I have a secret project which adds four hours every day to the

Sundar Pichai once spoke with a glimmer of humor and mystery: “I have a secret project which adds four hours every day to the twenty-four hours we have. There’s a bit of time travel involved.” On its surface, these words seem playful, a jest born of the modern world. Yet beneath them lies a truth older than empires—that man has always sought to wrestle with the river of time, to stretch its bounds, to master its relentless flow. For all wealth and power are but shadows if time is lost, and all wisdom begins with its stewardship.

The ancients longed for such mastery. They measured the skies with sundials, charted calendars by the stars, and prayed for longer days in which to reap, to build, to love. The poet Hesiod warned men to rise early, for the hours slip away like water through cupped hands. The monks of the Middle Ages divided their days into sacred offices, striving to sanctify each moment before darkness fell. In every age, humanity has sought what Pichai hints at: more hours, more life, more presence in the fleeting march of days.

But what is this secret project if not a metaphor? There is no machine that lengthens the day, no spell that binds the sun in place. Instead, the true art is in the way we perceive and order our lives. To add four hours is to reclaim what is squandered—to silence distraction, to walk with intention, to live with a clarity so sharp that time itself seems to bend before you. The greatest magicians of time travel are not inventors of devices, but masters of discipline, focus, and purpose.

History offers us luminous examples. Consider Benjamin Franklin, who rose at dawn and portioned his day with relentless order. Though his life lasted no longer than other men’s, he filled his hours with invention, statesmanship, and wit, as though he indeed had been gifted with days longer than twenty-four. Or think of Leonardo da Vinci, who, in his restless pursuit of knowledge, divided his sleep into fragments so that he might glean more waking moments for creation. These men, like Pichai, discovered their own “secret project”: the art of multiplying time through the discipline of their will.

Yet there is danger here. To covet endless hours without wisdom is to fall into folly. King Midas, desiring endless wealth, found his gift a curse. So too, the man who seeks more time without purpose finds only emptiness stretched thin. The true measure is not how many hours we command, but how we fill them—with love, with learning, with deeds that echo beyond our small span of years. Time travel is not the journey of the body through centuries, but the sending forth of our actions into the future, to outlive us in memory and legacy.

The lesson is this: you already hold the key to the secret project. Guard your attention as a warrior guards his shield. Strip away the trivialities that devour your hours. Rise early, labor with focus, and rest with gratitude. In so doing, you will find that your days grow longer, that the sun lingers, that time bends to the rhythm of your purpose.

Practical action flows like a river from this truth. Begin each day with clarity: name the tasks that matter, and let the rest fall aside. Turn away from idle distractions that masquerade as necessity. Carve out silence, for in silence the hours grow fertile. And most of all, remember that the gift of time travel lies in how you carry today into tomorrow—through words, deeds, and love that endure.

Thus, Pichai’s jest becomes ancient wisdom: Do not seek to conquer time with machines, but with mastery of yourself. For he who knows how to live his hours multiplies them, and he who fills his days with purpose achieves a form of immortality. And this is the truest secret project of all.