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It’s been a long-time dream of mine to attend an international conference during my PhD. I love research. I love travel. And combining the two? Nothing more need be said!

About six months ago, I stumbled across the 13th European Conference on Arts and Humanities, organized by IAFOR. What drew me in wasn’t just the fact that it was in London (though let’s be real—that was a huge bonus for this literature student whose syllabus has been at least 40% British Literature). It was the sheer range of themes the conference offered. I didn’t want a narrowly-defined academic silo—I wanted a conference that welcomed thinkers from different disciplines, because some of the best turning points in my research have come from talking to people outside my field. (Shoutout to my psychology friend—you know who you are.)

So, off I went from July 9th to 18th: ten whole days of solo travel, first time abroad by myself. Equal parts thrilling and terrifying. Naturally, I coped in the only way I knew how—by making multiple Excel sheets. Plural. One for the conference. One for food. One for sightseeing. And yes, a colour-coded packing list.

The conference itself? Genuinely wonderful. There’s something quite special about sitting in a room full of strangers from across the world and realizing that you’re all curious about the same thing: how humans think, live, struggle, and create. Big thanks to the lovely people I met—Navaidu Joshi, Julie Thomas, Beatrice David, and Vasiliki Rouska—who made those days so much brighter. Despite coming from such varied disciplines (Education, Architecture, Genealogy, and the Arts), we found ways to connect, discuss, and occasionally vent over the hot British weather and the lack of spicy food.

The plenary discussions were another amazing part of the conference. They made me pause and reflect on how our research is always tied up with who we are—our politics, our philosophies, our biases. You think you’re doing a nice neat study on reader response patterns patterns and next thing you know, you're grappling with your own ideological hang-ups.

As for my presentation, it was part of a larger panel titled The Humanism Discourse, which was all about understanding and responding to human conditions. Each of us came from different cultures, countries, and disciplines—but somehow, we still managed to have a deep, meaningful conversation that went beyond those boundaries. I’ll save the details of my presentation for a separate post, but for now I’ll just say—it felt good. Really good.

So here’s my final reflection:
Travel—whether it’s for a vacation or a conference—is one of the best ways to stretch your mind. I came back with more than just memories—I came back recharged, re-inspired, and yes, with a suitcase full of chocolates and souvenirs. Obviously.

Let’s start with the basics: Dialogica: An Interdisciplinary Approach to Literature, Language and Cultural Studies was a scholar-led conference. About nine of us from the Department of English and Cultural Studies decided (voluntarily! with free will!) to organise this conference. Six months of planning, meeting, re-meeting, planning again, designing, budgeting, arguing about fonts, arguing about mementoes and other things—honestly, I couldn't have predicted that it would all go this smoothly in the end. It did, though. And it taught me more than I thought a single event could.

Top of that list? Patience.

Because working in a group means: no, it will not go your way. And no, that’s not a bad thing.

Everyone has opinions, strong ones—and it’s not about accommodating every single one, but about finding ways to move forward despite the (many) disagreements. At some point, you just learn to say: “Okay, let’s try it and see how it goes,” and that becomes your new mantra. 

If you’ve read my earlier post about designing the brochures and Instagram material, you know I spent weeks inside Canva spirals and colour scheme crises. But in the last few days before the conference, once the designs were complete, I dove into food and hospitality.

Yes, me. The introvert who occasionally forgets how to make eye contact.

And guess what? I did surprisingly okay! Called all the drivers, the caterers and all that without breaking a sweat. And guess what? I did surprisingly okay! I mean, sure—I spilled some water and broke a couple of glasses (call them minor casualties or collateral damage), but honestly? Just a blip in the grand timeline of hospitality. 

But honestly? The best part of this conference wasn’t the logistics or even the success (though that was nice). It was my conversations with the speakers, particularly Dr. Joseph Koyipally and Dr. Punnya Rajendran.

I was over the moon that they were interested in my research. But even beyond that, just getting to pick their brains about teaching, politics, inclusivity, and all the messy, beautiful things in between—it was genuinely energising. It reminded me why I wanted to be in academia in the first place. (And made me just a tiny bit jealous of the attendees who actually got to listen to their talks while I was out chasing a caterer or calling the drivers for the 100th time)

No regrets, though. The running around was its own kind of adrenaline high. And reading out the conference report at the end? That moment hit me.

I realized how much we had actually pulled off—how every spreadsheet, email, group chat, and meeting had added up to something real.

So yes, I’m going to say it:

I’m proud.

Of myself. Of this incredible core committee. Of our ability to hold it together and create something meaningful (and well-catered!).

Huge thanks to the Department of English and Cultural Studies and our faculty for standing by us through it all. Dialogica wasn’t just a conference. It was a reminder that when scholars get together and care—really care—about what they’re building, amazing things happen.

I designed the brochures and Instagram posts for the Dialogica conference to be held on June 27, 2025 — and I also worked on the brochures for our pre-conference workshops in April and May. This was my first time creating something professional and academic while still trying to make it fun, and honestly? It was a whole journey.

There weren’t too many constraints, but I had to keep reminding myself to not forget the institution’s logo (and a few other academic necessities). Most of my time went into Canva — specifically, debating whether Canva Premium was worth the price of my soul. I discovered so many new features I didn’t know existed, and I was very surprised (pleasantly!) when my first design for the badges — which will be out soon — turned out to look actually great. That one I did pretty fast. But the others? I spent weeks on them.

What I didn’t expect was how much this made me think about information design. When we read, we assume meaning is linear — one point after the next. But when you design, you realize that it’s more layered. Some elements are foregrounded, some sit quietly in the background, and yet they all contribute to the message. It made me wonder: Should my research writing be like that too? In my thesis, there’s going to be a lot of information, obviously — but how do I structure it so that the main arguments remain visible, even as the background continues to support them? It’s something I’ll keep thinking about.

Anyway, the real joy was in seeing my work go out into the world — the designs being shared, printed, circulated across the country. I got a lot of compliments about how professional the brochure looked (thank you!), but I couldn’t have done it without my team. Their feedback helped catch all the little things — from spelling errors to structural clarity. Because it’s not just the colours and design, right? The content matters just as much.

I’ve added a visual carousel below that shows all the brochures. If you’re curious (or if you just like fonts as much as I do), scroll through and let me know which one’s your favourite!

If you had told me at the start of my PhD that I’d be doing what I’m doing now, I wouldn’t have believed you. Not because I had a better plan — but because, frankly, I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

Let’s rewind.

Back in my Master’s, I worked on mythology-inspired fiction and disability studies. It was challenging, interesting, and somewhere along the way, I decided: “Hey, I could do more of this.” So when it came time to apply for a PhD, I took what I knew — text analysis, mythology, disability representation — and built a proposal. It focused on representations of disability in Indian English mythology-inspired fiction. It made sense on paper. I was excited. But if I’m honest? I also didn’t know what else to do. This seemed like the most interesting path available, and I followed it.

I began my PhD at CHRIST (Deemed to be University),  and then coursework happened, particularly Research Methodology. 

And suddenly, I was being asked the most annoying question known to all research students: “So what?” Every week. Every problem statement. Every tiny spark of an idea. So what?

At first, I resisted. Surely a research gap was enough? Surely the fact that “no one has studied this yet” meant it needed to be studied? But my professors didn’t let it slide. And somewhere between all those “so whats” and making friends from psychology who approached research quite differently from me, a literature student, something shifted. I realized that it is important to revisit my research questions, to understand why I am doing research. What do I want to know?

I didn’t want to just know what was being written. I wanted to know: Why do we keep coming back to these mythical and epic stories? What’s so compelling about mythology-inspired fiction in Indian English writing? Why do these books sell, circulate, and spark debate?

I won’t go into my current research in too much detail here — that’s a blog post for another day. But I will say this: I’m now studying reading experiences of mythology-inspired fiction. Not just the stories themselves, but how readers respond, and feel about these books. And let me tell you — it took seven versions of my research topic to get here.

It went something like this:

Disability representation → Marginality → Literary production → Adaptation studies → Back to production → Production and Consumption → And finally, reception.

Each shift came with a little identity crisis. Each one felt like giving up on the idea before it. But together? They made me realize that the process is the research. 

I used to think research was about having a strong direction. But now I think it’s just as much about learning how to listen — to your questions, your confusions, and the way your topic resists being neatly contained.

That’s what this year taught me. That a messy journey is still a journey. And that sometimes, the most important part of your research isn’t what you started with — but what you learn to ask along the way.