おわり
End of this volume
A life in progress
Being Dev
A life in progress
Being Dev
Index · 目次
0 · Preface
This is not a book about arrival. I have not arrived — that is rather the point.
For the longest time I believed belonging was a destination. That if I became enough — fast enough, strong enough, read enough, built enough — the world would quietly make room for me at its table.
It took me twenty-one years to learn the order of things: you do not become in order to belong. You belong first — to yourself — and everything else follows.
This book is the practice of that. Of being, before becoming. Of being Dev.
1 · The Origin
I was born on the twenty-fifth of July, 2005, in India — the second son, the younger brother. My elder brother, Shubham, was my first standard: the proof that the ceiling I imagined was only ever a floor.
I grew up a boy with a lot of hope for the world and a great deal of ambition for myself — and I never learned which of the two came first.
The first machine was an aging family computer — slow to wake, quick to amaze. I don't remember the first thing I built on it, only the feeling: that a screen was a door, and doors are meant to be opened. I never really climbed back out.
Then came the teachers, in their own uniforms. David Goggins dragged me into fitness and taught me that the body keeps the honest score. Hans Troyer — a humble ultra runner — showed me that ordinary people run impossible distances, and so I ran.
Dostoevsky taught me the architecture of the soul; poetry gave me a language for everything the soul couldn't say out loud.
The machine, meanwhile, became a workshop: curiosity first, then craft, then things with names — shipped, used, real.
Somewhere in all of that, a decision was made without ceremony: I would not compromise with dreams. Not once. Not for anyone.
— that boy is still deciding.
2 · Present Day
Twenty-one. Somewhere between the person I was and the person I keep promising to be — and closer, most days, to the second.
3 · Now — September 2026
— will be archived as it becomes the past.
4 · My Writings — I
What beautiful colour of your eyes,
that a boy loses his perception of time
i have seen the endless seas but i see depth in your eyes farseen
blessed were my eyes to have met yours
i have seen moon on a cloudless night,
but the flight through your eyes was so much bright
Lucky is that guy who can see through your eyes,
Flower meant a thing to me, now it means things to me
is it Rose that you like, or cherry blossom alike
what is that your eyes like to see
violet yellow or green,
I used to think Sober was drunk,
no it was just that i was drunk,
I didnt knew a thing, but i acted like i did
your secrets were just too damn hard to drink,
I didn't like descent not because it was easy, but too damn fast,
apple cider was not that what i liked, it was what you seemed to like
Animals are what seemed to fascinate you, Goat is what fascinates me
i like dogs because they seem to get what i feel
and you would have been the only one to whom i would kneel
my heart and eyes are at war, but it seems to be a losing war
Delhi to Darwin seems to be my next flight
and your eyes seems to be my only sight,
God was real for the first time when it rained,
that jacket was never mine after that rain.
There's freedom within and There's freedom without
its represent that we fight two battles,
a battle to be in your arms, and a war to be in your centre of heart
Battle is not to be won or lost, it was to get what was your's-
i usually take what is mine,
you like to fly, i love to swim, but i am just a penguin
In the day sky, i try to find the moon, again i am just a fool
but it seems, i try to get what is mine but there's no moon in daylight
home is not a house- house is just a building full of bricks
home is where the heart is,
and eyes are where your eyes is
~ Dev
4 · My Writings — II
Oh shades of light, show me the way,
Through darkness that swallows and night that turns gray.
When I can't seem to breathe, let me dance in the dawn,
And find in the shadows the strength to go on.
In a pocket of dreams and the depths of my wants,
I still find myself crawling back through the sands.
Yet in each grain of hope, a new light I can flaunt,
As I rise with the dawn, where my courage still stands.
What I seek is not freedom, as seeking confines,
And what I like is not love, but a flicker that shines.
For I like what is light, just a glimmer to find,
In the maze of the night, in the folds of my mind.
White is not always warm, and black not always stark,
There's a darkness that's white, there's a whiteness in dark.
In the contrast we find all the shades in between,
In the gray of our dreams, all our truths can be seen.
4 · My Writings — III
Life happened, me waiting.
Believing it would stop, it would wait.
Life happening and happening,
Consistent like spring water.
Oh water, don't reflect what I see.
Once five, now twenty—what changed?
What changed?
The vessel grew wings, then they were cut,
And strings were pulled.
Cut these strings before they strangle me,
Drag me to somewhere the mirror guides.
What happened to the wings that used to carry the train?
Was the wind too strong, or were the strings too tight?
Either way, the reflection doesn't lie.
Oh water, let's start again.
Guide me, let's start again.
Take me away to the far sea,
Where I can sleep once again.
5 · Bookshelf
— read slowly. reread often.
6 · My Accomplishments
7 · Manifesting
I say my ambitions out loud — not because the world needs to hear them, but because I do. A dream kept silent becomes a secret; a secret becomes a stranger. I would rather mine stayed family.
There is a boulder in front of me. There is always a boulder. The trick was never finding a hill without one — the trick is falling in love with the push.
So I push toward the races I haven't run, the places I haven't stood, the person I haven't yet earned the right to be. I file the future in advance, so it knows where to find me.
— imagine Sisyphus smiling.
8 · Philosophy of Living
The way of living and doing what makes you happy — while being considerate enough to show the basic virtues to other humans.
To show emotions. Because to have emotion is to be human. And to be human is to have emotions.
It is not a doctrine. It is a practice — repeated daily, failed daily, begun again daily. Like the run. Like the boulder. Like everything worth keeping.
9 · The Work
9 · The Work — elsewhere
The book is the person; the person is also elsewhere. Doors, always open:
— say hello. I answer.
10 · The People
"Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others."
Fyodor DostoevskyCrime and Punishment · The Brothers Karamazov · Notes from Underground · The Idiot
"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion."
John KeatingOn art — Dead Poets Society
11 · Letter to Future Me
Dear Dev,
By the time you read this, the person writing it is a photograph. He ran, he built, he wrote small poems, and he believed the story was still being written.
I hope the boulder is still moving. I hope you are still smiling on the way up.
Whatever you became — belong to it, without becoming it.
— D. · September 2026
The Story Is
Still Being Written
つづく
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