.

My workplace forces me to hone my communication, which sharpens my ability to write about Indian philosophy. My study of Vedanta deepens my clarity of thought, which makes me a better leader at work. Instead of fighting, I now navigate—absorbing, integrating, and repurposing lessons across both worlds.

I spent years attending in-person lectures on Indian philosophy, absorbing not just the ideas but the way they were communicated—the cadence, the clarity, the power of storytelling. Public speaking became a natural byproduct of this immersion. At the time, I had no idea it would be useful beyond those settings.

And yet, today, I find myself using those very skills to build and lead an engineering community for a cause that has impact beyond my own team. The ability to speak persuasively, to inspire, to structure thoughts in a way that influences others—these aren’t just “soft skills.” They are transferable tools of power. The environment may change, but the core abilities remain.

Arrival

For years, I believed progress meant fighting against the current. Now, I see it differently. Growth isn’t about rejecting your ecosystem—it’s about extracting its essence. You don’t have to push against the system to prove your independence endlessly. You just have to recognize what it is offering you beneath the surface.

And that’s why I feel I have arrived. Not because I have reached some final destination but because I no longer feel the need to fight. The ecosystem will always be there. The organism will continually adapt. But the real game is in seeing the hidden patterns and using them to evolve on your own terms.