I build software that quietly earns its place. Some of it helps my family sell jewellery. Some of it trades my own money. Some of it gets me through tomorrow's physics exam.
I spend more time deleting ideas
than shipping them.
Built because my family deserved software that looks as good as the jewellery they make. A real store — catalogue, payments, an admin panel behind the counter, and a cinematic opening I definitely over-polished. Customers use it. Orders happen.
Built because I got tired of opinions pretending to be statistics. An options desk that runs itself — three brokers, 1-second market data, risk that never sleeps — trading my own capital while I'm in class. It has scars. I kept them.




Built because every exam app felt like homework wearing brighter colours. A periodic table you can play with, streaks, momentum — made between the same chapters it teaches, by someone actually sitting these exams.
Built because I kept believing my own backtests. Every idea faces real premiums, real costs and data it has never seen — before a single rupee moves. Most ideas die here. That's the job.
Built because every README eventually lies. A zero-config CLI that catches documentation drift: broken links, stale version numbers, flags that no longer exist, dead imports in code examples — nothing executed, no network needed. First real catch: broken links in dotenv's README, a package downloaded 120 million times a week.
Every project starts as a picture in my head and a page in a notebook. I break it into decisions, direct the build through every one of them, hunt the bugs, and test the claims — and I reject anything that doesn't match the picture. The typing got fast. Knowing what deserves to exist still takes me months.
Currently open to freelance builds, collaborations, and conversations worth having. Replies within a day.