Kabir knew he should be studying. He knew it the way you know the sky is blue — completely, without doubt, in every cell of his body.

The science exam was tomorrow. Chapter seven: the water cycle. Evaporation, condensation, precipitation. He had the textbook open on his desk. He had a sharpened pencil. He had a glass of water and a plate of biscuits his mother had left. He had told himself, firmly and sincerely, that he would study for two hours without stopping.

That promise lasted four minutes.

First it was the phone. Not his phone — his older brother's, left on the table, screen facing up. A notification flashed. Just a number on a red circle. Kabir did not even know what app it was from, but the red circle pulled his eyes like a magnet pulls iron filings. He reached for it. Just a glance. The glance became a scroll. The scroll became a video of a man building a swimming pool in a jungle using only a stick and his hands. The video was eleven minutes long. Kabir watched every second.

He put the phone down. "Okay. Now. For real." He stared at the textbook. Evaporation is the process by which water changes from a liquid to a — the ceiling fan was making a sound. A clicking sound. Click, click, click, every third rotation. How had he never noticed that before? He stared at the fan, counting the clicks. Seventeen clicks. Eighteen.

He looked back at the book. Condensation occurs when water vapor cools and — the biscuits. They were cream biscuits, the orange-flavored kind. He ate one. Then another. Then he was looking at the empty plate wondering where the biscuits had gone, as though someone else had eaten them.

Outside, a dog barked. A motorcycle passed, its engine sputtering like a cough. The neighbor's TV was showing a cricket match — he could hear the crowd roaring. India must be batting. Who was batting? He should just check the score. Just the score.

An hour later, Kabir sat in the glow of the phone screen, the textbook untouched, the water cycle still a mystery, his promise to himself as broken as the empty biscuit plate. He was not a foolish boy. He was not lazy. He genuinely wanted to study. But the senses — his eyes, his ears, his tongue, his restless fingers — had seized his mind and dragged it away like a gang of cheerful kidnappers.

Krishna says this happens even to the wise. Even to people who know better, who have made plans, who have every intention of doing the right thing. The senses are that strong. They do not knock politely and wait for permission. They kick the door down.

The first step is not blaming yourself. The first step is admitting that the door got kicked down.