Compile
late at night, near a warm laptopThe machine forgives nothing, and that is its kindness — it will not pretend my half-thought was whole. Each red line a small mirror: you were hurrying again. I fix the code. The code fixes me back.
poems
The softer language.
Verses written between commits, on trains, and late at night. Pinned here like notes on a wall — read whichever one is facing you.
To a Student, After Class
on the metro homeYou said you started too late, as if the sun checks its watch before rising. I have watched you argue with a semicolon for an hour and refuse to lose. That is the entire job. The rest is documentation.
New Delhi, Monsoon
from a window seatThe city loads slowly in the rain — first the horns, then the color, then the smell of earth like an old friend clearing their throat. Everything here is under construction, including me. Neither of us minds.
Version Control
a sunday afternoonIf only I could branch my life — try the risky thing over there, merge back only what worked. But there is one branch, no rollbacks, and every commit ships. Fine, then. Small commits. Honest messages. Push gently, and often.
The Kettle
early morning, before the world logs inBefore the mail, before the noise, there is a kettle that asks for nothing but a little water and patience. I am trying to build software like that — quiet until needed, warm when called.
Unfinished
written in the margin of a to-do listHalf my projects sleep in folders like seeds that trusted me. I used to call this failure. Now I call it a garden in winter — nothing is dead, it is simply not yet.
— new poems get pinned here when they're ready to be seen. —
Curious what these seeds grow into?
The garden in winter has a page of its own.
See what's growing →