Shiv Rattan Awasthi

Student of Life.
RTs not endorsed.
Pahadi. Engineer.

[Shiv Rattan Awasthi @replyshiv]

@reliancejio @JioCare Internet not working properly from last 2 days. Tried doing online complaint using your app but the chatbot replies there is no slot available. No one answers your toll free and too much waiting time.

[Shiv Rattan Awasthi @replyshiv]

@Suchetkm Haha. Earlier used to send to my second number but when WhatsApp started to send messages to oneself I am completely into it

[Shiv Rattan Awasthi @replyshiv]

@ViveKSingh_DC TOOL

[Vivek Singh(SEBI Registered RA) @ViveKSingh_DC]

🚨 90% of false breakouts… eliminated.

I built a Pine Script tool that filters fake moves and highlights high-probability trades.

New video: How to set it up. 🎥

❤️ Like
♻️ Repost
💬 Comment “TOOL” to get the code.

[Shiv Rattan Awasthi @replyshiv]

@AIHighlight Claude

[Kanishk @jeene2yarr]

😭😭😭😭

[Mr PitBull Stories @MrPitbull07]

I drive Uber. Night shift mostly. Last week picked up an old man at 11 PM. He got in and said: "I need you to drive me to five places tonight. I'll pay you $500. Cash. But you can't ask why until we're done." Handed me five addresses. First stop: a house in the suburbs. He sat in the car. Stared at it for ten minutes. Crying silently. "Okay. Next one." I drove.

Second stop: elementary school. Empty. Dark. He got out. Walked to the playground. Sat on a swing. Stayed there twenty minutes. Came back to the car. "I taught here. 43 years. Best job I ever had." Third stop: diner. He went inside. Ordered coffee. Sat alone in a booth. Didn't drink it. Just sat. Looking around. Fifteen minutes. Came back. "My wife and I had our first date here. 1967." Fourth stop: cemetery.

He got out at the cemetery. Walked to a grave. Stood there. Talking to it. Couldn't hear what he said. Thirty minutes. When he came back his eyes were red. "My wife. Three years today." Fifth stop: hospital. He asked me to park. Wait. "This is the last one." He looked at me. "Now I'll tell you why. I have stage four cancer. Weeks left. Maybe days. Tonight I wanted to see my whole life. One last time. Before I can't anymore."

I started crying. Right there. "The house - that's where I raised my kids. The school - where I found my purpose. The diner - where I fell in love. The cemetery - where I said goodbye. And here. The hospital. Where I'm checking in tonight. Hospice floor. I'm not going home." He handed me $500. "Thank you for driving me through my life. You're the last stranger who'll ever be kind to me. I wanted it to be gentle. You made it gentle."

I refused the money. "I can't take this." He insisted. "Please. I have nobody to leave it to. My kids don't talk to me. I have no friends left. You gave me three hours of kindness. That's worth more than $500 to me." He got out. Grabbed his small suitcase. Turned back. "What's your name?" "Marcus." "Thank you, Marcus. For being the last good thing." He walked into the hospital. I sat in my car. Sobbing. For an hour.

Couldn't stop thinking about him. Went back next day. Asked for him. "Mr. Patterson. Room 412." Brought flowers. Knocked. He was in bed. Smiled when he saw me. "Marcus. You came back." "Couldn't leave it like that. Are you okay?" "Dying. But I got to see my life last night. So yes. I'm okay." We talked for two hours. About his wife. His students. The kids who stopped calling. The life he lived.

I visited every day for two weeks. Brought coffee. Read him the news. Sat in silence sometimes. He told me everything. The regrets. The joys. The moments he'd relive. "I thought I'd die alone," he said one day. "But you're here. A stranger who became family in my last days. That's a gift." I held his hand. "You're not dying alone. Not anymore." He cried. "Thank you for seeing me. When I was invisible."

Mr. Patterson died on a Tuesday. 3:17 AM. I was there. Holding his hand. His last words: "Tell people. Tell them to look at strangers. Really look. Everyone's dying. Some faster than others. But we're all heading somewhere. Be kind on the way. You were kind. You saved my last days." He closed his eyes. Heart monitor flatlined. I stayed another hour. Couldn't let go. He died with someone. That mattered.

His funeral had six people. Me. Three nurses. A lawyer. One former student who saw the obituary. That's it. A man who taught for 43 years. Loved a woman for 52. Lived 81 years. Six people. I spoke. "Mr. Patterson taught me something in his last two weeks.

Every stranger is someone's whole world. Every Uber passenger has a story. Every person you pass is living and dying and hoping someone sees them. He paid me $500 to drive him through his life. But he gave me something worth more. The knowledge that kindness to strangers isn't extra. It's everything. Because we're all strangers. Until someone stops. Looks. Listens. Stays." I keep the $500 in my glove box. Never spent it. It's a reminder.

[Shiv Rattan Awasthi @replyshiv]

@ThrillaRilla369 Have you studied logo language?

[Shiv Rattan Awasthi @replyshiv]

@RajeshwariRW Add mechanical engineering from tier 3 college

[Shiv Rattan Awasthi @replyshiv]

@prakdadlani A business grows only when employees/everyone takes ownership, thinks it is all their business.

[Shiv Rattan Awasthi @replyshiv]

@harshdeeprapal 511, 911 are absolute good

[Shiv Rattan Awasthi @replyshiv]

Do you remember when you joined X? I do! #MyXAnniversary

[HGS Dhaliwal @hgsdhaliwalips]

This above all.. 🙏🇮🇳
#Diwali

[Shiv Rattan Awasthi @replyshiv]

@raavan_india FCI

[Shiv Rattan Awasthi @replyshiv]

@ShivrattanDhil1 Nalle

[Shiv Rattan Awasthi @replyshiv]

@Ravindra_PE TV id: replyshivr

[Saravanaprasad Balasubramanian (Modi ka Pariwar) @BS_Prasad]

In a shocking suprise moment, Delhi-based Elite Marque has announced a 9-day Diwali holiday for all its employees, encouraging them to unwind, spend time with family, and enjoy the festive season.

In an internal email sent by CEO Rajat Grover, the company declared a holiday from October 18 to October 26, 2025, calling it a “bonus time” for staff to recharge.

The email humorously urged employees to “binge-watch family dramas,” “break personal records of eating kaju katlis,” and “master the art of sleeping till noon.” Grover also advised the team to “switch off from emails unless it’s Amazon, Swiggy, or Zomato.”

“Till then, spread smiles, burst crackers responsibly, and enjoy every bit of the festive madness,” the email read, wishing employees a happy festive season and promising a refreshed return “two kilos heavier and ten times happier.”

#delhi #diwali #employees #holidayseason #WorkLifeBalance #news #indianstartupnews

[Travis Akers 🇺🇸 @travisakers]

A message from a Kindergarten teacher:

After forty years in the classroom, my career ended with one small sentence from a six-year-old:

“My dad says people like you don’t matter anymore.”

No sneer. No malice. Just quiet honesty — the kind that cuts deeper because it’s innocent. He blinked, then added, “You don’t even have a TikTok.”

My name is Mrs. Clara Holt, and for four decades, I taught kindergarten in a small Denver suburb. Today, I stacked the last box on my desk and locked the door behind me.

When I started teaching in the early 1980s, it felt like a promise — a shared belief that what we did mattered. We weren’t rich, but we were valued. Parents brought warm cookies to parent nights. Kids gave you handmade cards with hearts that didn’t quite line up. Watching a child sound out their first sentence felt like magic.

But that world slowly slipped away. The job I once knew has been replaced by exhaustion, red tape, and a kind of loneliness I can’t quite describe.

My evenings used to be filled with construction paper, glitter, and glue sticks. Now they’re spent filling out digital reports to protect myself from angry emails or lawsuits. I’ve been yelled at by parents in front of twenty-five children — one filming me with his phone while I tried to calm another child mid-meltdown.

And the kids… they’ve changed too. Not by choice.

They arrive tired, anxious, overstimulated. Their tiny fingers know how to swipe a screen before they can hold a crayon. Some can’t make eye contact or wait in line. We’re expected to fix all of it — to patch the gaps, heal the trauma, teach the curriculum, and document every move — in six hours a day, with resources that barely fill a drawer.

The little reading corner I once built, full of soft beanbags and paper stars, was replaced by data charts and “learning metrics.” A young principal once told me, “Clara, maybe you’re too nurturing. The district wants measurable results.”

As if kindness were a weakness.

Still, I stayed. Because of the small, holy moments that no spreadsheet could measure —
a whisper of, “You remind me of my grandma.”
a shaky note that read, “I feel safe here.”
a quiet boy finally meeting my eyes and saying, “I read the whole page.”

Those tiny sparks were my reason to keep showing up.

But this last year broke something in me.

The aggression grew sharper. The laughter in the staff room turned to silence. The light went out of so many eyes. I watched brilliant teachers — my friends — vanish under the weight of burnout, their joy replaced by survival.

I felt myself fading too, like chalk on a board that’s been wiped one too many times.

So today, I began my goodbye. I pulled faded art off the walls and tucked thirty years of handmade cards into a single box. In the back of a drawer, I found a letter from a student from 1998:

“Thank you for loving me when I was hard to love.”

I sat on the floor and cried.

No party. No applause. Just a handshake from a young principal who called me “Ma’am” while checking his notifications.

I left my rocking chair behind, and my sticker box too. What I carried with me were the memories — the faces of hundreds of children who once trusted me enough to reach out their hands and learn. That can’t be uploaded. It can’t be measured. It can’t be replaced.

I miss when teachers were partners, not targets. When parents and educators worked side by side, not in opposition. When schools cared more about wonder than numbers.

So if you know a teacher — any teacher — thank them. Not with a mug or a gift card, but with your words. With your respect. With your understanding that behind every test score is a heart that cared enough to try.

Because in a world that often overlooks them, teachers are the ones who never forget our children.

[Shiv Rattan Awasthi @replyshiv]

@santoshgairola @wokeflix Hati community

[Shiv Rattan Awasthi @replyshiv]

@ganeshsonawane My kiddo is 3 years old but couldn't find insole for arc positioning. Searched your catalogue but small sizes are not available