Only with time

This semester, I am teaching a batch of students from the 4th year of our Integrated BS-MS programme. Technically, they are at a level equivalent to first year MSc students. Last week, while discussing properties of the Fourier transform with them, I suggested that in case they forget a certain property or formula, but need it, they should not hesitate to work it out by applying the basic definition of a Fourier transform. "Since there's only a handful of you, you will almost certainly get extra time to finish your quiz or exam," I joked. Before I knew it, I started reflecting loudly on an important change that happens gradually in our lives around their age. Up to a certain point in life, academic success almost exclusively depends on how quickly one can answer questions (correctly) in a time-bound exam. But, as we transition into adult life, success or progress in a career (and other parts of life) depends on how much time we are willing to give to a task at hand. 

I was thinking about what my students would be doing in their fifth year and onwards: working on research projects for their MS thesis and beyond. This would involve learning new topics on their own outside of a structured curriculum, often from research papers which are not easy to read. It would involve spending time on answering a new question for which no hints are given at the end of a textbook. There will be no assurance that the answer will arrive, or about when it will arrive. Any progress will be visible after long days and months of tedious calculations and focused thinking on a topic. One will make mistakes, and correct them time and again. The same holds for other areas of our lives: health, fitness, developing personal relationships or learning new skills. A functional adult life is a direct consequence of how much time we devote to whatever we take up (sometimes by choice and sometimes by compulsion), and how patiently we wait for growth or progress.

Many games that we learn in our childhood, such as arranging jigsaw pieces, building objects out of lego pieces and playing chess train us to be generous with time along with concentration. For that matter, even in the exam-dictated part of our lives, the ability to perform well in restricted timelines comes from long hours, days and months of dedicated, unapologetic practice. Thinking or taking quick action on your feet when time is short comes when you have practiced something for long. For example, while learning to play tennis, the backhand motion takes long to learn for many of us (true at least for me). But, a few months of practice down the line, we don't even think for a second when there is a need to use it. Delivering a decent lecture requires a long preparation time. The shorter the lecture time, the longer you have to spend in organizing the essential ideas in order to communicate them without going over time. As Pascal pointed out, even writing short letters takes time. Almost everything meaningful in life requires time and patience. 

Taking time to do something has multiple aspects. The first is the "woodpecker" aspect: the basic "action" level of spending time on activities. This time is to be devoted, either in short, regular chunks of time, or in long chunks, based on the situation. On a regular basis, we set aside time daily for an activity, preferably during hours when there is minimal chance of being disturbed. When a project is stuck or nearing completion, we dedicate larger chunks of time to it, at the cost of ignoring or postponing some other tasks.  During collaborations, things often get sorted out while the collaborators are visiting each other, as opposed to meeting online. While time-bound, regular online (or offline) meetings ensure progress, a collaboration visit nudges all parties to put aside other activities for a while, and spend long hours thinking about something at a stretch. This often accelerates a project out of a rut, and this is precisely why summer time (when we don't have to worry about teaching schedules) is so valuable for scientists. But, in any case, whether in regular periods or in larger, continuous chunks, the woodpecker aspect is about chipping away at something.

The second is the "washing machine" aspect [1]. This aspect is about putting in the time to go through a process. For example, this involves waiting patiently for an experiment to run its course and yield the results. Situations, where we take action, and wait for the consequences, however long it may take. Those of us who waited for visa appointments in the Covid and post-Covid periods will relate to this. There is nothing we can do while the process is going on, other than regular monitoring and paper-work.  The medical treatment to recover from an illness is part of this category. We go through the course of treatment and wait for healing. To a large extent, the endeavour to get fitter could also be considered as an example here. One makes a (hopefully, sustainable) diet and exercise plan, follows it diligently and waits for as long as it takes for the body to respond. 

Then, there is a third "flower blooming" aspect, one of the most important aspects of any scholarly activity. This aspect is about working with a new idea or method, and waiting for time to shape it into different manifestations and applications. Our duty, which is the equivalent of watering and nurturing a plant, is to actively reflect upon the meaning of the idea by thinking about it, making a regular effort to write and rewrite it, and by finding out its connections with other ideas and problems. We try not to let it go unheeded, as we wait for it to "bloom". As an idea blooms, we revisit, polish, review and reframe it over time. As students, this aspect of time comes into play in our journey of learning. While a course introduces a topic, the learning, understanding and absorption of the content will take much longer than a semester and will be each student's individual journey. Here is the translation of a beautiful Sanskrit verse shared by my colleague, Professor Pavan Kumar: "One fourth from the teacher, one fourth from own intelligence, one fourth from classmates, and one fourth only with time".

[1] Most posts on this blog are written during long linen-wash cycles. 

Not your Ma'am

 Reflections on a few things that I was thinking about in January:

1) Not your Ma'am

The other day, someone on X (formerly, Twitter) left a reply on a tweet. Soon after that, they left another tweet apologizing for not addressing me as "Ma'am". This made me think more about appropriate ways of addressing faculty members, senior colleagues, peers that we are communicating with for the first time, and of course, people with whom we interact on social media. At IISER, several students address their teachers by their first names. But, many students prefer sticking to the time-honoured tradition of "Sir/Ma'am".  

Professional, polite and mutually respectful interactions involve more than modes of address. While it's not exactly rocket science, this aspect does involve more effort than choosing a form of addressing each other. It includes, for example,

A) writing emails with complete sentences, 

B) showing up on mutually decided meeting hours on time or letting the other person know in advance of any delay or change in plans, 

C) making reasonable requests (such as informing the instructor well in advance if you are requesting for a reference letter, providing them all the documents that will help them write the letter and following up closer to the deadline), and 

D) learning to conduct smooth discussions on matters of disagreement (such as when the student and the instructor differ on the grades that the former should receive, or when two colleagues have a difference of opinion).

The above contribute much more to an atmosphere of academic freedom and meaningful exchange of ideas than choosing (or not choosing) to call someone by name. 

Some (not all) of my senior colleagues insist on being called by their first names, and can even be a little fanatic about it. They feel that if a younger person is addressing them with titles and honorifics, it will prevent them from freely sharing their thoughts. The younger folks do not necessarily believe this to be the case. I have never held back from expressing my views based on how I am addressing the other person: obstacles to free expression usually arise from how the other person reacts, especially if they are in a position of power over you. 

At the same time, I can see a distinct advantage in insisting early on that your younger peers call you by name. When former students and mentees become colleagues, it is unbearably awkward to continue to be called "Ma'am" by them . But, it is also awkward for the younger person to change the mode of reference.  Nevertheless, the change has to be made, and it's probably easier to do it sooner than later [1]. 

It is totally okay to call your instructor by name (especially if you are making an effort on Points A-D, where the real work lies). It's even more okay if you pronounce/spell the name correctly.

2) The choice will make itself

The spring semester is a time of great churn. Our second year BS MS students are now in the process of making a decision about what they want to major in. The PhD admission and postdoctoral application season has started. Many people, while navigating between different entrance exams (such as NET, GATE, NBHM etc) and multiple applications, are trying to determine whether they want to walk down the academic path or consider alternative careers. In many cases, there are at least two options that look equally attractive. In some cases, one option seems to be what they really want, whereas the other option appears to offer better worldly benefits. A common conundrum among students who talk to me is to choose between majoring in physics versus mathematics. "I like both the subjects, and the thought of choosing one over the other is causing me a great deal of anxiety and FOMO," said a student. 

As the person in most of these conversations who has been through the process a "few" more times than them, my advice is that they keep brainstorming the advantages and disadvantages of each choice. That they use this as an opportunity to sharpen their decision-making powers by considering multiple angles and perspectives. That they also use this as an opportunity to draw within themselves to recognize (possibly for the first time) what will personally make them happy. I am reminded of a silly dialogue from a movie that had come out when I was about to start my Master's. "Close your eyes," said a character to another. "Who do you see? That's the one for you." Go ahead, adapt this principle to your career choices as well, I joked with a student. Close your eyes, and imagine you are in a beautiful, cosy study room with a big window and a view of beautiful mountains with sunlight filtering in. There's a hot cup of coffee next to you. What do you see yourself doing? "I see myself working with a pen and paper," said the student. To me, that pretty much seals the choice. But it could also mean theoretical physics, the student suggests. 

One cannot deny the absolute importance of individual agency in making life decisions. An unrelenting, thorough reflection on our choices sharpens our logical reasoning, mental resilience, and self-awareness. It gives us the courage to take complete responsibility for our choices (to completely "own them", in popular parlance).  But what finally happens is also based on several factors beyond our control or current knowledge. Can you predict that a pandemic will break out? Can you possibly foresee a diplomatic storm ensuing between your country and the one you wanted to study in? Did the flight/train to your job interview get cancelled [2]? Did the professor you wanted to work move away soon after you joined the university?

On a more pleasant note, while you are more or less ready to move to Field A, you may suddenly end up listening to a beautiful lecture in Field B that will miraculously change your mind. You may meet a wise person during a journey or a conference (or both) who will make you re-evaluate your priorities [3]. 

One must think carefully about all of our choices. At the "moment of reckoning", however, it is highly likely that the choice will make itself. 

3) Give it time

Social media recently erupted with discussions about 70 hour and 90 hour work weeks. Such discussions often touch a raw nerve, as most of us navigate multiple demands on our time, and there is always unfair judgement on what we choose to allot less (or more) time to. 

If we sign up for something or accept a responsibility, there is no substitute to giving it the time that it needs. Every aspect of work, personal or professional, needs time. We hope that before taking something on, we carefully consider the time that it will take, and then take a call based on the availability of time to us. But, more often than not, a task takes longer than we thought it would, and as functioning adults, we do our best to rise to the situation. 

Solving new problems or proving new theorems is that aspect of a mathematician's work that takes much longer than one thought it would. We lose track of time spent on it, and I have never heard any scientist complaining about the amount of time it took them to finish a project: this is often narrated with pride and joy. On a similar note, I have never met a colleague or friend in academia who complained about devoting time to preparing good lectures, either for their courses or for conferences/seminars.

There are other parts of our job which also take time: peer review (including referee reports for journal submissions, writing reference letters for job candidates and PhD applicants), committee work, and mentoring students who may not be directly working with us but reach out for support or guidance. Our reputation is built on the integrity with which we execute these tasks, and all of it directly depends on how much time we allot to it. 

In the last few years, I have blogged a lot about learning to bring structure and consistency over long periods of time to meet goals that seemed challenging. Occasionally, I have also reflected upon how long it takes for growth to happen and for something to come to fruition: a research idea, a book, or career milestones. My personal growth and mental health have skyrocketed after I made a simple pact with myself: that I would give any task the time that it needs without judgement or anxiety. 

It seems that both the industry leaders who brought up the issue of work hours wanted to encourage their employees to have ambitious goals befitting their abilities, and devote the time needed to meet those goals. Instead, at least one of them ended up issuing statements that sounded condescending and even crass. Framing your views thoughtfully before communicating them also takes time.

Footnotes:

[1] The Bengalis seem to have evolved a working solution to this problem: they follow the middle path, and simply add "Da" or "Di" while calling older people by their names. This can remain constant even as one graduates through different career stages,

[2] This has happened to me. On a January morning several springs ago, I boarded a flight to go for a job talk in another city, but the flight never took off. The runway was being used by some aircrafts for Republic Day practice. 

[3] Yes, it does sound over-the-top, but both have happened to me, and to some others I know.

On work-travel balance and other matters

In the early days of this blog, I would sometimes write "random" posts, that is, posts with short snapshots of multiple work-life thoughts (see, for example, here and here). I am reviving the random "series" again. Here are some thoughts on work-travel balance, accountability to goals, and facing the reviewer "within". 

1) After several days of travel across India (from Kashmir to Kerala), mostly for work, and occasionally for a break, a relatively calmer and more stable routine at home has brought some relief. It's great to be invited to deliver talks, and to travel to interesting destinations, but if we don't balance it with quiet, focused days at the study desk, how will we have new things to talk about? A well-structured life at home is great: you have a regular work routine around your research work, teaching schedule and meetings. You wake up in the morning thinking about the sunrise and next steps in your projects (or the lecture material for your next class), and not about the next flight to catch.  This makes it so much easier to focus on "deep" work. You get to have your cups of coffee exactly the way you like them and at the times you want them. You have complete control over your meals and over your work-out schedule (and access to the gym).Nevertheless, at this career stage, travel is only going to get more frequent in the coming years. One will have to flexibly adapt to different routines and time zones, not to mention, meal options and coffee times (if, at all, coffee is a possibility). One will have to learn to stay calm while dealing with the vagaries of flight delays, missed connections, cancellations, airport transfers etc. 

I believe that in this phase of travel, I made a lot of progress in dealing with all the disruptions and changes. I prepared all my talks well before the travel, and this itself took a lot of the stress away [1]. While I relish my early-morning coffee at home, I no longer feel disturbed when I can't get it. I do manage to make healthy meal choices based on what is available, and have also learnt to travel with a Yoga mat and Yoga props (which can be easily folded into the suitcase). Pretty much anywhere in the country, academics are blessed with good campuses with safe and pleasant routes to walk/run on. So, I have learnt to be responsible about my health while traveling. If I could develop the resilience to show up to my morning writing hours with focus during travel, the work-travel balance will essentially be sorted out. Question: is it possible to adapt to travel so seamlessly that one doesn't feel any difference between being at home and being away from home? 

2) Talking about Yoga, last week, as I was recovering from a hard day at work, I had this sudden wish to miss my Yoga class. I wrote to the instructor with a request to record the class, which I would practice later on my own. However, within a few minutes of the start time of the class, I started feeling very restless: it felt as if I was missing out on something substantial: so, I did show up for the class and participated in the remaining part of the class. I was sufficiently rejuvenated after the class to prepare two classes for the math course that I am teaching this semester. 

The next day, I went about my routine as planned, and wondered what would have happened if I had indeed missed the Yoga class. In addition to the mental regret, it is almost certain that I would not have practised it on my own, thereby missing important instructions that would be needed in the next class. Or even if I did, I would have had to carve out an hour away from some other activity, and then, there would be a cascading effect of making up for lost time in a variety of urgent activities. Some important activities would have to be put aside for later. Unlike a rolling stone that gathers no moss, rolling time schedules do gather moss, and the time taken to finish an activity only increases with each postponement. Showing up with a sense of responsibility and accountability, and not caving into the "all or nothing" approach keeps the days rolling smoothly. 

3) A strong motivating factor in showing up for scheduled activities every day is to remember the larger goals. But, for that, one needs to have larger goals. In different conversations with two colleagues recently, we discussed this point.  Some activities that force us to reflect on our goals are writing grant proposals, and preparing evaluation reports. Both of these activities help us to think about our vision: what is our story, and in what direction are we taking it forward? How is the story shaping up, and what parts of the story need more development? In many cases, when we write for an audience who are not necessarily working in our area of expertise, we also have to compose and present our goals more creatively. Well before we hear back from the evaluation committee or the grant agency, our own "inner" reviewer gives us a fairly accurate feedback on where we stand as researchers, provided we care to listen. Among my friends and colleagues, we share a lot of jokes (and internet memes) about writing grant proposals: but, I have never felt that time spent on writing one was wasted (even if the proposal was not successful). In fact, on a recent occasion, I finished a research project with my PhD student based on one of the goals I had written in a proposal. As a pleasant surprise, I heard about the acceptance of the article as well as the successful approval of the grant around the same time. This was so encouraging: I am now motivated to develop the other parts of the "story" of which this project was a part. While writing the grant proposal, the co-PI and I had a very good feeling about it: our "inner" reviewers appreciated the honesty, clarity and sense of purpose with which we wrote it, taking into account our respective expertise and the themes that could be developed in collaboration. Even if the application was not successful, we promised each other that we will continue working on these ideas. But, as it turns out, the peer reviewers also felt the same way about the project: we got the entire amount we asked for, and it will enable us to hire two postdoctoral fellows to join our project. 

This was a rare occasion when our evaluators agreed with our own inner assessment of our goals and work. Papers and grant proposals get rejected frequently, and often, the reviewers may not share our own assessment (and this can go in both directions). Most of us just get on with it, especially if our inner reviewer gave us an honest feedback (good or bad), and we have a healthy mechanism to face it. It makes me wonder: when we feel a strong sense of revulsion towards review or evaluation in any form, do we fear confronting the external reviewers or the reviewer within?

[1] Yes, I have had phases in past life when I prepared for talks during flights, but have given up on this in the interest of my mental health. If one really needs to work on a flight, the no-internet time is much better utilized by working on new problems.

Ten years at IISER Pune

It's a day for celebration and reflection. I officially complete a decade at IISER Pune. This marks another interesting milestone: this is the longest that I have ever lived anywhere. The previous record was spending 5 years at Queen's University in Kingston where I got my Master's and PhD. Other than that, I have never lived at any place for more than three years. 

The move to IISER Pune was an adventure, and happened in a rather sudden and unexpected manner. I have written about it here. Nonetheless, it turned out to be one of my best decisions, even though restarting a faculty position here was not without struggles and anxieties. 

1. 2013 - 2016. 

As I look back, I feel that the first three years, 2013-2016 were the most difficult: this was the phase when all sorts of challenges presented themselves in rapid succession, personal as well as professional. I experimented with new projects and many of them failed one after the other (or perhaps, I did not spend enough time on them due to an inherently anxious nature). As I now understand, this is an essential part of academic growth and happens to many early career scientists. But, at that time, it caused a good amount of grief and with every successive failure, I had recurring thoughts of self doubt. The healthy, non judgmental, non competitive peer support available during graduate school and postdoctoral training days had disappeared: I could no longer talk openly about my struggles with peers.  I felt stressed out and disempowered. There just did not seem to be any respite, and at one time I even wondered if I would always be unhappy, and left alone at the sidelines. [1]

2. 2016 - early 2020.

2016 was when things took a positive turn. This is the time that support systems around me (which I had only been vaguely aware of) kicked in through multiple channels. The first support system was at the level of mentorship at my institute. I spoke to a senior colleague who encouraged me to keep trying and not give up. Simply put, there is no denying these challenges: they are real and one has to put up a strong fight. I received some extremely helpful and empowering career advice at this stage: this was not a time to doubt one's abilities, but a time to put in concerted efforts. 

The second support system was at the level of my larger research community. I started writing to an expert in the topics that I was interested in: although he did not know me personally, he took time out to respond to my queries and generously shared his knowledge and ideas in great detail. His suggestions proved extremely valuable and helped take my work forward. This was also the phase when a project with my then PhD student, Neha Prabhu worked out beautifully. We had struck the surface of a beautiful theme at the interface of number theory and probability, namely central limit theorems in number theory, and received feedback from the reviewers and other experts that pointed to a bigger picture. It presented a wide variety of new questions to explore. This and other related questions that connect probability and number theory are now my main research interests. 2016 - 2019, therefore, was the phase when I gained clarity and confidence in my core research programme, and looked forward with hope. Nevertheless, some anxieties still simmered within, and I could not celebrate important milestones with much joy. 

3. March, 2020 - present.

In 2020, I feel that I entered a far more self-aware phase in my academic journey.  When the pandemic struck in early 2020, the solitude imposed by the lockdown forced many of us to look within with a keen eye. I noticed that I was vacillating between two contradictory feelings: the excitement presented by future research possibilities versus despondency and overwhelm that came with questions such as, "Is this it? Will I go further?" Why did I feel so low on energy and enthusiasm, I wondered. Thanks to self-reflection and efforts, 2020 - 2022 has turned into THE most important and fulfilling phase in my academic journey at IISER Pune. 

I learnt to focus on a few chosen research projects related to my core interests, and to grow consistently through these projects, step by step. I gained control over my time and energy: a few hours of writing each day brings a lot of self-assurance, generates energy and gives me the motivation and time to serve the academic community in ways that I am equipped to, such as teaching, mentoring, editorial work and science communication. At the same time, I have to consciously work on bringing about a balance in all these activities. One of the most important skills I've learnt is to set healthy boundaries in professional life as well as in personal interactions. I've learnt to recognize and say no to tasks which I know I would not be able to handle. In the pandemic times, I prioritised providing a listening ear to those who reached out for conversations and support. But, I also learnt to back off when the other party crossed boundaries without any thought about how their words and actions can affect other people. I've learnt to deal with anxieties. I've learnt to value feedback from experts and mentors, but I've also learnt not to seek validation from anyone other than myself. I've learnt to recognize the strong "inner critic" as one among many voices in my head, and not the sole voice to debilitating effect. While learning all of this has happened over a period of 10 years at IISER (or even longer), I do feel that most of it happened at the proverbial "last moment", that is, in the last couple of years.

I do not claim anything special in any of the above. Most of us learn these lessons at some point in our journeys: some, a little sooner than others. The reason I am mentioning all of this in a post on 10 years at IISER Pune is because I am grateful that my work place has provided me the space to learn these lessons, experiment, make mistakes and grow under its watchful (but not intrusive) gaze. The efficient administrative systems and the infrastructural framework at this institute act as enablers in every good way, and do their best to help people focus on science. As a glaring example, this was most evident in the pandemic phase when the institute administration kept us safe, healthy, and well-provided for in a city that remained a Covid hotspot for a long time.

What I am most grateful for is that over the last 10 years, IISER Pune has helped me become academically, professionally and personally independent in many ways, while also providing support networks at times when I needed them the most. From taking tottering steps in the beginning, I've learnt to take ownership of my journey. 

During evening walks, I often take the circular route in front of the main building. Sometimes, I simply stand and gaze at the building, and it seems to smile and say, "Keep going. I got you."

[1] I think I was the academic version of the protagonist in this famous Bollywood song in those days, forever searching for the elusive theorems.  The words "... another year later.." keep flashing on the screen as she looks increasingly morose.

Where there is structure, there is victory

We all have been coping with several work-life balance issues during the pandemic. While people have to balance their professional and home responsibilities even in ordinary times, the pandemic created a situation where the latter skyrocketed with children having to be home schooled and domestic work having to be managed without any external support.  A colleague of mine once said with exasperation that in the midst of sweeping and mopping, the latest literature in his field had started evading him. The hours that many people typically spent doing their academic work had to be recalibrated as their children were no longer going to school. My former postdoc mentor, Matilde Lalin wrote this lovely article describing (in "real time") how mathematicians like her conducted their research during COVID times.

Some of us found ourselves away from our families for a long period of time due to the unexpected lockdown announcement. In my case, all other parameters were fine. I was in good health, safely placed inside the IISER campus and assured that my family members, though far away from me, were safe and healthy too. When the first lockdown was announced, the solitude promised to be a golden opportunity to concentrate on learning and writing. With no possibility of traveling in the upcoming days, I was all set to put the song "Mono Chalo Nija Niketane" (translation: "Let us go back once more, O Mind, to our own abode") into action [1]. I was only going to step out to get groceries from a store in my building and spend the rest of my time in "Nija Niketana" doing Mathematics. 

A few days down the line, I realized that my grand plan was failing: Nija Niketana was turning into Netflix Niketana and the monster was starting to occupy more space than bargained for. What exactly went wrong? I had lots of goals to work on and lots of time. Had I lost the ability to focus on research and writing? Was this the end of everything? 

Soon, I realized that I was not alone in this predicament. Several people in my situation were facing this challenge. In this context, I heard about an acquaintance, who was all set to go on a sabbatical when the pandemic struck and messed with his plans. Unable to travel, he had two options. One was to continue his sabbatical at home, work with collaborators online and not have to worry about teaching. The second was to cancel his sabbatical and get back to active university duties. He chose the second option and requested the university to let him get back to teaching that semester. He recognized at the outset that all alone in his apartment, in the event of not being able to make a research visit elsewhere, he needed the structure provided by a regular university schedule to function optimally. I was encouraged to hear this story and also got an idea of how to proceed: I had to build a structure around daily activities.

A large chunk of time in solitude is undoubtedly a golden opportunity to concentrate on learning and writing. But, it can also be a double edged sword: our teaching duties, seminars/colloquia, interaction with students and colleagues provide a structure around which we can organize our daily activities in a time bound manner. In reserving time blocks for these activities, we also end up reserving time blocks for research work. There is little leeway to move around the time blocks for activities like teaching, talking to collaborators/students and attending seminars (more generally, any activity which requires a commitment to another human being). We therefore stick with the research time blocks because we must. In other words, for many of us, to be able to make the most of research time, there needs to be a structure to the day that involves a healthy dose of other meaningful activities like teaching, seminars, regular workout sessions and pursuing hobbies.

Structure is also the best antidote to anxiety. I started working to incorporate a daily plan in a way as to not procrastinate during the day time and then, feel empty and anxious in the evening (which leads to another cycle of procrastination). Making a ``formal" commitment (even if to oneself) by writing to-do lists and following through on it by writing "got-done" lists goes a long way in making sure that we don't postpone something just because we can.  My efforts to avoid empty "got-done" lists were centred around three tiny principles. I had heard of these before, but was forced to implement them diligently upon realizing that the pandemic was, indeed, playing havoc with my mental world. 

The first principle is that of showing up. When pulling the mind out of inertia, it is important to avoid an all-or-none approach. For example, if unable to start some planned work at a certain time, it helps to "show up", as long as the time planned for that activity is still left. Consistently noting afterwards how much of the work could get done instead of writing, "I got nothing done" uplifts the mood like nothing else, and with each passing day, one starts showing up for more and more tasks at the allotted time. Here, I am referring to tasks that are most in danger of getting postponed: ones that do not require coordinating with another person and have no immediate deadline.

The second principle is to give precise instructions to ourselves. Showing up on time for a task, but without a clear idea of what is to be done is a recipe for not getting it done. So, goals like "typing" or "typing Section 2" got converted into goals like "Write Lemma 3", "outline the proof of Lemma 3", "arrange the index of notations" etc. Much to my surprise, in a project where I had been suffering from a serious writer's block for weeks on end, I saw progress to the tune of 15 pages in 6 days. It is, of course, not always possible to count the output of work done in terms of pages. It is also not easy to come up with precise goals when starting to explore a research project, which is why people end up procrastinating the most at this stage. But, it does help to isolate exactly what part of a problem or project one wants to explore and stay focused on that. 

The third principle is to get work done on the go.  At some point, we all make peace with the fact that we want to do (or need to do) much more than we have time for. It is not a moral defect, therefore, to allocate short bursts of time to activities that we enjoy or care for, but which get relegated to the background as we seek to fulfil more urgent responsibilities. These bursts of time can be snatched from other things that are happening around us. I have managed to read, for example, two volumes of Shri Harivansh Rai Bachchan's autobiography over the past few weeks while waiting for the geyser to heat the water. Occasionally, I have also planned some work within the time that the washing machine takes to complete a wash cycle [this puts a nice timer on the activity concerned as well]. Sometimes, the time period can be as short as the 2 minutes during which a meal is being heated up in the microwave. This blog post has been written in the last few days in similar situations. In fact, this particular paragraph is being written up as a friend, who joined me for coffee, has stepped out to take a phone call.

This would be a good place to conclude the blog post. After a wholesome Sunday spent reading, preparing for classes, reflecting on the importance of structure and finishing this post, it is time to lock all doors of my abode and truly go within.

I would love to learn more productivity/structure tips from readers.

[1] This song is famously recognized as the song which Swami Vivekananda sang when he visited Shri Ramakrishna for the first time.