Let’s talk about Karma. That celestial spreadsheet in the sky, supposedly balancing the moral budget of the universe. It’s a lovely idea, isn’t it? Do good things and the universe will eventually send you a voucher for free happiness. Do bad things and, at some vague point in the future, you’ll bang your pinky-toe against the bedside table and shout a litany of swear words that will ban you from living within five miles radius from a school. Balance restored. Nirvana achieved. All very elegant in theory.

For the uninitiated—which is to say, those who haven’t spent a Wednesday evening scrolling through wellness memes on Instagram—Karma is the notion that your actions have consequences, not just in the “you’ll be arrested for that” sense, but in a deeply poetic, almost literary way. If you’re kind today, the universe might arrange for you to find a fiver in your jeans next Thursday. Be rude to a barista, and you’ll get the shits. It’s moral causality as envisioned by an especially petty playwright.

And, like many things that sound nice in Sanskrit, it’s been thoroughly hijacked by people who say “vibe check” unironically. Karma is now less a spiritual principle and more a lifestyle accessory, like yoga mats or being smug about not owning a microwave. It’s been reduced to a hashtag for people who think that chakra is a dairy-free alternative to matcha.

But here’s the thing: if Karma really worked as advertised, the world would be a much fairer place. And I don’t know if you’ve looked outside recently, but unless fairness involves billionaires shitting a gazillion ton of CO2 in the atmosphere while joyriding into space while the rest of us tries to scrub the pot of the yoghurt clean before put it in the recycling bin, it’s not going particularly well.

If Karma were a person, it would be that bloke in HR who’s been “processing your reimbursement” since 2022. The one who sends you passive-aggressive emails about “your failure to attach the correct form” when you’ve done so four times. Karma is the universe’s HR department, except without the slight chance that someone named Susan might eventually answer the phone.

Billionaires who actively avoid tax while simultaneously funding “inspirational” documentaries about climate change—hosted from their private jets. According to Karma, these people should be experiencing chronic back pain, surprise audit raids, or at least a daily mysterious rash. And yet, they appear to be thriving, luxuriating in gold-plated infinity pools and sipping vintage wine filtered through the tears of underpaid interns.

Meanwhile, lovely Aunt Joan from Surrey, who never hurt a soul and once knitted cardigans for Romanian orphans, just got her third speeding ticket while rushing to deliver lemon drizzle cake to a hospice. Karma? Hello? Anyone home?

Now, I’d love to believe in Karma. Who wouldn’t want to live in a world where a pigeon will defecate precisely into the artisanal oat milk flat white of every dodgy politician the moment they lie to the electorate? Or where the wheels will immediately fly off that bloke’s car at the moment he cuts you off in traffic? It’s poetic. It’s just. It’s complete bollocks.

Let’s be honest — Karma is the spiritual equivalent of those “Your call is important to us” messages. You wait on hold for years, hoping some metaphysical customer service rep is going to come on the line and smite the man who invented “reply all,” but instead, nothing happens. That guy just got promoted.

Karma, if it does exist, must be incredibly tired. Imagine being the universal accountant for every human’s moral activity. “Right, Linda smiled at a stranger—add 3.2 joy units. Oh, wait—she also keyed her ex’s car last Thursday. That’s a deduction of… oh bloody hell, the Dailai Lama just tried to snog a kid.”

And don’t get me started on the people who think Karma is instant. “That’s Karma,” they say, when someone drops their phone after mocking their haircut. No, that’s gravity. If Karma truly moved that fast, the queue at Greggs would be a daily parade of miraculous retribution.

In the end, I suspect Karma’s real function is psychological. It comforts us to think that awful people will eventually be tripped up by the universe like a bad pantomime villain. And maybe they will. Or maybe they’ll just go on being awful while the rest of us hope our next good deed gets us a promotion.

Or its function is to keep us out of prison.

Perhaps the real answer is that karma is not a cosmic law but more of a vague social placebo. A soothing myth we peddle to children and frustrated adults to stop them from garrotting that guy who blasts his shitty music on a speaker at the beach. “Don’t worry,” we whisper. “Karma will get him.” As if the universe has the time to personally smite every inconsiderate twat.

In conclusion, Karma is a charming idea, but in reality, it’s about as effective as using a horoscope to plan your mortgage. If we want justice, fairness, and decency in this world, we might need to look somewhere more reliable than the universe’s broken vending machine of moral recompense.

Still, one lives in hope. And if there is a karmic database somewhere, fingers crossed for a free muffin.