Hyperfocus Series: The Memorable Slap from 2014

"Whap!!!"

A slap landed squarely on my cheek. I was in 12th grade, struggling miserably with academics, and had just been a little too honest with my mother. What followed was a storm of scolding. It was obvious—I had completely lost focus on science. My report cards showed barely passing marks, hovering just above the threshold in every subject except English. The solution my mother proposed was simple: join a local tuition center.

But I detested some of the people in that area, and in a fit of irritation, I ranted about the very tutor my mom was considering. I blurted out everything I knew about him—his rumored affairs, his chain-smoking habit, and other gossip I had picked up along the way.

Bewildered and furious, my mother’s reaction was swift—a slap that caught me by surprise.

“Only if you knew your physics formulas and chemistry exceptions with the same interest,” she seethed, “your results might have been better.”

My head hung low in guilt and shame. Her words cut deep because they made sense. Why didn’t I invest the same energy in my studies? And more importantly, was the energy I was spending elsewhere even worth it?

The philosopher in me emerged that day, questioning everything. But high school moved too quickly for reflection to turn into change. College came, and old habits stayed—I repeated my pattern of neglect. I scored a mere 40% with two backlogs in my first semester. The distance between my mother’s slap and me had grown, but not her threats:

“You’re not cut out for engineering. Come back to Rourkela; I’ll get you enrolled in English Honours.”

Somehow, I was oddly ready to accept that offer. "3 Idiots" had taught me that failure wasn’t the end of the road. Thankfully, my dad and elder brother stepped in, soothing my mother’s anger and encouraging me to try again.

That’s when the question resurfaced—how could students, all starting with the same potential, score so differently? Many of my peers seemed distracted—changing partners like clothes, partying daily—yet their scores hovered around 90%. It was clear: their focus, despite the chaos, remained unshakable. Their control over attention made them superior in the same way we feel superior to a child still learning the alphabet.

So, I took a blank sheet of paper and listed all my distractions. It was an exercise in brutal self-evaluation—and the pattern was clear. I was disengaged. I rarely attended classes and lacked any academic connection with my peers. My mind was consumed by web series and long Counter-Strike matches instead.

The realization hit hard: unless I confronted these habits, I would never reach my potential. I tried isolating myself in the hostel, but the environment was too distracting. By the sixth semester, I moved in with my brother. With fewer friends around and no gaming distractions, my focus shifted toward studies. The time I once wasted went into learning real-life survival skills—cooking on a budget, cleaning, managing expenses.

The results were immediate. I cleared all my backlogs and scored above 85% in that very semester. That success rekindled my confidence and reminded me that consistency—not talent—creates results.

Wherever your actions take you, you naturally attract companions from the same sphere. Start walking regularly, and soon you’ll find yourself surrounded by other fitness enthusiasts. You’ll exchange tips about walking shoes, breathing techniques, and even marathons. Spend time smoking by the tea stall, and you’ll meet fellow smokers—discussing brands, tricks, and the art of blowing perfect smoke rings.  

Thus, even though a person may embody a range of admirable qualities, if we wish to evolve, it’s worth distancing ourselves from those whose habits reinforce the very behaviors we seek to change. Growth often requires leaving behind even good people when the shared activity no longer aligns with our path.  

That same mindset helped me land a job, switch companies twice within ten months, and double my salary. Most importantly, it improved my mental well-being.

Today, I realize how modern life is designed to compete for our attention—from social media to shopping apps—all offering brief bursts of dopamine. Because the time we spend on these is short, we overlook the cumulative damage they do. Over time, we fall into cycles of distraction, living lives that feel more mechanical than meaningful—like lab rats running endlessly in the same wheel, mistaking motion for progress.