deepak

..படி... படி... படி ... மீதி அனைத்தும் உன் கால் அடி

[Newton Bank Kumar @idesibanda]

To Save Local & State authority Innocent Banker made ScapeGoat in Odisha Skelton Case.

Ashamed @DFS_India @FinMinIndia served economic frontliner under political pressure.

[deepak @deepd1]

@KartiPC @UnionBankTweets @RBI Anna avaru branch la request panna, aal nerla varuvanga. Maybe he has not done that.

[Chennai Super Kings @ChennaiIPL]

Raththam oru sottu micham..

#OnThisDay, “𝙒𝘼𝙏𝙏𝙊 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙍𝙄𝙊𝙍” played a knock to remember in 2019 🦁💛

#WhistlePodu #Yellove

[deepak @deepd1]

@chunnumunu @madanpatelmnit @DFS_India @FinMinIndia @nsitharamanoffc @PIB_India @DDNewslive Union is puppet of this govt. that's y individual raising the issue in this platform. Just a satisfaction to share our pain.nothing more. Govt can recruit more youths, but they won't because if they earn and learn what's happening in and around they won't cast vote for them.

[deepak @deepd1]

@madanpatelmnit @chunnumunu @DFS_India @FinMinIndia @nsitharamanoffc @PIB_India @DDNewslive If any claim arisen out again branch employee has to follow up and get claim setlle to t https://t.co/fbTFCeR5Gz management won't provide seperate man power.

[deepak @deepd1]

@madanpatelmnit @chunnumunu @DFS_India @FinMinIndia @nsitharamanoffc @PIB_India @DDNewslive Sir, yes all r correct only. Bankers r handling people's money. All works has its own advantages & disadvantages.
what we are mentioning here is ground reality. If one person from each branch waiting infront of cent'govt office to canvass new ac's who will do their wrk in branch.

[deepak @deepd1]

@madanpatelmnit @DFS_India @FinMinIndia @nsitharamanoffc @PIB_India @DDNewslive Dude, every job has its own perks.we r paying tax for t difference int rate.

[deepak @deepd1]

@DFS_India @FinMinIndia @nsitharamanoffc @PIB_India @DDNewslive You will organise special camps, where frontline bankers has to die by the pressure of top management like demonetisation.

[deepak @deepd1]

@DFS_India @FinMinIndia @nsitharamanoffc @PIB_India @DDNewslive So you people shamelessly put tax on bankers benifits & allowances without providing these benefits to them , implementing it to other set of people's.
with manpower using same poor bankers. Acha bahut acha.

[deepak @deepd1]

@DFS_India @FinMinIndia @nsitharamanoffc @PIB_India @DDNewslive If you're really feel that you want to help government employees,
Inform bank heads to not to provide branch level targets, try any other innovative idea's and do it from central. claim related queries must be done by seperate team instead of front line bank staffs.

[deepak @deepd1]

@DFS_India @FinMinIndia @nsitharamanoffc @PIB_India @DDNewslive Most of the people will have loan with their salary ac bank. Already frontline bankers are struggling like hell, u people don't know t ground reality.
Now all top management wants to encroach ac's from other banks with log in days for their boss's birthdays to lick thier boots.

[deepak @deepd1]

@selvaraghavan வாழ்க்கைப் பாதையை உங்களால் கட்டுப்படுத்த முடியாதபோது, நீங்கள் எதை பற்றியும் யோசிக்காமல் அழுது உங்கள் பிரச்சினையைப் பகிர்ந்து கொண்டு ஒரு நிமிடம் மூச்சு வாங்க உங்கள் மொபைலில் ஒரு எண் இல்லையென்றால், நீங்கள் ஒரு நல்ல வாழ்க்கையை வாழவில்லை என்று அர்த்தம்.

[All India Bank Officers' Confederation (AIBOC) @aiboc_in]

When the world is moving to a 4-day week, and banking is already 24x7 in the digital era, bankers asking for a 5-day week isn’t a luxury. It’s justice.

IBA has agreed. The understanding is signed.
Now the Government must honour its commitment – no more excuses, no more delays.

Respect the Settlement. Deliver it.

We demand #5DayBankingNow

[Raj Kunkolienkar @kunksed]

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.

[Newton Bank Kumar @idesibanda]

@R_N_Vaghani Income Tax Portal not working, coz Tax professional like you aren't trained... Logic💀

[deepak @deepd1]

@GhibranVaibodha it's our Tamil's children of heaven

[Dr Mouth Matters @GanKanchi]

வோல்வோ கார் நிறுவனம் தான் இன்றைக்கு நாம் நம் கார்களில் பயன்படுத்தும் Three Points Seat Belt System என்பதைக் கண்டறிந்தவர்கள்.ஆனால் அதற்கு அவர்கள் காப்புரிமையைப் பெறவில்லை.
ஏன் என்று கேட்டதற்கு,"நாங்கள் காப்புரிமை பெற்றால் வேறு எந்த கார் நிறுவனமும் இப்படியான சிஸ்டமில் சீட் பெல்ட்களை டிசைன் செய்ய முடியாது.எங்கள் டிசைனை பயன்படுத்த எங்களுக்குப் பணம் தர வேண்டும்.பணத்தை விட மக்களின் பாதுகாப்பே எங்களுக்கு முக்கியம்.அதனால் தான் காப்புரிமையை நாங்கள் பதிவு செய்யவில்லை..." என்று பதில் தந்தார்கள்.
இதைப் போன்றே இன்னும் சொல்லப் போனால் இதை விட அற்புதமான ஒரு கண்டுபிடிப்பை கண்டுபிடித்து அதற்கு காப்புரிமையைப் பெறாமல்,பணத்தை விட மக்களின் பாதுகாப்பே எங்களுக்கு முக்கியம் என்று மிக பெருந்தன்மையாக நடந்து கொண்ட ஒரு நிறுவனம் இருக்கிறது.
அதுவும் அந்த நிறுவனம் தமிழ்நாட்டைச் சேர்ந்த ஒரு நிறுவனம்.
ஆச்சர்யமாக இருக்கிறதா?
இன்றைக்கு எளிதாக சமையல் செய்வதற்கு பெரிதும் பயன்படும் பொருள் பிரஷர் குக்கர்.உலகில் இது இல்லாத சமையல் அறைகளே இல்லை எனலாம்.பிரஷர் குக்கர் இயங்குவது அதன் உள்ளே உருவாக்கப்படும் அழுத்தத்தால் தான்.அப்படிபட்ட அந்த பிரஷர் குக்கர் அது தயாரிக்கப்பட்ட புதிதில் அதிக அழுத்தம் காரணமாக பல இடங்களில் வெடித்துச் சிதறியது.இதனால் அச்சம் காரணமாக மக்களிடையே குக்கர் பயன்பாடுகள் குறையத் தொடங்கின.குக்கரை பயன்படுத்தவே மக்கள் பயந்தார்கள்.இதை எப்படி சரி செய்வது என்று இந்தியாவின் பல குக்கர் நிறுவனங்கள் தலையைப் பிய்த்துக் கொண்டிருந்தன.
பாதுகாப்பான குக்கர் என்பதை இலக்காக வைத்து மேற்படி ஆராய்ச்சியில்,தமிழ்நாட்டைச் சேர்ந்த குக்கர்கள் மற்றும் சமையல் சாதனங்கள் தயாரிப்பு நிறுவனமான டிடிகே நிறுவனமும் களத்தில் இறங்கியது.
அது அந்த நிறுவனம் வணிக ரீதியில் தள்ளாட்டத்தில் இருந்த காலகட்டம்.அதை சமாளிக்க சென்னை ஐஐடியில் இன்ஜினியரிங் படித்து விட்டு,பேராசிரியராகும் கனவில் அமெரிக்காவில் ஆராய்ச்சி படிப்பு படித்துக் கொண்டிருந்த "அவரை" அவரது தந்தையும்,டிடிகே நிறுவனத்தின் அப்போதைய தலைவருமான நரசிம்மன் அழைத்து வந்து பிசினஸில் இறக்கி விட்டார்.
"அவர்" தொழிலில் நுழைந்த அந்த காலத்தில் அவர்களது டிடிகே நிறுவனம் கடுமையான நெருக்கடியில் இருந்தது.அதோடு இந்த குக்கர் பிரச்சனையும் சேர்ந்து கொண்டது.
குக்கர் பிரச்சனையை தீர்த்தால் மட்டுமே இந்த மார்க்கெட்டில் நிற்க முடியும்.அது தான் தன் நிறுவனத்தையும் காப்பாற்றும் என்பதை அவர் மிக நன்றாகப் புரிந்து கொண்டார்.தன் பொறியியல் அறிவையும்,ஆராய்ச்சி அனுபவத்தையும் ஒன்றாக சேர்த்து வைத்து அதற்கு ஒரு தீர்வையும் கண்டுபிடித்தார்.
அது தான் கேஸ்கெட் ரிலீஸ் சிஸ்டம் (Gasket Release System).
அவர் கண்டுபிடித்த அந்த கேஸ்கெட் ரிலீஸ் சிஸ்டத்திற்கு அவர் காப்புரிமையை பெறவில்லை.
ஏன் என்று அவரிடம் கேட்டதற்கு,
"நான் கண்டுபிடித்த இந்த பாதுகாப்பை காப்புரிமை செய்தால் எங்கள் நிறுவனத்திற்கு கோடிக்கணக்கில் லாபம் வரும்.ஆனால் அதை வேறு யாரும் பயன்படுத்த முடியாது.எனவே வேறு எந்த நிறுவனத்தின் குக்கர் வெடித்தாலும்,அதனால் ஒட்டுமொத்த குக்கர் என்ற கருவிக்கும் கெட்ட பெயர் உண்டாகும்.அதனால் தான் செய்யவில்லை..." என்ற பதிலைத் தந்தார்.
வீட்டில் இருக்கும் குக்கர் மூடியை எடுத்துப் பாருங்கள்.அதில் ஒரு சிறு துளை இருக்கும்.அதுதான் கேஸ்கெட் ரிலீஸ் சிஸ்டம்.குக்கர் மூடியில் "அவர்" போட்ட அந்த சிறிய ஓட்டை தான் குக்கரை பாதுகாப்பாக மாற்றியதுடன்,டிடிகே நிறுவனத்தையும் காப்பாற்றித் தந்தது...
அந்த "அவர்" தான் டி‌.டி.கே.ஜெகந்நாதன்...
இன்றைக்கும் கோடிக்கணக்கான வீடுகளில் பாதுகாப்பான குக்கர் சமையல் என்பதற்கு வித்திட்ட அந்த மாபெரும் மனிதரான டி.டி.கே.ஜெகந்நாதன் தன் 84 வது வயதில் பெங்களூருவில் இன்று காலை காலமானார்.
அவருக்கு குக்கர் பயன்படுத்தும் கோடிக்கணக்கான வீடுகளுள் ஒருவர் என்ற கடமையில்,
குக்கரை பாதுகாப்பான ஒன்றாக மாற்றித் தந்த நன்றியில்,
என் நெஞ்சார்ந்த அஞ்சலிகள்......

[deepak @deepd1]

@TANGEDCO_Offcl @khushboo_714 @collrnlg @mkstalin @dmk_raja @Udhaystalin @V_Senthilbalaji Power restored in Naduvattam town panchayat after 7 days. Thankyou for the field workers who worked tirelessly in the heavy rainfall.

[MDS Sanskrit College @sanskrit1906]

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