I submitted the documents to change my visa status from a student, and the process was
far more bureaucratic than I had anticipated. It involved endless paperwork, organizing certificates,
and ensuring my address was accurate in Kanji.
The immigration office in Sendai is located far from the city centre, requiring a bus ride from the
Richmond Hotel Premier. After getting off at “Haranomachi Icchome,” there’s a five-minute walk to a
small building handling visa applications. I often wonder how such an unremarkable place is
responsible for so much important work. It’s likely one of the few places in Sendai where Japanese is
rarely spoken, filled instead with confused international residents trying to navigate the complex
bureaucracy. The paperwork itself doesn’t trouble me; I grew up watching my father meticulously
organise documents with precision. What occupies my mind is the overwhelming bureaucracy that
often accompanies major life changes.
In autumn 2014, at 16, I visited Japan for a weeklong trip to Tokyo and Shin-Yokohama, coupled with
a homestay in Higashi Murayama. It was there I first experienced the basics of tea ceremony and fell
in love with Wagashi sweets. My favorite memory was my attempt to smuggle an octopus leg as a
souvenir for my family, only to be caught by my host mother.
Before this, I had little knowledge of Japan, shaped only by a Japanese film on my flight and a single
sushi set I bought in Mumbai. I was drawn to Japan’s balance of tradition and technology, and its
respect for language, which resonated with my concerns about English dominance in India. Living
abroad made me see India in a new light, revealing its complexities beyond the romanticized
narrative
I grew up with. Over time, I stopped thinking of myself as a citizen of a nation-state. My sense of
identity now lies with the people closest to me, not the land I was born in.
As a child, my parents introduced me to films like Spielberg’s Jaws and Cameron’s Titanic, along with
historical files my father created, such as one on the New 7 Wonders of the World. My favorite,
however, was a green file titled Trishit Banerjee and the Universe, where I collected space-related
news from The Times of India daily. This sparked a deep curiosity about space, leading to family trips
to the Nehru Planetarium in Mumbai, followed by meals at Jewel of India. I was known for eating the
marrow from Paya bones, a crime I’ve long since been acquitted of.
My early fascination with space led me to dream of becoming an astronaut, but poor eyesight and a
fear of swimming dashed those plans. I then considered archaeology, inspired by Jurassic Park, but
the reality of desert work was unappealing. Finally, I decided to pursue a career in science, motivated
by a book on Indian Nobel Laureates. Although I didn’t conduct my first independent experiment until
high school, my interest in science grew steadily. In my teenage years, I read widely, including works
by Arundhati Roy, Jhumpa Lahiri, and regional authors. Balancing my love for literature and science, I
chose to study Chemistry while continuing to write, a decision I’ve never regretted.
Growing up in India, summer holidays meant trips to the mountains, often to Shimla and Manali,
where we would drive from Delhi after flight cancellations. In Shimla, my father took us to the Indian
Institute of Advanced Study, once the Viceregal Lodge, where I first heard about the concept of a
PhD. Another cherished memory is from my time as a student journalist with DNA YA!, where my
father and I did a feature on a local Pani-Puri seller and wrote about the 11th-century Ambarnath
Shiva Temple, now a national monument.
At home, my mother, a singer, taught me Hindustani Classical Music, and I learned Raga Bhairav and
stories about her theatrical past. This led to my own brief acting career, where I portrayed various
roles, including a Bengali police officer and Hindu God Brahma. My mother often emphasized how
Indian Classical Music is about the spaces between the notes, a concept that later influenced my
understanding of “reading between the lines.” I also accompanied her to Durga Pujo rehearsals,
singing traditional verses from Chandipath, part of the Mahisasuramardini broadcast every year.
During summer in Japan, I mostly interned at a lab, growing bacteria to extract proteins, with
occasional trips to Nagasaki and Ehime. In 2017, my professor, Dr. Kamagata, introduced me to Cas9,
a gene-editing protein. Initially unfamiliar with it, I took the challenge to learn and read numerous
review papers, which are essential for beginners as they summarize the evolution of scientific
discoveries. Cas9 acts as molecular scissors, allowing precise DNA edits to treat genetic disorders. My
research focused on understanding how Cas9 moves and finding ways to speed up its action.
My work relied on single-molecule experiments, where we observe individual molecules under a
microscope. This method offers deeper insights but is challenging and often frustrating, with many
failed attempts. A PhD, I learned, is a test of patience and perseverance. It’s less about grades and
more about contributing new knowledge or perspectives to the field.
My PhD journey was deeply fulfilling, enriched by both my passion for research and the connections I
made with society. On challenging days, I’d unwind at Oyaji, my favorite izakaya in Sendai, sipping
Hakurakusei and chatting with strangers about life, like the best way to prepare Sea Pineapple. While
my research and supportive lab environment played a key role, it was the realization of science’s
societal impact that gave my work deeper meaning.
One significant non-academic involvement during my PhD was my engagement in the reconstruction
of coastal Fukushima after the 2011 nuclear disaster. I met Yamane-san in 2020, a Tokyo-native
committed to rebuilding Futaba, and together we developed walking tours in the region. This
experience became pivotal during the COVID-19 pandemic when the Japanese government
announced the release of treated water from the Fukushima plant into the Pacific Ocean. Despite its
scientific backing, communication failures led to widespread distrust, particularly among Pacific
Islanders. This shifted my focus, pushing me to bridge the gap between science and society, and to
pursue a collaborative, community-centered approach to problem-solving.
I interpret ensemble and single-molecule experiments as metaphors for understanding society. A
nation, like an ensemble experiment, represents the collective views of its people, while individuals
form the core of society, akin to the focus of a single-molecule approach. Growing up in India and
later moving to Japan as a teenager, I became more interested in local communities, seeing them
through the lens of scientific exploration. The idea of applying scientific methods to philosophy, as
Futaba showed me, helped me realize the wider applications of a PhD beyond academia. It’s about
finding new perspectives on the world through critical thinking.
Food reminds me of home, with meals like rice mixed with Ghee and spiced bottle gourd skins, dal
with fish head, and Rohu fish curry. Weekends brought biryani or mutton curry. In Mumbai, Sunday
breakfast often included Goan sausages or Bombay duck. My father loved Mediterranean cuisine,
especially Lebanese, and always enjoyed vanilla ice cream with hot chocolate sauce.
When I first arrived in Sendai, I was disappointed by the Indian cuisine here. Most restaurants served
the usual naan with butter chicken, and if you were lucky, you might find roti, though it would harden
quickly. I didn’t blame the Japanese, as their experience with Indian food was limited, much like how
I once viewed Japanese food as only sushi. The lack of competition in Indian restaurants contributed
to the monotony. So, I decided to take matters into my own hands and started cooking authentic
Indian dishes at home, inviting friends over. I shared recipes like Aloo Sheddo, Chingri Malai Curry,
and Shinni, each filled with memories of my family back home.
Over the years, I’ve gained a deeper appreciation for food in Japan, where there’s a focus on
ingredient quality and origins. I see cooking as both chemistry and a spiritual practice. Now, as I
approach graduation, I want to share Fukushima’s story through food, especially given the unfounded
safety concerns surrounding its products. I hope to challenge the narrative by highlighting the
region’s resilience and richness, particularly through fermentation.
Anurag Kashyap once mentioned that dividing a film into chapters helps condense complex stories
without disrupting their flow, a concept that resonates with me in Rabindranath Tagore’s The Home
and the World.
The asterisks dividing the text mirror my own reflections as I navigate the bureaucratic maze of visa
documents. As I approach a new chapter in my career, I attempt to tie my experiences into
something cohesive, despite the visible failings scattered through my words. It’s summer in Sendai,
and like Arundhati Roy’s and Jhumpa Lahiri’s descriptions, the atmosphere is thick with introspection.
As I prepare for my graduation defense, I find solace in knowing that the choices I’ve made, though
unconventional, are authentically mine
Trishit Banerjee
Society of Single Molecules (abridged version)
