Ajinkya Gaikwad @aj310790

BREAKING: India just lost its THIRD Tejas fighter jet in 23 months. But the crash isn’t the story. The story is what happened in the 90 days BEFORE this crash: Dubai Airshow, November 2025. Tejas crashes on live television. Pilot killed. First fatality in 24 years of the program. Every defense buyer on earth watching. Armenia immediately suspends its $1.2 billion deal. India’s first ever Tejas export, dead on arrival. February 2026. Ministry of Defence formally excludes HAL from the AMCA fifth-generation stealth fighter program. First time in 80 years of Indian aviation that the state monopoly has been locked out of a frontline fighter. Tata, L&T, and Bharat Forge shortlisted instead. Three companies that have never built a fighter jet in their lives chosen over the only one that has. The disqualification criterion? Any company with an order book exceeding 3x annual revenue scores ZERO. HAL’s backlog sits at 7x revenue. Read that again. The order book that every analyst on Dalal Street pitched as HAL’s “moat” and “visibility” literally became the metric that eliminated it from the future of Indian air power. Then today. Third crash. Entire Tejas fleet grounded. Flight testing suspended. Mk1A certification now frozen while investigations run. HAL had already failed to deliver a single Mk1A despite promising 11 by February. Forty aircraft delivered across the entire program since 1982. Forty. And the stock still trades at 33x earnings. Here is what consensus is sleepwalking through: these are not three separate events. Dubai, AMCA, and today’s crash are reinforcing nodes in a single structural regime change. India is dismantling its defense monopoly in real time. The MoD procurement doctrine that killed HAL’s AMCA bid is not a one-time rule. It is permanent policy. It will apply to every future program. HAL does not recover its former position. It becomes a legacy manufacturer while private India builds the fifth generation. The 80-year monopoly ended. Nobody rang the bell.

>be Jim Simons >born 1938 in Brookline, Massachusetts >shark eyes, warm smile, galaxy brain >age 3, realize numbers double infinitely >age 4, obsessed with Zeno's paradox >parents: "what is wrong with this kid" 1950s: >MIT at 17 >graduate in 3 years >too easy >Berkeley PhD in 2 years >thesis is 20 pages >advisor doesn't know if it's genius or insane 1964: >join the NSA >job: crack Soviet codes >coldest war, hardest puzzles >you're very good at this 1967: >write a letter to the New York Times >call Vietnam "a stupid war" >NSA: "you can't do that" >you: "just did" >fired immediately 1968: >become math professor at Stony Brook >age 30, youngest department chair ever >do actual math >invent Chern-Simons theory >physicists use it for decades >you treat it like a footnote 1978: >get bored of academia >everyone says markets are random >you: "what if that's bullshit" >start trading with math 1982: >found Renaissance Technologies >strip mall office in Long Island >no suits, no MBAs >hire physicists, astronomers, codebreakers >Wall Street experience? disqualifying 1988: >launch Medallion Fund >close it to outsiders almost immediately >only employees can invest >this matters the method: >find patterns humans can't see >trade thousands of times a day >tiny edge × massive volume × time = infinite money >nobody knows exactly how >employees sign insane NDAs >secrets go to the grave the returns: >66% annually before fees >39% after fees >for 30+ years >not a single losing year >2008 financial crisis: +82.4% >best track record in history >better than Buffett, Soros, everyone >not even close the money: >net worth hits $31 billion >all from math >no oil, no inheritance >just patterns in the noise tragedy: >son Paul died in 1996 bicycle accident >son Nicholas drowns in 2003 >two sons gone >pour billions into autism research, math education, basic science May 2024: >die at 86 >never wrote a memoir >never explained how Medallion works >never needed credit the codebreaker who cracked the market. 66% a year. 30 years. the greatest investor who ever lived and nobody knows how he did it.

How the highway to Hinduism's holiest shrines became a death trap scroll.in/video/1089837/… via @scroll_in

₹50,000 premium. ₹15 lakh coverage. ₹0 peace of mind. India's health insurance system is broken. And no one's fixing it. Let me tell you what happened to my family last week. My wife needed gallbladder surgery. We have HDFC Optima Secure with @HDFCERGOGIC . We've paid premiums for years. We did everything right - got cashless approval, chose a network hospital (@ManipalHealth Whitefield), followed every process. On 26th Dec, I received the settlement letter: "Amount to be paid by insured: ₹0" Surgery happened. It went well. She was recovering. We were ready to go home. The hospital refused to let us leave. Despite holding a valid insurance document that said we owe NOTHING, they wouldn't discharge a recovering patient. My wife sat in that room - tired, in pain, wanting to go home - while I begged at the billing counter. We were only "allowed" to leave after I blocked ₹X,XX,XXX on my credit card. A patient. Held hostage. In a hospital. In India. In 2025. Then on 30th Dec, magically, a new settlement letter appeared: "Amount to be paid by insured: ₹X,XX,XXX" Same surgery. Same bills. Same everything. But now I suddenly owe lakhs. Here's how the trick works: The hospital bills ₹5.8L. The insurance company says "we have an MOU with the hospital, agreed package rate is ₹1.9L." So they settle for ₹1.9L. The remaining ₹3.9L? "Patient to pay." But wait - the MOU is between the hospital and insurance company. The "agreed package rate" is THEIR agreement. Why is the patient paying the difference for a deal they negotiated? The letter was updated AFTER we left. The hospital and insurance company sorted it out between themselves. The patient? Just a pawn in the middle. Both letters say: "No amount to be collected from insured" Their own words. Their own document. Exposed for what it is - meaningless paper. This is not a one-off incident. This is the system working exactly as designed: → Insurance companies collect premiums for years, then find ways to deny or reduce claims → Hospitals inflate bills knowing insurance will negotiate down, and patients will pay the difference → Patients are trapped between the two - too exhausted to fight, too scared to refuse → IRDAI exists but is reactive, not preventive - they'll act after you file a complaint, not before you're harassed Where is the protection for patients? Where are the regulations that say a hospital CANNOT hold a patient hostage for payment disputes? Where is the accountability when an insurance company issues two contradictory letters and expects the customer to just figure it out? We pay GST on premiums. We pay taxes. We fund the regulators. And when we need help, we're left standing at a billing counter, blocking credit cards to take our family home. I've filed a complaint with @IRDAI_official. I have every document. I'll fight this. This is not customer service failure. This is systemic exploitation. @HDFCERGO - honor your own document. Claim: RC-HS25-15349896_1 Policy: 2856205638548200 @IRDAI_official - regulate before patients are harassed, not after. @JPNadda - health insurance is not a luxury product. Millions of Indians depend on it. The current system is failing them. @raghav_chadha Need your help to raise this insurance scam in parliament.

When you have daughters in your home then your home have this vibe 💕

The children who grew up watching this must be the rulers of the world today.

I was in fifth grade when I learned to read my parents' silence. They were talking in the kitchen, late at night, in that particular hush that parents use when they think children are asleep. I caught fragments. Bombay. Tests. Something about a doctor. The next morning, everything was normal. Chai, school, the shop. But I had heard the frequency shift. It was 2004. My father was 39. We had just moved out of the room behind our kirana store—a chawl on the outskirts of Panaji—into a proper apartment. Our first EMI. Things were looking up in the way they do for Indian middle-class families who have spent years looking at the same ceiling: slowly, carefully, one calculated risk at a time. Then the diagnosis. Stage 3 follicular lymphoma. I didn't know what lymphoma meant. There was no internet to tell me, no Google to spiral into. Cancer was a word from movies—something that happened to people in cities, in dramatic hospital scenes with violins. Not to shopkeepers in Goa. Not to fathers who opened shutters at 7 AM and counted change at night. They kept me in the dark. The logic was simple: don't disturb the boy's studies. So I went to school. I came home. I did homework. And in the margins of this ordinary life, my father was taking buses to Mumbai for chemotherapy. I still don't fully understand how he did it. A biopsy, then a bus. Chemo, then the overnight journey back. Tata Memorial to Kadamba bus stand. The same man who winced when he cut his finger slicing onions was now traveling eight hours each way with poison in his veins, because what else was there to do? Goa didn't have the facilities. We didn't have the money for flights or hotels. So he sat on buses, probably in pain I can't imagine, probably next to someone complaining about the AC being too cold. My mother ran the shop. Not "helped out"—ran it. Wholesale orders, inventory, customers, credit books, all while her husband was in the jaws of something that might kill him. New scans kept showing the cancer spreading. The word "spreading" did a lot of work in those days. And I? I was a child. Which means I was selfish in the way only children can be—not out of cruelty, but out of not knowing. My father was alive and not going bald like he did so I assumed things were now fine. I was still in the dark. I remember crying for days because I wanted a geared cycle. All my friends had them. The fancy ones with the grip shifters. I needed it for school, I argued. I needed it because everyone else had one. I remember my parents' faces when I wouldn't let it go—that particular exhaustion of people who cannot explain why they're saying no, because the explanation would break something. Every rupee mattered. I didn't know that yet. I didn't know that they were borrowing money from friends, from family, sometimes from customers at the shop—the same aunties who haggled over soap prices were quietly lending us cash to keep my father alive. That's the thing about the Indian middle class: the safety net is made of relationships. Of people who've known you long enough to trust you'll pay them back, eventually. No paperwork. Just faith, and shame, and gratitude all mixed together. My father then spent 40 days in Mumbai for radiation. He stayed with my aging grandparents in a small flat while I finished my exams and my mother kept the shop open. I don't know what those 40 days were like for him. He never talked about it. Men of that generation don't. They just endure, and then they come home, and life continues as if nothing happened. The magnitude of what was happening to my family didn't hit me until years later. No health insurance, of course—it was unheard of for people like us. The treatment, the travel, the lost income from the shop, the interest on loans that weren't from banks. It drained us completely. Not metaphorically. Actually. The kind of drained where you stop going to movies. Where eating out becomes a memory. Where "vacation" is a word other families use. Miraculously—and I use that word carefully—things stabilized. By 2007, the cancer was in remission. Whether it was the radiation, the medication, or the wheatgrass cow dung milk ayurvedic concoctions my mother sourced from god-knows-where, I don't know. Probably all of it. Probably none of it. Cancer does what cancer does, and we tell ourselves stories about why. But remission doesn't mean freedom. It means waiting. It means every annual checkup is a held breath. It means the knife never really leaves—it just hangs higher for a while. It took us until 2015 to recover financially. Eleven years. A whole decade of my adolescence spent in the aftermath of something that happened in three months. That's the part nobody tells you about illness: the medical crisis has a timeline, but the financial crater doesn't. It just sits there, and you fill it in slowly, one repaid loan at a time, one favor returned, one customer you finally pay back. In 2012, I got admits to colleges abroad. Good ones. The kind of opportunity that I'd dream about for my children. My mother sat me down and gently suggested I reconsider. She didn't say "we can't afford it." She said: "What if it comes back?" The knife, always dangling. She was right to think it. I knew she was right. So I gave the BITSAT, got into BITS Pilani with a generous scholarship from the Goa government, and made it through. It was the practical choice. The safe choice. The choice you make when you've learned that life can pivot on a diagnosis. It did come back. In 2022, the lymphoma transformed—DLBCL this time, more aggressive—and everything we'd feared for eighteen years arrived all at once. My father went through treatment again. CAR-T therapy, a clinical trial. Brief remission. Then not. He passed in 2023. But the thing I think about now, the thing that connects that fifth-grade boy crying about a cycle to the man I became: when it came back, I was ready. Not emotionally—you're never ready for that. But financially. I could go all out. Best doctors. Best facilities. No borrowed money from customers. No buses to Mumbai. When the bill came, I could pay it. The CAR-T didn't work. Cancer won anyway. But I sleep at night. I sleep because I know I did everything that could be done. There's no version of me lying awake wondering: what if I'd had more? What if I could have afforded that other treatment? That guilt would have eaten me alive. It would have been worse than grief. I think about this when people ask me why I care so much about money. Why I write about financial security. Why I'm building what I'm building. It's not ambition. It's not greed. It's not even wisdom. It's trauma response. The boy who cried about a geared cycle grew up to understand something about money that no finance book teaches: it's not about the stuff. It's about what happens when the phone rings and someone says the word "biopsy." It's about having options when you have no good choices. It's about not borrowing from the aunty who buys soap from your shop. My father ran a kirana store. He woke up early. He counted change at night. He took buses to chemo because that's what was available to him. He never complained. He came home and opened the shop the next day. I don't know what he would think about me writing this. He wasn't the type to share. But I think he'd understand why I'm sharing it: because somewhere, there's a family in a small town, getting a diagnosis, doing the math, realizing the numbers don't work. I want them to know they're not alone. And I want the version of me that comes after them—the child who doesn't fully understand yet—to grow up in a world where this story is a little less common. That's all. Now go, get some insurance and take your parents out for dinner while they're still around.

Loop @LoopHealthHQ

8 months ago

💚1M members milestone giveaway! Quote tweet with your story of the medical incident in your family that changed your perspective on life, health, and finances. We're doing this to raise awareness around preventive healthcare. 3 air purifiers for stories picked at random.

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Length of Road: 150 meters Time to fix: 243 days Length of Road: 80 meters Time to fix: 171 days In all services - India moving to do things faster, cheaper and better quality. In municipal services - we move to do things slower, more expensive and worse quality.

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Man walks for 29 days on the disgraceful 490 km Mumbai - Goa Highway. Documents all the potholes and inefficiencies. Submits report to Nitin Gadkari. Given that the Minister has done little in 11 years - nothing will happen. But the young man deserves respect for the effort.

Last quarter I rolled out Microsoft Copilot to 4,000 employees. $30 per seat per month. $1.4 million annually. I called it "digital transformation." The board loved that phrase. They approved it in eleven minutes. No one asked what it would actually do. Including me. I told everyone it would "10x productivity." That's not a real number. But it sounds like one. HR asked how we'd measure the 10x. I said we'd "leverage analytics dashboards." They stopped asking. Three months later I checked the usage reports. 47 people had opened it. 12 had used it more than once. One of them was me. I used it to summarize an email I could have read in 30 seconds. It took 45 seconds. Plus the time it took to fix the hallucinations. But I called it a "pilot success." Success means the pilot didn't visibly fail. The CFO asked about ROI. I showed him a graph. The graph went up and to the right. It measured "AI enablement." I made that metric up. He nodded approvingly. We're "AI-enabled" now. I don't know what that means. But it's in our investor deck. A senior developer asked why we didn't use Claude or ChatGPT. I said we needed "enterprise-grade security." He asked what that meant. I said "compliance." He asked which compliance. I said "all of them." He looked skeptical. I scheduled him for a "career development conversation." He stopped asking questions. Microsoft sent a case study team. They wanted to feature us as a success story. I told them we "saved 40,000 hours." I calculated that number by multiplying employees by a number I made up. They didn't verify it. They never do. Now we're on Microsoft's website. "Global enterprise achieves 40,000 hours of productivity gains with Copilot." The CEO shared it on LinkedIn. He got 3,000 likes. He's never used Copilot. None of the executives have. We have an exemption. "Strategic focus requires minimal digital distraction." I wrote that policy. The licenses renew next month. I'm requesting an expansion. 5,000 more seats. We haven't used the first 4,000. But this time we'll "drive adoption." Adoption means mandatory training. Training means a 45-minute webinar no one watches. But completion will be tracked. Completion is a metric. Metrics go in dashboards. Dashboards go in board presentations. Board presentations get me promoted. I'll be SVP by Q3. I still don't know what Copilot does. But I know what it's for. It's for showing we're "investing in AI." Investment means spending. Spending means commitment. Commitment means we're serious about the future. The future is whatever I say it is. As long as the graph goes up and to the right.

#ssec 🇨🇳 China’s index is still trading 40% below its 2008 levels… even in 2025. Meanwhile, the GDP has grown 4x in the same period. 📉📈 When valuation touches 50-70 P/E, government starts tightening, starts curbing speculation, every rise meets heavy supply. Result? Even after 17 years, the index struggles to reclaim old highs. Same story played out in Japan (1988–2024) — Economy kept growing, markets didn’t. When a credit/assets bubble burst, every rally gets sold into… for decades. Different reasons, same outcomes. That’s the brutal reality of a market where liquidity exits faster than growth enters.

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WI needed 6 runs, 1 wicket in hand… McGrath vs Brian Lara. No T20 thriller can EVER touch this! 🥶 And then the whole crowd ran onto the pitch in the end…🤯🤯

The Beer & Taxes Analogy 10 friends go for beer every week. The bill is ₹10,000. They split it like a tax system: - First 4 pay ₹0 - 5th pays ₹100 - 6th pays ₹300 - 7th pays ₹700 - 8th pays ₹1,200 - 9th pays ₹1,800 - 10th (richest) pays ₹5,900 Everyone’s happy until the bar owner gives a ₹2,000 discount. To stay proportional: - First 5 now pay ₹0 - 6th pays ₹200 - 7th pays ₹500 - 8th pays ₹900 - 9th pays ₹1,400 - 10th pays ₹4,900 Everyone saves something but the richest naturally saves the most because he paid the most. Outside, the complaints begin: - “He saved ₹1,000, I saved only ₹100. Unfair!” - “The rich get all the benefits!” - “The poor got nothing!” The 10th guy gets beaten up. Next week he doesn’t show up. The remaining 9 realise they can’t even pay half the bill without him. Moral: If you overtax or villainise the rich, they don’t stick around. And when they leave: the whole system collapses, not just their share.

The year is 1948. India has just become free and is trying to have a tryst with destiny. And in a country with endless possibilities, you are a 27-year-old man from an affluent family. You have also studied in prestigious institutions like Loyola College and College of Engineering Guindy and have been given a scholarship from the Govt of India to go to the USA and study Dairy engineering. You go to the USA and realize that studying metallurgy and nuclear engineering is more useful and interesting than studying techniques of extracting milk from cows. You follow your instinct and successfully complete your course. You are now a nuclear engineer. And in a world that has just gone nuclear, the opportunities you have are limitless. The world is at your feet. Then the Govt of India becomes a reverse Lannister calls in its debt. They want you to work for them for a limited period as an obligation to whatever they did for you. You have no choice but to come back. You hope you are sent to glamourous locations like Bombay or Madras where you can spend your obligatory time in comfort and luxury. You are an America Return Nuclear engineer after all. But the Govt of India cares as much about your designations and qualifications as a Nokia 3310 cares about a drop. So, they play a cruel joke upon you. They send you to a small decrepit town in Gujarat which doesn't even have electricity. Your accommodation is a rundown Garage and the only sign of life around you are the mosquitos, who are trying to taste your blood. The town is called Anand. And the only Anand you have there is its name. Else it is all despair. You, an affluent gentleman from south India, who doesn't speak a word of Gujarati, who has never lived in a village, are now stuck in a god foresaken village in the middle of nowhere. And You want to get out of this god forsaken place on the first chance you get. Then something happens. You start going around the town. You start speaking to people. You understand their way of life. You understand what they want. Without you realizing you start falling in love with the place. You want to do something for them. And then you create a revolution. A revolution that has changed the face and fate of India. A revolution whose gifts we are still reaping 65 years after it started. And You are the one who started it all. You are Dr Verghese Kurien. Operation Flood was, is and will be one of the greatest movements India has ever had. We went from a country that used to import milk powder from New Zealand and other countries to becoming the largest milk producing country in the world, in 30 years. It gave livelihoods to close to more than 100 million farmers over the years and has lifted more than 50 million people out of poverty and starvation. If you count the people emancipated by Operation flood, it would be the 30th largest country in the world, ahead of Spain, South Korea and Argentina. Today, we move the global dairy market and it is singularly because of Dr Kurien. And he didn't stop at dairy. He realized that India was heavily dependent on Southeast Asia for its edible oil needs. So he got all the oilseeds growers together and started Dhara, India's own edible oil brand. He so thoroughly disrupted the edible oil industry that for a brief period of time, he significantly reduced our dependance on palm oil. Unfortunately, our babus intervened and as they usually do, destroyed it all. But that's the story for another day. When Karnataka's Cocoa farmers went to him to seek salvation from Cadbury's oppression, he created Amul Chocolates and created a big dent in their market share. He also ensured Cadbury treated the farmers with a lot more respect and fairness, now that the farmers had option. When Indira Gandhi complained about farmers not getting fair price for their vegetables, he started Safal, a vegetable selling co-operative under the NDDB umbrella and made it a success. Now most of this is known. But what we don't know more about was Dr Kurien the innovator. Dr Kurien and his friend JJ Dalaya were the first in the world to synthesize buffalo milk and convert it to powder. This allowed us to store and supply milk during times of deficiencies. He was the first to create condensed milk or as you call it, Milkmaid / Mithai Mate, from buffalo milk and ended Nestle's monopoly in this segment for good. He was also the first to pack a dense substance as oil in a Tetrapak, something that their own Swedish engineer's thought was impossible. He made it possible. I can keep going on and on. In today's world, words like Legend, GOAT, superstar are thrown around very very loosely. People who hit balls with a stick, give useless expressions on a giant screen and make cringy unwatchable 30 sec videos on some apps or crack some vulgarly unfunny jokes are given these epithets today. So, what would you call a guy who saved India from hunger and starvation? What would you call a guy who prevented India from malnutrition and stunted growth? What would you call a guy who made a basic commodity like milk, accessible to a billion people? We don't have words for that. Maybe we need to invent some. One more very commonly misplaced word today is disruption. Anything and everything are disruption now. The development of an app, delivering grocery or food in 10 minutes or writing an additional line of code are all what passes off as disruption today. That is not disruption. Disruption is where you create something that changes the lives of people forever. Disruption happens when what you create, rewards people for Generations. Disruption is where you help poor farmers break the vicious circle of poverty and throw them 354 steps up the economic ladder Disruption is not how you change how people do certain things; Disruption is when you change the people themselves. Dr Kurien was India's first and the greatest disruptor. Dr Kurien is India's true GOAT. So, Happy Birthday Dr Kurien. India is grateful that we had you walking on our soil. Thank you!! P:S: The attached image is that of the recreated Garage that Dr Kurien first stayed. Garages have a unique connection to the world of tech, as a lot of tech companies started from there and are worth some bajillion dollars today. This is a Garage that lifted 60 million Indians out of poverty. With all due respect to HP and Google, this is the greatest Garage of them all.

On the night of May 20, 2025, a little girl in a faded pink frock fell asleep on her mother’s lap at Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus. Her parents, simple people from Solapur, had come to Mumbai for her father’s treatment. They were exhausted. Just for a moment, the mother closed her eyes. When she opened them, her daughter was gone. Six months. Six months of walking from police station to police station. Six months of showing the same crumpled photograph to strangers on trains, in slums, in orphanages. Six months of the father not sleeping, the mother not eating, both of them growing hollow-eyed, whispering the same name into the dark: “Aarohi… Aarohi…” In Varanasi, a thousand kilometres away, a tiny girl with no memory of her real name was learning to call herself “Kashi.” She had been found crying near the railway tracks in June, barefoot and terrified. The orphanage gave her food, a bed, and a new name. She smiled easily, because children always do, but sometimes at night she clutched the edge of her blanket and asked for “Aai” — Marathi for mother — and no one understood. Back in Mumbai, the police refused to close the file. They printed posters with Aarohi’s face, stuck them on every platform from Lokmanya Tilak Terminus to Bhusawal to Varanasi Cantt. They ran newspaper ads, knocked on doors, begged journalists for help. Six months is a long time for hope to stay alive, but some officers carried her photograph in their shirt pockets like it was their own child. Then, on November 13, a local reporter in Varanasi saw the poster. Something clicked. He had seen a girl who spoke Marathi words in her sleep. He made a phone call. The next morning, a Mumbai Police inspector sat in front of a laptop in Varanasi and opened a video call. On the screen appeared a little girl in a pink frock — the same colour she was wearing the day she vanished. The mother, standing behind the officer in Mumbai, saw her daughter and collapsed without a sound. The father just kept repeating, “That’s my Aarohi… that’s my baby…” They flew her back on Children’s Day — November 14. When the plane landed, the entire Mumbai Crime Branch was waiting. They had bought her balloons and a new frock, sky blue this time. But the moment the little girl stepped out and saw the sea of khaki uniforms, she did something no one expected. She ran. Not away — toward them. Tiny legs pumping, arms outstretched, she threw herself at the nearest officer and laughed — the purest, clearest laugh that had been missing from the world for half a year. The officer, a tough man who had seen everything, felt his eyes burn. He lifted her high, and she wrapped her arms around his neck like he was family. Her parents were crying too hard to walk. So the policemen carried their daughter to them. The mother touched her face again and again, as if checking she was real. The father fell to his knees and pressed his forehead to his child’s tiny feet, sobbing words no one could understand except God. And the little girl? She just kept smiling, looking from her parents to the officers and back again, completely unaware that she had turned an entire police station into a sobbing, laughing, praying family. Six months of darkness ended in one hug. Aarohi is home now. The kidnapper is still out there, but that is tomorrow’s fight. Today, a mother is singing lullabies again. Today, a father is smiling in his sleep. And somewhere in Mumbai, there are policemen who will never forget the weight of a four-year-old girl in their arms — the weight of an entire life returned. Sometimes the uniform doesn’t just catch thieves. Sometimes it carries lost children all the way back to their mothers’ hearts.

Russian Aerobatic Team Honours Indian Air Force Wg Cdr Namansh Syal🇮🇳 With Final-Day Tribute at Dubai Airshow 2025. The Missing Man Formation. 💔

Wow! @ArcherSheetal selected for the 🇮🇳 able body Archery team for Jr Asia Cup Stage 3. 3rd in the trials today. 1st time an 🇮🇳 Para athlete has been selected to represent 🇮🇳 in an International able body event. So proud to support Sheetal on this inspiring journey @OGQ_India

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What an amazing story. A para athlete being selected for the national team in an open event. Amazing @ArcherSheetal!

Viren Rasquinha @virenrasquinha

9 months ago

Wow! @ArcherSheetal selected for the 🇮🇳 able body Archery team for Jr Asia Cup Stage 3. 3rd in the trials today. 1st time an 🇮🇳 Para athlete has been selected to represent 🇮🇳 in an International able body event. So proud to support Sheetal on this inspiring journey @OGQ_India

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Dearest @AshwiniVaishnaw ji, Why should a RAC passenger bear full charge for 50% of a side lower seat? Isn't it unfair? Once the chart is prepared, Railways must refund 50% of the fare with interest for RAC passengers. The same source of payment can be used for the refund. Pls implement this immediately. I see many ladies and senior citizens who travel by RAC, without sleep and they pay full charge. If any of you reading this feel that this should be implemented immediately, comment with your thoughts and share until Railways makes it a fair deal for passengers. This is long long overdue. On behalf of Indian Passengers, #FI

Lost 2 crore Life goes on Never give up 🚩