Sameer Gudhate presents the Book Review of An Unlikely Chemistry by S. Krishnaswamy

You know how sometimes you pick up a book, expecting just another life story, and then it gently surprises you—like a quiet conversation with an old soul who has seen it all and still believes in love, resilience, and purpose? That’s exactly what happened when I read An Unlikely Chemistry by S. Krishnaswamy.

For those unfamiliar, Krishnaswamy is not your average memoirist. He’s a filmmaker known for his deep-rooted connection with Indian history and culture, best remembered for his documentary Indus Valley to Indira Gandhi, which challenged the West’s skewed narrative of India. But this book? This one’s personal. This is a love letter—raw, honest, and full of fire—to his wife, Mohana, a scientist who dared to dream of an Ayurvedic cure for cancer, and to the life they built together against all odds.

At its heart, An Unlikely Chemistry is a story of two people—one a filmmaker, the other a scientist—whose paths couldn’t have been more different, yet who found common ground in their commitment, their convictions, and each other. It’s a story of a marriage tested by societal pressures, career roadblocks, and personal struggles. But it’s also a chronicle of triumph: over systemic bias, over caste-based reservation barriers, and over the often-invisible expectations from a woman in science in 1980s India.

And it’s not just their love story. It’s also a documentation of modern India’s growing pains—told through the lens of two remarkable individuals.

The writing? Surprisingly easy to get into. I’ll admit I’m not usually drawn to autobiographies, but Krishnaswamy has a way of telling his story that feels less like reading and more like sitting across from a wise elder who is reminiscing with both warmth and pain. His prose is simple—no unnecessary embellishments—but that simplicity lends the book a raw sincerity. It’s this honesty that pulls you in and keeps you turning pages, even when the narrative slows.

What stood out for me was how real both Krishnaswamy and Mohana felt. This isn’t a story of perfect people with fairy-tale endings. It’s about two flawed, passionate individuals trying to navigate a society that often refuses to accommodate their dreams. Mohana, in particular, struck a chord. Her journey—from ambitious scientist to reluctant filmmaker—tugs at your heart, especially when you realize how much she gave up because the system simply wouldn’t let her soar.

The book also raises bigger questions—about gender roles, ambition, the cost of resistance, and what it means to fight not just for yourself, but for the idea of something larger.

The book is divided into nine chapters, tracing nearly five decades of their relationship and over thirty years of working together. It's structured like a timeline, blending personal anecdotes with commentary on India’s sociopolitical climate. The transitions between personal and political sometimes feel abrupt, but they also reflect how intertwined the two often are in real life.

At its core, An Unlikely Chemistry is about persistence—about staying the course even when everything seems rigged against you. It’s also about partnership, not the romanticized kind we often see, but the real, gritty, everyday companionship where you argue, you adapt, you hurt, and yet, you keep showing up. There’s also a strong commentary on institutional bias, caste politics, and how certain dreams get sidelined—especially if they belong to women.

Some parts left me heavy. Reading about Mohana’s stifled research career and how close she came to global recognition, only to be pulled back by the claws of bureaucracy and reservation policies—it made me angry. But it also made me deeply admire her strength. And then there were moments of light—of quiet victories and shared dreams—that filled me with hope.

What really works is the balance between the personal and the political. It’s not just a story of “us against the world,” but a nuanced look at what the world looked like for two ambitious Indians trying to make their mark. The authenticity of Krishnaswamy’s voice, and his willingness to share Mohana’s journey with such reverence, is a huge strength.

At times, I did feel like the narrative drifted—especially when it dived too deep into detailed backstories or stretched some anecdotes. Some parts felt over-explained. But even these moments didn’t derail the experience. If anything, they gave a fuller picture of the era.

For me, this book resonated deeply. Maybe because I’ve always believed in the power of stories that are lived, not imagined. And in a world that still often underplays a woman’s role in a man’s success story, An Unlikely Chemistry felt refreshingly different. It’s honest, it’s imperfect, and it doesn’t claim to be anything more than what it is—a heartfelt tribute to a shared journey.

If you’re someone who enjoys biographies, or even if you usually don’t (like me), this one’s worth picking up. It’s not flashy or dramatic. But it’s deeply human. It talks about love, loss, compromise, ambition, and everything in between. It made me think, reflect, and most importantly—it made me feel.

If you're looking for a meaningful, slow-burn read that offers more than just a personal story—something that gives you insight into India's modern history, gender politics, and the power of quiet resilience—An Unlikely Chemistry might just be the book for you.

Have you read any other biographies that stayed with you long after the last page? Would love to hear your thoughts.

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