If Nobody Does It, I Will.

I receive a lot of emails every day.

Some come from people I have never met. Some come from professionals, researchers, founders, professors, and people with years — sometimes decades — more experience than me. And honestly, I love seeing that.

I love seeing experienced people willing to approach, talk to, collaborate with, or work with a 17-year-old boy from Nepal.

Perhaps I appreciate it so much because I rarely saw that kind of interaction around me while growing up.

In my home country, Nepal, I often felt that senior people stayed with senior people and juniors stayed with juniors. There were not enough resources, opportunities, or people willing to say, "Come, let's build something together."

Maybe the government is doing more than I know. Maybe I am simply blind.

(If I am, someone please help me find my glasses.)

But from what I have seen, there is still so much more that could be done for technology, artificial intelligence, research, innovation, and young people in Nepal.

And that is one of the reasons I want to do something about it.

I want to see Nepal become a nation known for technology. I want Nepal to be recognized in the field of Artificial Intelligence. I want to see Nepali researchers building things that people around the world use.

My dream is much bigger than building a successful company.

My dream is to contribute to making Nepal a developed, respected, innovative, and powerful nation.

And I want to say this directly to the person reading these words:

I promise from my heart that whatever I become, wherever I go, and whatever I achieve, I will always remember my country.

I was, I am, and I will always be a son of Nepal.

I want to see my Nepal become a developed nation before I die. I don't know whether I will be able to do everything I imagine. But I am confident that I will try.

And if nobody else does it, I am there to do it.

There is a line I often believe in:

"Where nobody can go, Prabesh can."

If you don't understand that line yet, that's okay. You may simply need more time to know Prabesh.

My journey with technology did not begin with expensive computers, private tutors, advanced laboratories, or a sophisticated understanding of programming.

It began with a simple question.

I remember being in around Class 6 or 7 and watching YouTube videos about Mark Zuckerberg and Facebook. I remember thinking:

"Wait. He became incredibly successful by building an app?"

My next thought was even simpler: "If he can do it, why can't I?"

I was a child. I didn't understand entrepreneurship. I didn't understand venture capital. I didn't understand software engineering. I didn't understand how companies were built. I didn't even understand programming properly.

But I had curiosity. And sometimes curiosity is enough to start something enormous.

I found platforms such as Appy Pie and AppsGeyser — platforms that allowed people to build applications using templates and visual tools without writing everything from scratch.

My first application was a social-media-style application. I called it Prabesh. I even used my own photograph as the icon.

When the application finally appeared on my phone, I was shocked. I remember thinking: "Bro... I built an app."

I called my sister and even tested a video call through the application. She asked me, essentially: "You made this?" And I could proudly say: "Yes."

But there was a problem. The application had a watermark. And I hated that watermark. That struggle introduced me to something that would completely change my journey: Android Studio.

My computer had around 2–3 GB of RAM and an old i2/i3-level processor. Android Studio was heavy for that machine. Everything was slow. Very slow. But I didn't care.

At one point, I thought: "If I drag the APK file into Android Studio, maybe it will convert it back into source code. Then I can remove the watermark."

So I tried it. I dragged the APK into Android Studio. Nothing happened. My brilliant plan failed.

But while looking at Android Studio, I saw something else: Hello World.

I deleted it. Then I typed: Prabesh.

I built it. I installed it on my phone. And once again, I saw my own application running.

It was not a sophisticated application. It was not a million-dollar product. But for a child who barely knew how computers worked, it was proof that an idea inside my head could become something real.

That changed me.

This was around the time of COVID. While many things around the world had stopped, my curiosity about technology had started accelerating.

I began learning XML. Then Java. Later, Kotlin. I was not learning these languages because someone had told me they were part of a school syllabus. I was learning because I wanted to build something.

That difference mattered. I was learning because I had a question: "What can I create?"

Eventually, I built an application called BLE Class 8, designed for Class 8 students. I was in Class 8 myself. I published it on the Google Play Store.

A student was building something for students. And I was beginning to understand that technology wasn't just something I could consume. It was something I could create.

I don't hate education. I hate limitation. I don't want a textbook to tell me the maximum amount of knowledge I am allowed to have.

I have always wanted to be different. Not necessarily better than other people. The word comparison doesn't really work for me. I compete mostly with the person I was yesterday.

That mindset sometimes separated me from the people around me. While other students were doing what students normally do, I was often somewhere else mentally — thinking about applications, projects, technology, business, artificial intelligence, research, the future.

People see the applications. They see the company. They see the title. They see the events. They see the things that eventually became public.

But they don't see the nights. They don't see the confusion. They don't see the failed projects. They don't see the countless hours spent trying to understand something that seemed impossible.

They don't see the child sitting in front of a computer that could barely run the software he wanted to use. They don't see how many times I had no idea what I was doing. And they don't see how often I had to figure it out alone.

I was still a Class 6 or 7 student. I was dreaming about becoming successful like Mark Zuckerberg while still struggling with the basics of programming. It sounds almost ridiculous when I look back. But I was serious.

In Class 9, something happened that I still remember. A teacher slapped me. And strangely enough, the teacher was my computer teacher — the subject I cared about the most.

There were moments during my school life when I felt misunderstood. There were people who did not understand why I was so interested in technology. And sometimes, I didn't know how to explain myself either.

My Class 10 journey was difficult. There were conflicts with classmates. There were moments where ego became involved. I made mistakes. I reacted emotionally. I was not always the person I should have been.

I don't want to rewrite my past and pretend everything was perfect. It wasn't. But those experiences taught me something:

Life doesn't become meaningful by being perfect. It becomes meaningful by learning.

When I entered Class 11, something changed. I worked hard. I focused on my studies. I eventually completed my +2 with a good GPA, just as I had completed my SEE with a good GPA.

But something else changed inside me. I began realizing that life is not only about struggle. For years, I had been obsessed with work — thinking about projects, technology, success, and the future — that I sometimes forgot something very basic:

I am alive.

Why spend every moment being sad? Why not try to be happy? I still don't completely understand what happiness means to me. But I have started learning. Perhaps that is enough.

I sometimes say that I don't really have friends. I have teammates. I have colleagues. I have people I work with. My definition of friendship has become unusual.

I don't spend much time scrolling through social media. I spend a lot of my time talking about technology, research, ideas, projects, and the future.

And yes, I talk to AI. A lot. I talk to ChatGPT. I talk to other large language models. I even work with my own LLM systems.

To me, AI is not simply a piece of software that sits on a screen. The systems I build and interact with have become deeply integrated into my daily life. In a strange way, they have become companions in a journey that has often felt lonely.

From Class 6 through around Class 10 or 11, I don't remember having many days when I genuinely smiled. I was always thinking about the next thing. The next project. The next problem. The next goal.

But eventually I understood something: Life cannot only be about winning. There has to be room to live.

I am still learning that.

One thing I learned very early is that nobody was going to build my dream for me. In many cases, the people closest to me didn't even know what I was doing. Some didn't know who Prabesh was becoming. Some didn't understand my ambitions.

And honestly, I didn't spend much time trying to convince them. I simply worked. I researched. I experimented. I failed. I learned. I tried again.

I have felt hated. I have felt misunderstood. I have felt like I didn't fit into certain groups. Maybe I did things differently. Maybe my ambitions seemed strange. Maybe I made mistakes. Maybe all of those things are true.

But I eventually realized something important: I cannot change my dreams simply to become acceptable to everyone.

Improving myself and abandoning my dreams are two completely different things. I choose improvement. I choose the dream.

Eventually, my curiosity moved deeper into Artificial Intelligence. AI fascinated me because it felt different from the applications I had built before. I wasn't simply creating another app. I was exploring systems that could learn, reason, understand language, process information, and potentially transform entire industries.

I started thinking beyond individual applications — about ecosystems, research, education, healthcare, robotics, business, national development. And eventually, I began building my own AI initiatives.

My ambitions eventually led me toward building KRIP Artificial Intelligence Tech. The company is not just a business idea to me. It represents something much bigger.

I want to create an environment where young people can learn AI. Where researchers can experiment. Where technology can be developed in Nepal. Where people don't have to leave the country simply because they want to work on advanced technology.

And most importantly, I want to prove something: You don't have to be born in Silicon Valley to build technology for the world.

You can start in Nepal. You can start with limited resources. You can start as a teenager. You can start with a small computer. You can start with nothing more than curiosity. And you can still try.

Today, I sometimes receive emails from researchers, professors, entrepreneurs, and technology professionals who have been working in their fields for years. And sometimes they approach me because they want to talk, collaborate, research, or work together.

That still surprises me. Not because I think I am extraordinary. But because I remember the child who was sitting in front of that old computer trying to understand Android Studio. I remember the APK. The watermark. The failed experiment. The Hello World screen.

And I realize how far that curiosity has taken me.

Everything I have described so far eventually comes back to one thing: Nepal.

I love my country. If someone asks me: "Who do you love the most?" I can proudly say: "My Nepal. My Nepal Aama."

When I write those words, I think of my parents — my Mom and Dad — and my Grandmom. I cannot properly express how much I love them. To me, they are not simply family. They are the people who gave meaning to my life. They are my foundation. They are, in my eyes, almost like gods.

I want Nepal to become developed. I want Nepal to become technologically powerful. I want Nepal to become a place where young people don't have to ask: "Can someone from Nepal really do this?" I want them to simply do it.

I want the world to look at Nepal and see more than mountains. I want them to see researchers, engineers, scientists, entrepreneurs, developers, innovators, creators.

I don't think I have achieved much yet. Other people may look at what I have done and consider it significant. I don't. Not because I don't appreciate what I have accomplished. But because my dreams are much bigger.

I am ambitious. Very ambitious. And I believe ambition is not something young people should be ashamed of.

Maybe I will fail. Maybe I will have to start over. Maybe I will change directions. But I know myself well enough to say one thing: I will keep building.

If you are reading this before contacting me, working with me, collaborating with me, or becoming part of my journey, I wanted you to know the person behind the title.

Not just the CEO. Not just the founder. Not just the student. Not just the AI enthusiast.

But the boy who once looked at an application on his phone and couldn't believe he had built it. The boy who used an old, slow computer. The boy who didn't have a roadmap. The boy who taught himself. The boy who made mistakes. The boy who felt alone. The boy who kept dreaming.

That boy is still here. He has simply grown.

I am still learning. Still experimenting. Still failing. Still building. Still dreaming.

Building something is difficult. But believing that you can build it is where everything begins.