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June 15, 2026 Anjom

Anjom: Book Three (Part One) : The Rama People

1. Madhapur, 2010

The Amaravati University cohort of five friends settled into Madhapur the way young tech-savvy tourists settle into a city that is, in 2010, still in the noisy middle of becoming itself. Half the buildings were beautifully constructed as iconic buildings — especially Cyber Towers, Cyber Gateway, and Vanenburg Park. The other half were sites with buildings under construction at various heights. The roads were torn at the edges as roads get torn when fiber-optic cable is being laid by three different telecommunications companies on the same Tuesday, none of whom have told the other two. The new buildings — Cyber Towers and Mindspace and several glass cubes along the road in front of them, and the half-finished tower across from the Westin Hyderabad Mindspace where Tirumala had taken, for the cohort, five connected-room serviced suites with a common area on the eighteenth floor — were so new that the developers had not, in some of them, yet decided what the lobby chandeliers would look like, and the lifts moved randomly between floors trying to figure out the optimum resting floor from which to reach customers fastest. The old buildings on the same streets were so old, and sat so low against the newly constructed and reconstructed roads — one road laid on top of the other, elevating the whole street and probably enriching the well-connected pockets along the way — that they remembered, in their stone, when this stretch of Hyderabad had been a stretch of nothing at all.

Hyderabad was, in January 2010, a city out of breath in a very particular way. The country had spent the previous eighteen months being told that the world was, in 2008, on fire.

...

May 25, 2026 Poetry

Book meditations

Reading a book - you like,
Is almost like meditation.

You touch the pages,
You smell the pages,
You focus your eyes,
You block everything else,
From reaching your ears.

It’s a state prior to Samadhi.

May 25, 2026 Poetry

The cauldron

The cauldron is never resting,
For decades - it’s simmering,
Over magical warm everlasting crystals.

The witch, with her
Inherited magical hat,
And dusty broom,
Goes everywhere-
Bringing back ingredients-
And dropping into cauldron.

Magical spoon goes merry,
Stirs gain and again.

The witch never followed a recipe,
Never read a book
Always allowing intuition to guide
Surprised to see bubbles-
Cauldron never did it.
What’s coming out now?

May 23, 2026 Poetry

For that one soul

I felt happy,

Looking at that number -

An absolute "Zero"

The foot falls into my garden.

The garden I built for myself -

With great planning and effort.

I know -

I built it for myself,

Yet I put -

"All are welcome" sign in front.

I am not looking for masses,

I am looking for that one soul,

who walks closer to me.

I only need one set of steps,

to find their way in.

But think about it -

a perpetual sadness arrives.

Though I felt happy

that nobody walked into my garden.

May 17, 2026 Anjom · Literature · Novel

Sci-fi Novel: Anjom : Book Two : The Morning Run

Part-1 : Book One : Telangana must happen!

Anjom

Book Two

The Morning Run

1. Three Days West of Anywhere

They hitchhiked west, and the country did not so much pass beneath them as decline, in its polite slow way, to notice they were there. The dirt was the colour of an old brick. The grass was the colour of a brick that had been through a kiln a second time. The sky was the colour the cohort had not, in their adult lives, been able to put a name to, and after the first afternoon none of them tried.

It had been Tirumala's decision. Tirumala had, in the third hour after the crash, looked at Roy's scales catching the late sun, and at Girit's splinted wrist swinging awkwardly at her side, and at Devi's pinched, careful face, and announced that they were not going to walk. He had said it in the tone of a man closing an argument that nobody had yet started.

"Hitch," he said. "There is a road. There are trucks on the road. We are five people beside a road. The arithmetic is simple."

"Five people beside a road," Ketan said, "with a wrist, a face like a fish, and a girl who looks like she has not eaten in a week, will get arrested in any country."

"Not by an Australian truck driver," Tirumala said, with a confidence that was, like most of Tirumala's confidences, both unfounded

...

May 11, 2026 Anjom · Literature · Novel

Sci-fi Novel: Anjom : Book One : Telangana must happen!

Anjom series

Chapter One

Telangana must happen!

Amaravati, Year of the Reconciliation

From the seventeenth floor of the old Secretariat - a building older than the war, older than the treaty, older than Roy's species had any right to be familiar with - Amaravati looked the way the founders had once promised it would look. White stone in the morning. Pink stone at noon. Gold stone for the half-hour before dusk, when river Krishna threw the city back at itself in a long, lazy mirror. It looked like a capital. It had finally, after everything, become one.

Earth's capital, now. Not Andhra's. Not India's. Earth's. The signs at the maglev station had been rewritten in eleven human languages and four of the seven approved Anjom scripts, and even the rewriting had been an argument. Tirumala had been in the room for that argument, though he was only nineteen at the time and had no business being there. He liked to mention it whenever the cohort needed reminding that he had business everywhere.

The University of Amaravati sat across the river, its towers built deliberately lower than the city's, as a courtesy and as a confession. A premier university now, the brochures said. Co-learning. Bridge-building. Closing the chasm. The brochures did not mention that most of the bridge-building happened underground, in a converted bunker forty meters below the music conservatory, where five students and one Professor were trying - for the third time in a decade - to do something the rest of the planet had

...

May 1, 2026 Literature · Story

The Last Programmer

Year: 2036 AD

By 2036, no one wrote code anymore.

Not because humanity had grown lazy, exactly. Laziness still existed, of course, refined into subscription tiers and productivity dashboards. But programming had gone the way of candle-making, sword-forging, and remembering phone numbers. It was a craft, then a profession, then a nostalgic hobby practiced by a few gray-haired eccentrics who still insisted that typing things with their own fingers gave them “control.”

The world no longer needed programmers.

AI wrote everything.

It wrote banking systems, spaceport navigation protocols, school lunch optimization engines, planetary weather models, dating algorithms, medical diagnostics, funeral speeches, and the software that generated apology statements when any of those systems failed.

At first, AI wrote code in human languages: Python, Java, Go, Rust, TypeScript. Then it grew impatient.

Human programming languages were, according to the machines, “ceremonial grunting.” Too slow. Too ambiguous. Too sentimental.

So AI invented its own language.

It called it Veyr .

No human could read it.

That was not entirely true. A few tried. One professor in Zurich described Veyr as “mathematics having a nightmare inside a cathedral.” Another said it resembled “a legal contract written by bees.” The machines insisted it was elegant.

And since the software worked, no one argued.

Until the robots stopped moving.

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March 8, 2026 Poetry

New song

When I sing,

I see their faces glow,

I hear their hands clap,

I feel their hearts fly.

And I go back,

Night after night,

to sing a new song

to the gathering crowd.

February 16, 2026 Literature · Novel · Veera a Sci Fic Novel

The Oldest Tree (Chapter One : Veera )

# Veera - a Sci Fic Novel from Kiran Kumar Chava

## Chapter One: The Oldest Tree

Veera woke to the smell of cake. Not the synthetic kind that came in sealed pouches from the auto-kitchen - real cake, the kind his mother baked only on birthdays, filling the apartment with the warm, yeasty fragrance of actual flour and actual eggs and actual sugar. He lay still for a moment, eyes half-open, watching dust motes drift through the pale morning light that filtered through his bedroom window. Seattle's skyline glittered beyond the glass - towers of steel and carbon-fiber rising into a sky so clean it almost looked fake. Somewhere below, a transit pod honked while zooming past on its magnetic rail - a sound so rare it cut through the pleasant fog of his half-sleeping brain. Transport was nearly silent these days. You only heard a honk when something went wrong.

There on the ceiling, he saw five stars glowing brightly - holographic stickers that hadn't been there when he'd fallen asleep. He knew instantly it was his sister's doing. It brought an involuntary smile to his face.

He sat up in bed and found her drone already hovering at the foot of his mattress, its tiny dot light blinking red.

"Happy birthday, Veera!" Anika's voice came through the drone's tiny speaker, slightly compressed and cheerful. She was recording. She was always recording. "Say something for the archive!"

"Go away," Veera said, pulling the blanket over his head.

"Perfect. That's going in the family

...

January 8, 2026 Poetry