ullas krishnan

Merchant navy officer, cricket enthusiast.

[ullas krishnan @ullaskrishnan]

This season be someone's Santa and gift EGC. Here's EVERGROW JINGLE to get you going.
My humble entry for the contest. #GiftEverGrow #EverGrowCoin #EGC #GiftIdeas #cryptocurrency Please like, follow, and share.Happy Holidays from my family to yours. @evergrowcoinEGC @EGCArmy

[Uday Krishnan @uday09krish]

🚨 SCAM: @AmazonIN sent me a "Frankenstein" Pixel 7.
📱 Physical Phone: White (Snow)
🆔 Internal IMEI: Black (Obsidian)
🗓️ Warranty: Expired in 2024 (Sold as New in 2026!)
💰 Amazon's offer for this fraud? ₹500.
See the proof below. #AmazonScam #ConsumerRights @jagograhakjago

[Yo Yo Funny Singh @moronhumor]

Bro hit the nail on the head 💯💯

[Vivek Singh @VivekSi85847001]

Man this is lit 🔥

Western Command, Indian Army just dropped a banger PR video..

[Uday Krishnan @uday09krish]

Passengers, incl SR CTZNs, were forced to run across the platform twice. This is a mockery of passenger safety and comfort. Needs urgent check. Making passengers run back and forth is unacceptable. We need better ground management.
@GMSRailway @RailMinIndia

[Uday Krishnan @uday09krish]

Total chaos at Tiruvallur (TRL) today for Train 12601 Mangalore SF Mail.
1. Coach displays were OFF or showing generic "TRL/SR" tags.
2. Last-minute announcements gave incorrect coach positions, conflicting with Railone.
Contd. @GMSRailway @RailMinIndia @drmmas

[Vikram Chandrashekar @Vikrchan]

The Subtle Art of Overeating Politely

A hotel’s complimentary buffet breakfast is the closest thing to a polite catastrophe . At 6:30 a.m., grown adults who normally need three alarms to wake up are already hovering outside the restaurant door like it’s a flash sale. The moment it opens, civilisation leaves the room . People surge forward with the desperation of a species that fears the poori might run away.

The continental section sits there, lonely, untouched. Croissants looking depressed, bread slices drying in the AC because the true desi minimalists walk past them like past bad memories. Bread and eggs? Why again? They station themselves at the dosa counter with the same intensity that they used for land disputes.

Meanwhile the Full-Hog Overachievers begin their day’s construction work: plate upon plate stacked with paratha touching pasta touching pineapple touching ideological confusion. They aren’t here to eat; they are here to economically punish the hotel for daring to include breakfast in the tariff. A subset of them say “ nothing is good” before they go for a second helping. Another guest drinks nine cups of masala chai and wonders aloud why his BP is rising. The rest of us know.

Then come the Protein Bros, those majestic creatures whose arms enter the buffet three seconds before the rest of their body. They demand fourteen egg whites and bargain like they’re at Chickpet. One bro even pours whey powder into sambar, declaring it a fusion dish. The chef’s soul quietly exits his body.

Nearby, a diabetic guest requests a strict egg-white omelette while simultaneously dual-wielding mango and pineapple juice like nutritional nunchucks. Their glucose meter files for voluntary retirement. And just when the buffet thinks it has seen enough, the rich sleepers float in at 11:20 a.m.Breakfast long gone, even the toaster unplugged. But time, to them, is a rumour. They demand pancakes from the void, and hotel staff obey with the resignation of civil servants during budget season. The order a la carte..

The business traveller meanwhile is on Day four and has a serving of toast–fried egg–coffee déjà vu. He pockets bananas like he’s smuggling state secrets, sips coffee with dead eyes, and silently wonders when he last felt joy. Children, on the other hand, are pure chaos wrapped in sugar.They are charging at waffles, drowning them in chocolate syrup, and rejecting anything that looks remotely like nutrition. The hotel staff steps aside as they sprint past, muffins in both hands like victorious gladiators. Their moms are trying to feed them something they detest. The dads overlook this event…

Uncles are the true apex predators: poori, dosa soaked in ghee, pongal the size of a meteor, five cups of chai, and then the inevitable announcement “I eat very light these days.”

Fitness Moms interrogate the buffet like they’re cracking a terror cell: “Which oil? Which farm? What breed of almond?” And after all this detective work, they consume three papaya cubes and radiate smug wellness.

Foreign tourists wander around in innocent confusion, eating idli with jam, mixing chutney with muesli, sipping sambar like broth until suddenly their tongue goes numb and they realise India has entered their bloodstream.

The lonely cereal guy sits surrounded by 800 calories of joy and chooses cornflakes anyway, crunching like he’s punishing himself for existing.

Somewhere, an influencer couple rearranges that poori for 40 minutes, taking photos from all angles. By the time they finish, the poori has the emotional stability of a punctured balloon. Nearby, professional buffet looters stuff muffins into handbags, slip bread rolls into jacket pockets, and walk out rustling like walking vegetable markets.

And through all of this, someone always makes an impossible request from masala cornflakes, gluten-free poha to a sugar-free gulab jamun while the staff stares into the horizon questioning every life choice.

A complimentary buffet breakfast is not nourishment. It is revenge, it is childhood trauma, it is class struggle, it is comedy, it is tragedy, it is a deeply personal confrontation with carbs.

It is the Olympics of Paisa Vasool. And after the dust settles, after the plates are cleared, after the last banana is smuggled away, everyone makes the same bold declaration:

“Tomorrow, I’ll eat light.”

And of course, as we leave, all of us are already telling the same lie to ourselves, the oldest lie in the history of complimentary breakfasts:
Tomorrow, we’ll behave better.
Tomorrow arrives.

We won’t.
But it’s sweet that we believe it.

[Massimo @Rainmaker1973]

Whoever dubbed this is great

[Rosy @rose_k01]

FINALLY Found the Lyrics of Akshaye Khanna Dhurandhar Song 😂😂😂

[MOHINI WEALTH (NRI) @MohiniWealth]

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.

[Ramachandra.M| ರಾಮಚಂದ್ರ.ಎಮ್ @nanuramu]

Anjum Chopra’s commentary deserves a case study! How are we supposed to tolerate this nonsense for hours? #INDWvENGW

[ullas krishnan @ullaskrishnan]

2023 men's odi wc loss to Australia is now healed. Thanks to the women in blue.
#IndianCricket #AUSvIND #CWC2025

[ullas krishnan @ullaskrishnan]

Finished S3 of #TheDiplomat & can now say this is the best political show on Netflix since #HouseOfCards, A rare show that not only keeps getting better after an already strong start but also manages to raise the stakes successfully in every season.These 2 live their roles. Wow

[ullas krishnan @ullaskrishnan]

Devotion that costs lives is not devotion—it’s mass delusion. Karur should end this poisonous culture of celebrity idolatry, once and for all. When admiration becomes an obsession, the line between love and danger disappears. We must rethink what we call fandom #KarurStampede

[NDTV @ndtv]

India on Friday called out the “absurd theatrics” of Pakistan Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif, who “once again glorified terrorism”, while exercising its right of reply at the United Nations General Assembly. Terrorism is “central to their (Pakistan's) foreign policy,” Indian Diplomat Petal Gahlot said at the UN in response to Pakistan PM Shariff's threats.

Read: https://t.co/wjlednrZq5

[Rare 🇺🇸 @RareImagery]

Breaking News: Scientists have confirmed what dogs already knew!

[Arnab Ray @greatbong]

Stop writing 5,000-word op-eds dissecting Trump’s policies. There aren’t any. Not in any coherent, ideological sense. What we’re witnessing isn’t governance—it’s raw power as personal gratification, and until we grasp this, we miss the forest for the trees.

Trump enters his second term with something close to an absolute mandate, not because Americans embraced his vision, but because they recoiled from what progressive Democrats tried to do to the country. Their attempts to reimagine institutions—from open borders and replacing equality with equity, to criminalizing majoritarian identities—sparked a backlash so strong Trump now rides it like a tsunami.

The result? He is, for all practical purposes, king. Republicans prostrate themselves before him. Corporate titans arrive bearing gifts like medieval supplicants. Nations debase themselves to curry favor. This isn’t hyperbole—it’s American politics in 2025.

Trump’s “policy” is his pathology: an insatiable hunger for dominance. Born into wealth, luxury lost its thrill early. Money was never the drug—submission was.
In youth and middle age, power came through beautiful women throwing themselves at him or allowing him to grab them. The rush wasn’t sexual—it was the cocaine hit of “look how powerful I am.” When that faded, it became financial schemes. The thrill was fleecing others, knowing his presence could separate them from money.

Reality TV was the next stage. Firing people on camera, watching adults beg for approval, celebrities competing for attention—power distilled and broadcast for millions.

Now comes the final evolution: making nations kneel. Every Republican governor, senator, and media personality speaks the supplicant’s tongue. Tech titans bring golden offerings, praise carefully crafted like medieval court tributes.

Internationally, the full scope emerges. Countries that once dealt with America as equals now calculate how to feed Trump’s ego alongside their interests.

Pakistan is a case study—a nation whose foreign policy is high art in shoe-sniffing American power. Pakistan formally recommended Trump for a Nobel Peace Prize..They sign deals with Trump-backed crypto companies.

This isn’t diplomacy—it’s performance art stroking Trump’s ego while hoping to avoid wrath.

The Pakistan playbook spreads. Nations learn the path to American favor runs through Trump’s validation: recommend him for prizes he craves, publicly praise his wisdom, buy into his businesses. Traditional diplomacy—state departments, embassies, international law—are replaced by one chokepoint: one man’s need to be ubermensch.

Trump’s arsenal isn’t military might or traditional economic leverage. It’s the presidency wielded as a personal instrument of revenge and reward: prosecute rivals who refuse to bend the knee, impose crushing tariffs on those who don’t genuflect, weaponize government to enforce submission.

This is why policy analysts fails. They look for chess when Trump plays a different game—the schoolyard bully.

So here’s the question for every nation, especially India: do you bend the knee?

The temptation is enormous. Pakistan’s rewards show submission’s lure. Play the game, feed the ego, avoid Trump’s wrath.

But this is a test of national character. Some things are worth more than temporary advantage. Some prices are too high—even for peace.

The moment will pass. Presidents change, political movements exhaust themselves, pendulums swing back. But national dignity, once surrendered, is nearly impossible to reclaim. The muscle memory of subservience becomes a permanent disability.

India must resist the parade of supplicants. Not because Trump lacks power—he clearly has it—but because feeding that power’s hunger costs far more than any short-term gain. Better to weather the storm with dignity than kneel for shelter.

The world watches who remembers who they are—and who becomes anyone for the right price.

[American AF 🇺🇸 @iAnonPatriot]

This lady is SPOT ON with her assessment of the Woke CuIt..

👀

[Adrian F. Pascal 🇻🇦 @deusimpera]

They played Hans Zimmer’s Interstellar soundtrack in Cologne Cathedral.

Surreal.

[Aviator Anil Chopra @Chopsyturvey]

Very interesting