Submitted by Vijayakumar, Independent Consultant

The Supervisor I Feared
When I was admitted to the PhD programme, I was assigned a supervisor whom most new scholars secretly hoped to avoid. Tall and imposing, with a stern, rugged appearance that reminded me of the actor Morgan Freeman, he already had a reputation for toughness. Even before speaking to him, I was afraid of him.
I dreaded our first meeting and kept hoping he would not call me. Eventually, he did.
I stood hesitantly at the entrance to his room. He looked up and said sharply, "What, gentleman? Do I have to invite you in?"
I entered and sat stiffly before him, feeling more like a frightened schoolboy than an aspiring researcher. He asked what I intended to study.
I answered hesitantly but honestly, "Sir, I have no idea. Whatever you say, I will do."
His response was immediate: "Is it my research or yours?"
I had no answer. I had expected him to assign me a topic and tell me exactly what to do. Instead, he placed the responsibility back on me. After a pause, he mentioned a few areas and asked me to explore them and return in a week.
That week was filled with confusion. I did not know where to begin, what to read or even what I was looking for. As the next meeting approached, my fear returned. I had made very little progress, and I was certain he would see through me.
When I met him again, he quickly understood that I had made hardly any meaningful progress. His displeasure was unmistakable. But instead of dismissing me, he questioned me closely. Which subject had interested me most during my postgraduate studies? Which textbook had I read? Could I recall its chapters? Which topic did I understand best? I could answer only some of his questions.
He told me to return to the textbook, read it properly and come back prepared for a serious discussion. I left shaken, but with something I had not possessed before: a clear starting point.
By our next meeting, I had narrowed my interests to three possible topics. He then asked me to visit the library—this was long before personal computers and the internet became widely available—and search three leading review journals. For each topic, I had to trace its development, understand where the field stood, and identify the major theories, models and scholars that had shaped it.
To an experienced researcher, the task may have sounded reasonable. To me, it felt enormous. I had never read a research article, and the dense language seemed almost impenetrable. Each unsuccessful attempt deepened my inadequacy and my fear of disappointing him again.
My expectation of supervision was collapsing. I had imagined that a supervisor would give me a topic and lead me safely through every stage. I could not yet recognise his approach as guidance; I experienced it mainly as pressure.
Frustration turned into self-doubt. Perhaps I was not capable of research. More than once, I considered giving up. Yet asking this stern man for additional time seemed almost as frightening as the task itself.
A Turning Point
Finally, with considerable hesitation, I admitted that I was struggling and asked for more time. I prepared myself for a rebuke. What followed was completely unexpected. His sternness softened, and he said:
“Don’t worry. You have done something, and you are on the right path. The very fact that you feel like giving up shows how deeply involved you have become. Research is not a straight path. You have to travel a rough and uneven road. Take two more weeks and come back with what you have understood.”
The task had not changed, but my perception of it had. His words lifted a great weight from my mind. Fear gave way to relief; self-doubt gave way to hope. My struggle was not evidence of failure, but part of learning to become a researcher.
That conversation became a turning point. His toughness had pushed me beyond passive dependence; his reassurance gave me the confidence to continue. He was not refusing to guide me. He was guiding me towards the difficult habit of thinking for myself.
With renewed confidence, I returned to the review articles. They remained difficult, and every article seemed to lead to several more. Yet small points of clarity began to appear. Disconnected concepts slowly came together. I began to understand how each area had developed and what questions researchers were trying to answer. For the first time, I could see a little light on the unfamiliar path ahead.
I examined three possible topics for their theoretical importance, research possibilities and practical feasibility. Further reading reduced three possibilities to two. Choosing between them was not easy, but as I traced the literature more deeply, one gradually stood out. It emerged through repeated reading, comparison, questioning and reflection.
Once I had chosen the topic, I studied its conceptual foundations, theories, models, methods and key findings. I examined where earlier findings differed, what had been overlooked and which questions remained unanswered. Gradually, I identified promising areas for further exploration. A vague and frightening search was becoming an intellectually meaningful direction.
Learning to Think for Myself
My supervisor continued to keep me intellectually alert. He could appreciate my progress in one meeting and sharply question my reasoning in the next. Initially, this alternation between encouragement and stern questioning unsettled me. Before every meeting, I wondered whether my work would satisfy him.
Gradually, I understood his style. I no longer interpreted his toughness as rejection or his criticism as evidence that I was unfit for research. I learned to separate the message from its delivery and use his questions to examine my thinking. I was becoming accustomed not only to my supervisor, but also to the uncertainty, criticism and self-questioning that research demanded.
My attitude towards our meetings changed completely. Encounters I had once approached with fear became intellectually stimulating discussions that I actively sought. I no longer entered his room merely hoping to satisfy him; I went prepared to think, question, defend my reasoning and discover what I had failed to notice.
He never told me, "Do this" or "Do that." Through probing questions, he challenged my assumptions, exposed weaknesses in my reasoning and encouraged me to examine alternatives. He helped me evaluate the possibilities, but never decided for me. The final choice was mine—and so was the responsibility for defending it.
Looking back, I realise that this was perhaps the most valuable lesson he taught me. A good supervisor does not walk the path on behalf of the scholar. He helps the scholar see the path more clearly, recognise its alternatives and develop the confidence to choose a direction independently. The man I had initially feared did not merely guide me towards completing a PhD. He taught me how to think for myself.
Have you experienced a teacher, mentor or supervisor whose guidance initially felt difficult, but later transformed the way you thought and worked? I invite you to share your experience—your story may help another researcher recognise the value hidden within a challenging phase of the journey.