A Friend, a Stapler, and the Meaning of Kaizen (改善)

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Kaizen (改善) always reminds me of a dear friend who introduced me to this phrase many years ago. A friend I spent time with back when we were still single—meeting often for tea or an occasional drink, and endlessly sharing anything new we learned. The word also carries a quiet sadness because of his untimely passing, but the idea itself lives on.

One afternoon, he arrived unusually animated. A consultant had visited his office, he said, and they had been introduced to a concept called Kaizen. The word was new to me, and my curiosity was immediately stirred.

He wasn’t a great storyteller, but he could recount the examples he had learned during the training—almost word for word.

What he explained was simple:

We print documents, walk to the printer to collect them, and then move again to find a stapler. If the stapler were placed next to the printer, a few seconds would be saved each time. Those seconds, multiplied across people and days, quietly added up.

It was a very simple, incremental improvement to the process—yet one with a deep and lasting impact.

Kaizen, broken down simply, comes from two words: Kai (change) and Zen (good). Together, they point to continuous improvement—not through dramatic transformations, but through small, thoughtful changes that are easy to sustain.

It asks us to resist the temptation of grand resolutions and instead focus on modest, repeatable steps.

Want to get fit?
Start with five minutes of stretching.

Trying to learn a new skill?
Ten minutes every day works better than two hours once a week—and then stopping.

Progress doesn’t need perfection, because perfection often prevents anything from getting done at all.

What Kaizen taught me, long before I realized it, is that improvement doesn’t have to be loud. It can be quiet, almost invisible, unfolding gently in the background of daily life.

And perhaps that is its greatest strength.

When Words Become Ways of Living

Eight Japanese ideas for everyday life 

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Minnesota is in the news today, though not for reasons one would wish for. I have no personal connection with the place, but a few years ago I wrote about something called the Minnesota Zipper Merge—not as a traffic rule, but as a behavioural insight.

You can read it here: Minnesota-zipper-merge

It is a simple concept, given a clear name, that quietly changed how people drive. By labelling a desired action, it made people more conscious of their behaviour. Naming it made it actionable. That stayed with me, because it revealed how powerful language can be in shaping the way we respond.

Japan has long influenced the West in a similar way, particularly in manufacturing. Words like Lean, Just-In-Time, and Kaizen are no longer foreign terms; they are embedded in how industries think and function. But beyond factories and offices, the Japanese language carries ideas that shape everyday life—ideas that don’t offer instructions or shortcuts, but ways of seeing.

Over the coming days, I plan to sit with eight such Japanese concepts. They are not hacks or prescriptions. They are phrases—and with them, a way of responding, adjusting, and living a little differently.

Here are the eight I’ll be returning to:

• Shikata ga nai — accepting what cannot be helped

• Gaman — quiet endurance with dignity

• Wabi-Sabi — beauty in imperfection and impermanence

• Kaizen — small, continuous improvement

• Shinrin-Yoku — mindful immersion in nature

• Mottainai — respect for resources, time, and effort

• Oubaitori — growing without comparison

• Ikigai — a reason for being, held at the centre

I’ll begin today with the one that feels most appropriate—especially in light of recent events and our instinctive reactions to them.

Shikata ga nai (仕方がない)

“It can’t be helped.”

Everyone encounters moments of helplessness—when things simply aren’t within our control.

The train is delayed.
The rain won’t stop.
Life throws something unexpected.

Instead of tightening into frustration, shikata ga nai invites a pause—a breath.
It isn’t resignation.
It isn’t indifference.

It is grace: the strength to accept what lies beyond our control, and to move forward calmly anyway.
Like watching the rain, rather than fighting it.

Naming something doesn’t solve everything. But sometimes, it gives us a place to stand—emotionally and mentally—when solutions aren’t immediately available.

The next time you find yourself stuck—angry, helpless, or resisting what refuses to change—remember this: it isn’t a misfortune specially assigned to you. It is simply life, arriving as it does for every one of us, from time to time.

In those moments, shikata ga nai is not surrender. It is recognition.
A steady acceptance of what cannot be helped, and the quiet decision to move forward with dignity anyway.

Over the next days, I’ll sit with the remaining ideas—slowly, without rushing—letting words become ways of living.

2026: A Happy New Year for Memory

 

“Memory is the diary we all carry about with us.” — Oscar Wilde

It had been in my scheme of things for the past few weeks to write something to mark the end of 2025. Yet, like many such intentions, it kept slipping out of my mind — until I reached the very last day of the year.

I wouldn’t blame my memory entirely for this.
But I can’t give it a clean chit either.

A new year inevitably brings with it an invitation to reset — and to resolve something ambitious. This time, my resolution is simpler, shaped by a very personal need: to retain and reinforce my memory.

I’ve decided to dedicate 2026 as the year of memory improvement.

Not memory in the heroic sense of remembering everything — but in the practical sense: better recall, sharper focus, and a mind that stays engaged rather than drifting.

Here is the path I plan to follow — and I sincerely invite you to join me if it resonates.

Train the brain — daily, deliberately

The brain responds to use. Small, consistent challenges matter far more than intensity.

• Do one daily mental workout: crosswords, logic puzzles, or even something as simple as the New York Times Wordle — modest, but surprisingly effective.

• Learn something new that stretches you just a little: a language, a musical instrument, or an unfamiliar skill.

• Read something and summarize it in your own words — aloud or in writing.

Move to support the mind

What’s good for the heart is good for the brain.

• Stay active most days — walking, cycling, swimming, or anything that gently raises the heart rate.

• Include light strength work a few times a week to support overall health.

• Build movement into everyday life: walk after meals, take the stairs, or pace during phone calls.

Eat, sleep, and check the basics

Memory is protected by simple, consistent health habits.

• Eat thoughtfully: more vegetables, fruits, fish, and whole foods; less processed excess.

• Sleep well and regularly — this is when memory consolidates.

• Pay attention to medical basics like blood pressure, vitamin levels, and medications, especially if memory changes feel unusual.

Use memory systems, not willpower

Good systems reduce daily friction.

• Keep one trusted place for notes, tasks, and reminders.

• Store essentials like keys and glasses in fixed locations.

• Stay socially active — conversation and connection sharpen memory more than we often realise.

I’m not aiming for perfection.
Just to remember more, drift less, and stay mentally engaged with life as it unfolds.

As 2025 comes to a close, I wish you clarity, good health, and moments worth remembering.

And if you choose to, join me in making 2026 a year where we don’t just live through time — but remember it a little better.

Happy New Year.

Faith Beyond Understanding: What We Don’t Know About What We Believe

The prompt from Poets and Storytellers United is "be inspired by the concept of “in between”.

Andamans

There’s a quiet truth we often overlook — that belief, at its core, is an acceptance that something exists or is true, even without proof.

We live in a world where logic reigns supreme. If something cannot be measured, tested, or explained, we tend to dismiss it. That’s why so many struggle with the idea of God — or maybe the idea of the devil. If it can’t be explained, how can it be real?

And yet, if we pause for a moment, we’ll see that much of what we rely on every single day works on faith — not full understanding.

We trust that the sun will rise tomorrow, that the seasons will change, that winter will pass. But even if we could sometimes figure out the how, do we really know why? We take comfort in patterns and call them “certainty,” but beneath it all, our knowledge is built on assumptions — on belief.

Our understanding of human-made things in life, even in the age of technology, remains astonishingly limited.
We listen to music from a flash drive, watch videos on our phones, and store memories in invisible clouds. Yet, if asked how these things actually work — how sound becomes a file or how data travels through the air — most of us would have no comprehensive idea.

And still, we believe they will work. We plug in the drive, press play, and trust that the melody will fill the room.

Perhaps faith isn’t so different.
Maybe belief in something beyond logic — Energy, Force, God, Destiny, The unseen — is not ignorance, but an acknowledgment of the vastness of what we don’t know.

In between knowledge, logic, stubbornness, there’s humility in accepting that our understanding has limits, and grace in trusting that something greater exists beyond them.

A Pledge and a Prayer

 

Have you ever woken up wondering how you’ll face the day, or whether you’re falling behind your own dreams? If so, you share something in common with a younger version of me — a time when I believed this feeling was natural.

One day, I realised it wasn’t. And since then, I’ve had to remind myself, again and again, that this heaviness is not a default state. It is the effect of life’s stresses, unfulfilled dreams, and surrounding expectations quietly clouding clarity.

The promise I now make to myself is simple:
I will not let that noise take over my life.

Life waits for nobody. It does not pause because I feel low, slow, or unsure. No matter how I feel, the day will still unfold — and I choose to make something meaningful out of it.

Here is my pledge — and perhaps, in its own quiet way, a prayer.

Each morning arrives as a vast canvas, inviting me to rise, to move, and to paint my own day. I must embrace this opportunity and do my best — not for applause, not for approval, but to tend to my own life.

I regret nothing.
The past is a path already walked. Every mistake was experience gained, every misstep a lesson earned. I extract the wisdom and continue onward.

My foremost aim is to safeguard my mind, my emotions, and my peace. Once this inner ground is steady, the mind is calm — able to navigate storms while others flail.

I strive to master my emotions, knowing that envy and fear shrink the heart. When I encounter someone greater, I observe, learn, and grow alongside them.

True peace begins when I mind my own path, stop seeking applause, and stop comparing my brushstrokes to others. Life is not a contest; it is a canvas.

Life will move regardless. But when I walk with intention — step by step — life quietly rewards me.

I keep moving.
I keep painting.
I keep walking.

My path is mine alone — and it is beautiful.
My path is mine alone — and I choose to walk it with care.

The 54th Post — Closing the Daily Chapter

 

I have been on a writing marathon for the past seven weeks — and today, on 30 November 2025, I’m closing this chapter with the 54th post of my series. It has been a ritual: sometimes demanding, often unexpected, but always real fun.

Over the previous 53 posts, I wrote about many things — curiosity, doubts, discoveries, ideas. I experimented with different styles: sometimes essay-like, sometimes personal, sometimes informative, sometimes conversational, and once I even tried a poem. I wandered between memories and questions, theories and observations, hopes and uncertainties, including a few thoughts on AI.

What I wrote:

Moments of wondering — small questions I had about life, culture, and the things I see and feel around me.

Thoughts on learning, on change, on growing.

Pieces of honesty — moments where I tried to share what I truly thought rather than what I “should” think.

A mix of genres — essays, musings, and snapshots of ideas. I pushed myself not to follow a fixed formula but to trust where my pen (or keyboard) led.

Once I shared an old Tagore song my daughter used to sing as a child, and once I tried my hands at a poem.

Some days the words came easily, like they had been waiting for me. On other days, I had to sit quietly and coax them out one by one.

What I learned — and how I changed:

The first lesson for me is that writing consistently taught me how to think more clearly. Even when I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say, the act of writing teased out hidden thoughts — ideas that were living inside me without my awareness.

I learned that motivation does not need external stimuli — I wrote whether or not anyone was reading, reacting, or appreciating the effort.

A big lesson was that you don’t need to write anything negative, hateful, or hurtful to keep going — even though social media often allows exactly that to thrive.

I also learned that discipline beats inspiration. Not every day was inspiring; some days I wrote simply because I promised myself I would. And often those pieces surprised me — with clarity, with emotion, with something I didn’t expect at the start.

And along the way, I connected with many like-minded bloggers — people I would never have met otherwise — you being one of them.

What this marathon means — and what are the take aways:

This series was a commitment: a way to prove to myself that I could keep going. A way to give shape to my inner questions, to trust my own voice, and to build a habit of creation and exploration.

If you read even one post and felt a spark — a thought, a question, a moment of recognition — then this marathon was worth it. And if you’re reading this now and thinking, “Maybe I could try that too,” then take this as a quiet invitation: start. Write something. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It may feel confusing. It may matter only to you. But keep going.

To you, dear reader — known or unknown — thank you for being here. I'm not going away; I’m simply closing this daily ritual. Keep thinking, keep questioning, keep writing your own story.

— End of the daily series, not the writing.

The Umbrella Relationship

 

It is said that the first thing a blind man does after regaining vision is to throw away the stick — he no longer needs what once guided and protected him. This may not be a common occurrence, but it reflects something we ourselves often experience: what I call the “umbrella relationship.”

Life is a bit strange — shall I say, even selfish at times. People often forget those who stood beside them during difficult moments. As soon as the rain stops, the umbrella starts to feel like a burden. Just a while ago, we were willing to give anything to have one.

Now, the stick and the umbrella are both non-living things — objects without awareness or emotion.

But when real beings like you or me experience similar treatment, it hurts. Deeply.

If we look at this metaphorically, we see this pattern in the way some children treat their parents. For years, parents have been the umbrella, shielding their children from the world’s challenges. But once the children become capable, some begin to see these very parents as a burden — an inconvenience.

And yet, the irony of life is that these same children later become the umbrella for their children — hoping, perhaps, that the next generation will treat them differently.

The same happens with the “ladder relationship”: some people will use you as a ladder to climb out of their struggles… and once they stand on solid ground, they no longer remember who lifted them up.

So what lesson does all this hold for us?

We must accept this one more fact of life: people will lean on you for support, protection, and survival, and some will forget your presence once the storm has passed.
Maybe you did the same once — I hope not.

But knowing this, we can choose better.
We must refuse to accept this as a norm and continue with this pattern. We can manage our expectations from others and, more importantly, act consciously. We can defeat the urge to ignore or abandon someone who stood beside us during our own time of need.