I read English at the University of Dhaka before I learned that what I really wanted was to report. Six years among postcolonial novels, narrative theory, and tea-stained photocopies of Heaney did not, as my family briefly feared, ruin me for the practical world. They taught me to read a paragraph the way a mechanic reads an engine — for what it is doing, and for the small failures it is trying to disguise.
That habit moved with me into a newsroom. I now write about the systems behind what people think they know: algorithmic feeds, misinformation cascades, the polite architecture of platform power. I came to research because journalism kept asking questions I could not answer in 1,200 words, and I came back to journalism because research, left alone, can forget who it is for.
I teach, too, mostly by accident. The students keep asking smarter questions than I had at their age, so I keep showing up. Outside the work I run, read late, drink coffee with the seriousness of a discipline, and lose entire afternoons to old films and longer Spanish sentences. I believe, with no evidence whatsoever, that every person I meet on a long bus ride has a story worth slowing down for.
The rest of this site is the receipts: what I have written, what I am researching, where I have taught. Somewhere behind that public record is the quieter room that lives beyond the work. This page is just the introduction you would get if we met somewhere with bad lighting and good coffee.