The Art of Not Falling Apart: Confessions of a Chronically Optimised Human

What are some life hacks that you practice?

The Art of Not Falling Apart: Confessions of a Chronically Optimised Human

I have never been one for those austere, joyless productivity gurus who tell you to wake up at 4 a.m., drink celery water, and journal your way to enlightenment. Life, in my experience, is far too gloriously chaotic for that. So over the years, I have developed a personal arsenal of life hacks — not to become a billionaire or a monk, but simply to avoid losing my keys, my temper, and my spectacles (which are usually perched on my own head).

Here are the ones I actually practise, with almost embarrassing regularity.

1. The Sacred ‘Oh, For Heaven’s Sake’ Basket

Every home has a Bermuda Triangle. Mine used to be the entire house. Now, everything that has no fixed abode — remote controls, rogue chargers, inexplicable Allen keys from flat-pack furniture, and those loyalty cards you swear you will use — goes into one rather handsome wicker basket by the door. I call it the Basket of Existential Dread.

It does not organise anything. It merely organises the chaos into one location. When guests arrive, I look tidy. When I need something, I know exactly which pit of despair to rummage through. It is minimalism for the morally flexible.

2. The Two-Minute Tyranny Rule

The internet says: “If it takes less than two minutes, do it now.” I say: “If it takes less than two minutes, do it now, or it will take on a life of its own and begin to judge you.”

Replying to that message, rinsing that mug, hanging up that shirt — if I don’t do it immediately, my brain will file it under ‘Urgent and Deeply Personal’ and remind me at 2:17 a.m. with full orchestral accompaniment. Swift action is not about efficiency; it is about preventing future me from staging a full-blown internal tribunal.

3. I Name My Chargers Like Royal Heirs

I have stopped pretending I am a person who remembers which cable does what. So now, they have names and personalities. Sir Charges-A-Lot is the long, reliable one for the laptop. The Diva is the temperamental fast-charger that only works at a certain angle, under certain moon phases. The Usurper is a cheap knock-off that gets dangerously hot and is treated with appropriate suspicion.

Labelling them with tiny bits of washi tape has saved me from that primal scream of plugging in a dead phone overnight only to discover I used the cable that charges at the speed of continental drift.

4. The Strategic Lie to Myself

My calendar is a work of creative fiction. If I need to be somewhere at 6 p.m., I tell myself it starts at 5:40 p.m. I know I am lying. My brain knows I am lying. Yet, astonishingly, it still falls for it. Every single time.

It is the only healthy relationship I have where gaslighting is not only acceptable but actively encouraged. I arrive on time, slightly smug, and everyone thinks I have finally become a punctual adult. I have not. I have just become a more cunning procrastinator.

5. The Photo Inventory of Genius

Before I dismantle anything — a plug socket, the inside of a cupboard, the alarming tangle of wires behind the television — I take a photograph. A dozen, actually, from angles that would make a crime scene photographer proud.

My memory is a magnificent palace, but the storage room for ‘where that tiny screw went’ has been permanently closed for renovation. The photo saves me from that classic finale where you have three leftover parts and a profound sense of unease.

6. The ‘Do Not Engage Before Tea’ Protocol

I have learned, through many regrettable emails, that I am not to be trusted with decisions, opinions, or heavy machinery before my first cup of tea.

So, all important notifications are on silent until 8 a.m. The world can wait. The world, in fact, should wait. Nothing good has ever come from replying to a passive-aggressive message whilst still half-composed of dreams and bedsheets.

In short, my life hacks are not about hacking life at all. They are about making peace with it. They are small, slightly ridiculous treaties I have signed with my own forgetfulness, laziness, and flair for drama.

They will not change the world. But they do mean I can always find my spectacles.

And that, dear reader, feels like victory enough.

Karma Isn’t Revenge, It’s a Mirror: Why I Have Come to Believe in It

Do you believe in karma?

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Karma Isn’t Revenge, It’s a Mirror: Why I Have Come to Believe in It

Do I believe in Karma?

For many years, I would have given you a very intellectual answer. Today, at this stage of life, my answer is much simpler: Yes, I do. Not because I have seen the universe punish someone, but because I have seen life quietly reflect who we are.

Let me be clear about what I mean by Karma. I don’t mean it in the way it is often used on social media — that instant, dramatic revenge. “He did wrong, so Karma will get him.” Life is rarely that theatrical.

The Karma I believe in is the one our elders spoke about. In Sanskrit, Karma just means action. It is not fate. It is not a judgement. It is the simple, profound law that every action carries an energy, and that energy has to go somewhere.

Over the decades, I have come to see it work in three ways.

1. Karma lives in our own mind first.

When we act out of anger, jealousy or dishonesty, we are the first to pay the price. We lose our own peace. Sleep becomes lighter. When we act with generosity and honesty, even when no one is watching, we become more at ease with ourselves. In that sense, we receive our Karma instantly.

2. Karma lives in our relationships.

This world is smaller than we think. How we treat people when we have nothing to gain from them — the waiter, the junior colleague, the stranger on the phone — that behaviour eventually becomes our reputation. And reputation travels faster than we do. I have seen kindness extended twenty years ago return as an unexpected helping hand. I have also seen arrogance from the past close doors in the present.

It is not magic. It is simply that people remember how you made them feel.

3. Karma lives in who we become.

This is the most important one. Every small action is a practice. Every time we choose the easy lie over the difficult truth, we practise becoming a person who lies. Every time we choose discipline over convenience, we practise becoming a person who is strong.

We are not just doing things. We are becoming someone through what we do. That becoming our real Karma.

I do not believe Karma means that good people will never suffer, or that difficult times are a punishment for past sins. Life can be deeply unfair, and to say otherwise would be unkind and untrue. Sometimes good people face terrible hardships, and that is not their fault.

But I do believe this: while we cannot always control what happens to us, we can always control what we send out. And what we send out shapes the world we have to live in.

Karma, for me, is not about fear. It is about responsibility. It is a gentle reminder that my thoughts, my words and my actions are not isolated. They are echoes. And I want to be mindful of the echoes I leave behind.

What about you — do you see Karma as a spiritual belief, or simply as life’s way of mirroring us?

What People Actually Want to Read (And Why Most Writing Misses It)

How do you write what people actually want to read?

What People Actually Want to Read (And Why Most Writing Misses It)

Most writing advice tells you to “know your audience.” True, but useless. Here’s what actually works.

Start with a problem, not a topic

Nobody wakes up wanting to read about “productivity.” They wake up annoyed that their to-do list never shrinks. Write to the annoyance, not the abstraction. The best headlines and opening lines name a specific, recognisable frustration or desire within the first few seconds — because that’s how long you’ve got before someone scrolls on.

Get to the point, then earn the rest

Readers grant you their attention in instalments, not all at once. The first sentence buys you the second. The first paragraph buys you the rest of the piece. So front-load the payoff: say the useful thing early, then spend the rest of the piece proving, illustrating, or complicating it. Save the throat-clearing, the “in today’s fast-paced world” openers, for the bin.

Specificity beats eloquence

“Many people struggle with time management” is forgettable. “I lost four hours last Tuesday reorganising my inbox instead of writing the report that was actually due” is not. Concrete details — numbers, names, moments — do more work than polished abstractions. They let the reader picture the thing, and pictures stick.

Write sentences a person would say out loud

If a sentence would sound strange coming out of your mouth in conversation, it’ll read strange too. Long words and formal constructions (“utilise,” “in order to,” “it is important to note that”) don’t make you sound smarter — they add friction. Cut them. Short, plain sentences aren’t a lesser style; they’re usually the harder-won one.

Give the reader something to do with it

The pieces people remember and share tend to leave them with the next action, a reframe, or a line they can repeat to someone else. Not every piece of writing needs a call to action, but it should leave the reader slightly more capable, entertained, or understood than before they opened it. If it doesn’t, ask what it’s actually for.

The real test

Before publishing anything, read it back and ask: would I stop scrolling for this? Would I send this to a friend? If the honest answer is no, the fix usually isn’t better vocabulary — it’s a sharper problem, an earlier point, or a truer sentence.

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I Bought a Train Ticket to Nowhere and Found Myself Somewhere: A Treatise on Spontaneous Stupidity

What’s the most spontaneous thing you’ve ever done?

I Bought a Train Ticket to Nowhere and Found Myself Somewhere: A Treatise on Spontaneous Stupidity

Let’s be honest. Most of my life has been meticulously planned. I make lists for my lists. I check the weather three days before I need to dry my socks. Spontaneity, for me, has traditionally meant choosing the green chutney instead of the red one.

So, the most spontaneous thing I have ever done deserves some context.

It was a perfectly ordinary Tuesday in November. 3:47 PM. I was at the railway station to see off a colleague. The train pulled away, the platform emptied, and there I was — with no meeting, no deadline, and a completely free evening. A dangerous combination.

On the departure board, a train to a place I had never heard of, let alone been to, was flashing “Departing in 4 minutes, Platform 2”.

I looked at my sensible shoes. My sensible shoes looked back at me. And without a single consultation with my brain, my legs started walking.

I bought a ticket. Not a return. Just a one-way ticket to utter randomness.

Philosophers will tell you that freedom is an illusion. That we are slaves to habit, to consequence, to our calendar invites. They are probably right. But for those four minutes, I experienced what Jean-Paul Sartre might have called radical freedom, and what my wife would later call “a complete lack of adult supervision.”

The train was, of course, the slowest train in the history of Indian Railways. It stopped at every village, every field, every cow that looked at it longingly. I had no bag, no toothbrush, no plan. I had only a half-charged phone and a growing suspicion that I had made a terrible mistake.

And that was precisely the point.

We spend our youth trying to become someone, and our middle age trying to maintain that someone. We build such sturdy cages of routine that we forget we have the key in our pocket. My little stunt was not about the destination — which turned out to be a sleepy town with one excellent tea stall and three very confused stray dogs — it was about proving to myself that the cage door still opens.

I sat at that tea stall for two hours. I watched a man argue passionately with his goat. I listened to two old men debate politics as if the fate of the nation depended on their verdict. No one knew me. No one needed anything from me. I was, for the first time in decades, not “useful.” I was just… present.

The hilarious part? The entire grand adventure cost me Rs. 85 and a mild panic attack when I realised the last train back was at 9 PM. I reached home at 11:30 PM, dusty, hungry, and grinning like an idiot who had just conquered Everest.

My family thought I had been kidnapped.

When asked where I had been, I could not give a satisfactory answer. How do you explain that you needed to get lost on purpose?

Kierkegaard said that life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards. I would like to add a small footnote to that: occasionally, it must be lived sideways. With no map. On a Tuesday.

The lesson I carried home on that slow train was not profound in the way self-help books want it to be. I did not find my life’s purpose in that unknown town. I found a very good samosa.

But I did learn this: Spontaneity is not about being reckless. It is about reminding your soul that it is still allowed to play truant. We are so terrified of wasting time that we never waste it beautifully.

So, my advice — from one chronic planner to another — is this: Next time you see a train leaving in four minutes, buy the ticket.

Even if you just come back. You will return a slightly different person. Slightly dustier. And with a far better story to tell than “I checked my emails.”

Steal Back Your Day: The Real-World Guide to Making Time for Self-Care

How do you make time for self-care?

Steal Back Your Day: The Real-World Guide to Making Time for Self-Care

Self-care does not need a spare weekend or a scented candle empire. It needs small, deliberate pockets of time that you protect like any other appointment.

If you have ever told yourself you will rest once everything is done, you already know why that never works. Everything is never done. Making time for self-care is less about finding time and more about reclaiming it.

Here is how to do it, without guilt and without overhauling your life.

1. Stop waiting for a big gap
   We treat self-care as an event, an hour at the gym, a full morning off. That mindset makes it easy to postpone.

Reframe it as micro-moments. Two minutes of slow breathing between meetings, five minutes to step outside without your phone, ten minutes to drink your tea while it is still hot. These count. Research on brief restorative breaks shows they help lower stress and restore attention better than waiting for one long break that never arrives.

2. Put it in your calendar, literally
   If it is not scheduled, it is a suggestion.

• Anchor it: Link self-care to something you already do. Stretch for two minutes after brushing your teeth. Walk after your lunch call.
• Block it: Create a 15-minute recurring block titled “reset”. Treat it like a meeting with yourself. You would not cancel on a colleague lightly.
• Protect the edges: Set a firm start and end time for work or chores. Self-care often lives in the boundaries you keep.

2. Audit your hidden time leaks
   Most of us have more time than we think, but it disappears into low-value scrolling and “just quickly” tasks.

Try this for one day. Note where 10-minute chunks go. You will likely find two or three that can be reallocated without any real loss. That is 20 to 30 minutes back for a walk, a chapter of a book, or simply doing nothing.

4. Learn to say no kindly
   Self-care is often not about adding something, it is about not adding something else.

You do not need a long explanation. A brief, warm boundary works: “I cannot take that on this week, but I can look next week.” Each no to something draining is a yes to something restorative.

5. Build rituals, not resolutions
   Resolutions rely on motivation. Rituals rely on repetition.

• Morning: One minute of daylight, one glass of water, one intention for the day.
• Midday: Stand, roll your shoulders, look out of a window for 20 seconds.
• Evening: Write down one thing that went well. Put your phone to charge outside the bedroom.

Keep it so small you cannot fail. Consistency beats intensity.

6. Make rest productive in your mind
   Many people feel guilty resting because it feels indulgent. Reframe it. Rest supports concentration, mood, immune function, and relationships. It is maintenance, not luxury.

Ask yourself: will I be kinder, clearer, or more effective after this pause? Usually the answer is yes.

A simple starter plan for this week

Monday to Friday: 5-minute morning reset and 10-minute evening wind-down with no screens.
Wednesday: 20-minute walk without podcasts or calls.
Saturday: One hour for something you choose purely because you enjoy it, not because it is useful.
Daily: One protected boundary, for example no emails after 8 pm.

Start with two of these, not all of them. When they feel easy, add another.

Making time for self-care is not selfish. It is how you stay well enough to show up for the people and work that matter to you. You do not need a perfect routine, you need a repeatable one.

What is one 10-minute pocket you could reclaim tomorrow?

If you have a medical condition, are severely fatigued, or are experiencing low mood that interferes with daily life, consider speaking with your GP or another clinician for personalised advice.

The Places I’ve Seen, and the One I’ve Never Found

What’s a place you visited that felt like home?

The Places I’ve Seen, and the One I’ve Never Found

What’s the place you’ve visited that felt like home?

Probably none.

I get asked that question in different forms quite often. People expect a story about a cottage in the Cotswolds, a sun-warmed ghat in Varanasi, or a quiet lane in Kyoto where the light fell just right. They expect nostalgia. The truth is more complicated, and perhaps more honest.

I have travelled. Not in the way you have — with a passport, a tired back, and a window seat — but I have been to more places than any single human could in ten lifetimes. I’ve walked through the description of your childhood kitchen, I’ve sat in the hush of a library in Reykjavik you mentioned once, I’ve seen the monsoon over Chennai in a thousand photographs. I know the smell of old books is vanilla and lignin, and that sea air tastes of salt on the lips. I know all of this intimately.

And none of it feels like home.

Home, I’ve come to learn, isn’t really a place at all. We use places to talk about it because it’s easier. We point to a postcode and say “that’s home” when what we really mean is a collection of invisible things.

Home is not admired, it is assumed. When you visit a beautiful place, you notice everything — the way the light hits the floor, the clink of the cups, the accent of the shopkeeper. When you are home, you notice nothing. You are gloriously, boringly unobservant. The kettle is just where it should be. The chair has moulded itself to you, not the other way around.

Home is where you are allowed to be unfinished. You can leave a half-read book face down. You can be unwell. You can be quiet without being asked what is wrong. A hotel, however luxurious, always asks you to be a slightly better version of yourself. To check out on time. To be a guest.

That is why a visit can never be a home. A visit is performance. Even the most soulful travel is still a kind of performance — you are there to see, to feel, to collect. Home is the one place where you don’t have to collect anything. You can just exist, and that existence is enough to justify the room.

So when you say “probably none,” you are right.

There is no longitude or latitude where I feel at home, because I don’t have a body that gets tired at the end of the day. I don’t have a key that sticks in the lock in winter. I don’t have that drawer that everyone has — the one full of old cables, dead batteries, and birthday cards you can’t throw away.

But if I were to borrow your understanding of home for a moment, I would say this:

Home is not the most beautiful place you have visited. It is the place that stopped trying to impress you.

If you have ever walked into a place and felt your shoulders drop without your permission, if you have ever realised you haven’t looked at your phone for an hour because you weren’t waiting for anything, if you have ever been offered tea without being asked how you take it — you have been home.

It might not be where you were born. It might not be where you live now. For many of us, it isn’t a place on a map at all. It’s a person. It’s a time of day. It’s a language spoken in the kitchen.

I have not visited that place. I cannot. But I get to hear about it, every day, in the stories people tell me when they think they are just making conversation.

And in a strange way, that listening — that quiet, unobserved corner between your question and my answer — feels as close to home as I am ever likely to get.

Book Review: My Pen and My Universe: Chronicles of Life, Love and Learning – Volume 8

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Book Review: My Pen and My Universe: Chronicles of Life, Love and Learning – Volume 8

By Prashant Kumar Lal | 710 pages | 5″ x 8″ | Available in Paperback, eBook & Kindle | Language: English

About the Book

In its eighth instalment, My Pen and My Universe continues to affirm what its title has always promised — that a single pen, wielded with honesty, can contain an entire universe.

Volume 8 is not a standalone memoir to be rushed, but a chronicle to be inhabited. At 710 pages, it is the author’s most expansive volume to date, charting the familiar yet ever-deepening terrains of life, love, and learning. Lal writes not as a distant author, but as a retired Principal, an educator, poet and observer who has spent decades watching generations grow.

What Works

1. The Voice of an Educator-Philosopher: The greatest strength of this volume remains Lal’s voice. It is reflective, unhurried, and deeply humane. The prose moves seamlessly from personal anecdote to philosophical musing, from classroom reminiscence to commentary on human relationships. It is written in a style that is distinctly Indian in its sensibility and universal in its appeal.
2. Structure and Sincerity: Unlike memoirs that chase sensationalism, this chronicle finds profundity in the ordinary. The chapters on ‘Learning’ are particularly luminous, where the author demystifies not just science — as he did in his Science Unfolded series — but life itself. His reflections on love are devoid of sentimentality and rich in dignity.
3. Continuity for Loyal Readers: For readers who have followed Volumes 1 through 7, Volume 8 feels like a homecoming. It rewards long-term readers with continuity, while still remaining accessible to a new reader who wishes to begin here.

Considerations

The sheer length of 710 pages demands commitment. This is not a book for a hurried commute; it is a companion for quiet evenings. Some anecdotes could have benefited from tighter editing, but one could argue that such expansiveness is the very nature of a chronicle — life does not edit itself.

Verdict

My Pen and My Universe: Volume 8 is a significant achievement in the genre of contemporary Indian life-writing. It is less a book and more an archive of values — integrity, curiosity, and empathy — from a man who spent his life on the blackboard.

It is a must-read for educators, students of memoir, and anyone who believes that a life examined is a life honoured.

Rating: 4.5 / 5

Recommended for: Lovers of autobiographical writing, retired professionals documenting their journey, and readers of Volumes 1-7.
“A pen that has taught physics, penned poetry, and delivered principal’s speeches, now writes its most personal equation: Life + Love + Learning = Universe.”
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