I am an engineer,
shouldering the architecture of my thoughts,
theories of C++ designs, houses, health, horoscopes
all colliding inside my mind
as the metro rattled its hymn through the city.

That evening, I was balancing
a warm box from Brik Oven in my hands,
the best pizza I had ever tasted,
meant for my mother and sister
a small ritual of love after a long day of tasks
and bug fixes and office calls.

But somewhere between Sri Sathya Sai Hospital and Magadi Road,
she appeared
like a white blossom unfolding against the concrete dusk,
her blouse a pale moon
steady in the shuffle of so many lives.

She spoke Kannada
her words flowing with a subtle, poetic beauty
that made the poet in me stand to attention,
listening with the awe of a disciple.
Every phrase felt crafted by a gentle singer,
the sweetness of her tone
melting away the sharp corners of my day.

Then her smile
God, her smile
each tooth a tiny pomegranate seed,
gleaming with a quiet, irresistible invitation
that turned my logic into water.

Her entire bearing was sculpted by something kind,
some divine artist,
shaped with a grace that left no vulgarity,
only the fullness of youth,
honest and effortless,
like summer caught in a single frame.

For one breathless moment,
my world — C++ patterns, deadlines, bills, repairs
disappeared,
and I was left with only her language,
her presence,
her unknowable grace
like a lamp lit inside a forgotten shrine.

As I stepped off the metro,
the pizza box still warm in my hands,
I smiled, thinking of my mother and sister
waiting at home,
never knowing how,
for just one enchanted minute,
the poet inside me had fallen
into the eyes of a stranger
who reminded me that wonder
still exists among the passing crowds.