CSE Marksheets, News and Memes

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Saturday night party Venue - jantar mantar 🍾🥂

Water cannon❌ Rain dance✅

Shared by a student is someone can help in Lucknow URGENT BLOOD REQUIRED 🚨 🩸 Blood Required Urgently ❌ A Blood Group NOT Required. ✅ Any other blood group donor can help. 🏥 Hospital: Medanta Super Speciality Hospital, Lucknow 📍 Address: A Pocket, 1, Amar Shaheed Path, Golf City, Lucknow, Uttar Pradesh – 226002 📞 Contact: 9560201411 If you or someone you know can donate blood (except A blood group), please contact immediately. 🙏 Please share this message in all WhatsApp & Telegram groups. Your one share can help save a life.

Seeing DP posting something other than Happy Birthday to x,y,z is satisfying and outrageous at the same time.

Article 51(a) providing Ninza technique to avoid lathi charge. 🇮🇳🇮🇳

Interdisciplinary linkage💀

Father of one NEET student who took his life post NEET leak

Fear has a large shadow, but it is small in itself

Narayan Murti seeing people protesting on streets on a Monday Morning

In front of Parliament. Tear gas fired.

From inside the Parliament.

Delhi Police advisory.

🔥 lagi h basti me, matri ji apni masti me

Thick skin ho to aisi ho

Serious Pro Tip for Mains Improvement in Mains marks primarily depends on following a boring, repetitive and very difficult routine. One needs to write as often as possible, ideally every day, during the period remaining before Mains, since it is reasonable to assume that everyone appearing for Mains has completed at least one reading of both GS and Optional by now. However, only writing doesn’t automatically result into better answers. There must be a systematic process of improving your notes, presentation, and knowledge base with every mock you write. In my experience the best possible way to do this is: 1. Maintain a Mains Improvement Notebook for each paper(GS, Optional and Essay). 2. For every answer you write, note down the theme of the question in the notebook. Identify useful points, keywords, data, diagrams, or presentation techniques that you missed, and summarise them in your notebook. 3. For instance, if you’re writing an answer on 16th Finance Commission. After writing the answer you should see the evaluation, model answer and most importantly the better copies out of your peers, write down if you found points which could be the following: (a) FC Balancing wheel of fiscal federalism. (b) Article 280 (c) Vertical devolution(41% continued) (d) Horizontal Devolution(New 10% weight of contribution to GDP included), Per capita GSDP Distance criteria includes inter state equity. (e) table showing all criteria and weightage. (f) towards compliance driven fiscal federalism (g) grants in aid- 9.5 LCr, Local body grant- 8LCr(4.4+3.6), Urbanisation Premium grants. Include in these Mains Improvement Notes anything that you believe could have helped you score one or two additional marks on that particular theme. Revise these notes before every sectional test, every FLT, and finally before the actual Mains examination. Since Mains questions are predictable, fine tuning of content and presentation is what helps in Mains improvement. Write daily, find improvements daily and don’t look for short cuts in the time left. Thank me later.

Each officer, of course, has their own wishlist—a posting near their kid’s school, a duplex bungalow, a perfectly trained orderly (part driver, part cook, part valet), a vehicle with working AC, and ideally, a bottomless pit of Secret Service Funds to “build sources” and “gather intelligence”—usually from five-star lobbies and private clubs. Occasionally, there’s a need for a PA who can file reports and reserve dinner tables simultaneously. To navigate this kaleidoscope of egos, insecurities, and factions, one needs less policing skills and more diplomatic wizardry. Each officer is a mini-kingdom. Each group chat is a court. Each tea break is a Cold War. You think policing rioters is hard? Try handling three IPS officers with clashing horoscope predictions and competing ambitions. And just when you think you’ve finally managed to float above the chaos, enter the ghosts of khaki past—the retired officers. These aren’t your typical pensioners watering plants and watching cricket. These are ex-feudal lords, still drunk on the scent of power and unable to give up their addiction to salutes and sirens. Retirement, for them, is not the end of service—it’s just a technicality. If you had the misfortune of maintaining warm ties with one of these legends, be prepared. They reappear like browser pop-ups—always with “just one small favour.” Maybe a police driver, an orderly, or someone who can act as their part-time butler and full-time ego-polisher. After all, why stand in a queue when you once had traffic cleared for your haircut? Some of them miss their glory days so much, they start lobbying to get their loyal sycophants—those who once carried files and foot mats—rewarded with plush postings. They don’t just reminisce; they intrude, interfere, and intimidate. Deny them, and you’re a traitor. Give in, and you’ve subscribed to the “Retired Legends Monthly Favour Plan.” For the serving officer, managing these ex-royalties becomes a full-time side hustle. They may have retired from duty, but never from relevance. They hover like ancestral spirits—ignored at your peril. They may no longer wear the stars, but their phone calls still echo in the chambers of power. And ironically, the most demonised group—the politicians—are the least intrusive. Most of them don’t care unless there’s a rally to organise or a pet officer to be shifted. In fact, it’s the IPS officers who line up at their doors, bouquets in hand and egos in pocket, awaiting a nod or a transfer promise. It’s a tragicomic sight—officers trained to command law and order, now reduced to nervous petitioners waiting outside MLA houses like panicked passport applicants. This is the IPS ecosystem—a tangled web of relatives, astrologers, brokers, journalists, aides, opportunists, and retired godfathers. A web that traps, tightens, and rarely lets go. Some officers are consumed by it. Some become part of it. A rare few float above—but not without scars. So, to every starry-eyed probationer dreaming of serving their home state with pride and dignity, here’s a word of caution: home is where the heart is—but also where the leeches are. And in the IPS, it’s often the outsiders who sleep better.

These are not your street-corner soothsayers with a parrot and a deck of cards. These are bespoke, networked, spiritual consultants who cater exclusively to the khaki elite. Their services include everything from pujas for safe postings to rituals for warding off vigilance. They speak in code, carry laminated horoscopes, and claim direct downloads from the divine cloud. “Saturn is moving—you’ll be posted to Traffic.” “Rahu in the seventh house—you’ll face an enquiry.” They chant, predict, advise, and, when needed, subtly hint that a donation to a particular godman can cancel out a corruption case. Officers, otherwise trained in CrPC and IPC, begin consulting horoscopes for everything from filing FIRs to shaving their moustache. As the officer’s world becomes increasingly surreal, in walks the long-serving subordinate—usually the PSO or office assistant—who has seen five DIGs and survived seven regimes. This loyal aide becomes the real power centre, managing files, visitors, personal errands, and occasionally, illegal income. He knows when to nod, when to smile, and when to say “Sir is in a meeting,” even when Sir is binge-watching cricket. Promotions happen on his recommendation, and reputations are managed through his whispers. The officer may wear the stars, but the aide runs the show. The master becomes the mascot. The aide becomes the brand. Then come the journalists—those wily creatures who live for leaks and die for inside scoops. Initially, they arrive like well-wishers, offering glowing write-ups and flattering photo ops. But soon, their demands start trickling in—passes, contracts, “just a small tip,” or access to confidential files. A journalist can turn an officer into a media hero or a WhatsApp villain overnight. And for those playing intra-departmental chess, journalists become pawns, knights, and bishops—leaking letters, planting stories, and spreading venom disguised as news. When facts run dry, fiction flows freely. Who needs truth when gossip sells better? Now, if you thought the outside world was a jungle, welcome to the zoo within the IPS. On paper, it’s one elite fraternity bound by service and discipline. In practice, it’s a disjointed caravan of tribes tied together by nothing more than three alphabets—I.P.S. Camaraderie is reserved for condolence tweets and retirement photos. The rest of the time? It’s a battlefield of silent wars, ego skirmishes, and whispered betrayals. The great divide begins with insiders versus outsiders. Insiders strut around like territorial tigers—this is their land, their language, their politics. Outsiders tiptoe through caste mines, wondering whether “Vanakkam” was pronounced right. Then comes the South Indian vs. North Indian standoff—kept alive through mutual suspicion, awkward banter, and regionally segregated WhatsApp groups. Caste and religion spice up the mix. Officers keep mental ledgers—who shares their caste, who doesn’t, who can be trusted, and who’s a liability. Weddings, temple visits, and condolence calls turn into political statements. Attend the wrong event, and you’re marked for life. As for religion, let’s just say some prayer groups double as transfer lobbies. Then comes the moral divide: the honest versus the “experienced.” Honest officers wander around like showroom antiques—untouched, admired, but mostly irrelevant. The “experienced” ones? They are corporate-level strategists who can manipulate crime data, bend law, and still get a bravery medal for handling a traffic jam. There are also the liberals—idealists quoting the Constitution and dreaming of police reforms. And then there are the conservative morons—armed with service rulebooks, temple receipts, and generational caste pride. Both factions loathe each other, but share tea at DGP meets for the sake of optics.

Shared by someone who joined the service few years back:Intriguing read: For an IPS officer, getting posted to one’s home cadre is a dream come true—until the dream turns into a never-ending circus of obligations, intrusions, and headaches. One would think that serving among one’s own people, culture, and language would be a comfort. But alas, familiarity doesn’t just breed contempt—it breeds expectation, entitlement, and an army of freeloaders, well-wishers, and opportunists who believe your khaki uniform is their personal access card to all things privileged and illegal. The moment the officer’s name hits the civil list, the grapevine swings into action. Relatives from forgotten family branches sprout like mushrooms in monsoon. College friends suddenly recall the time they shared a pen or borrowed a book, and schoolmates develop a nostalgic itch to reconnect. Distant uncles, childhood neighbours, and long-lost cousins all appear, bearing one thing in common—a request. Some want a school admission, others a college seat. A few have pressing needs like front-row IPL tickets or backstage passes to an Ilayaraja concert. And then there are those who demand nothing short of divine intervention—like VIP darshan at temples during Brahmotsavam, no matter how many lakhs are waiting in queue. You see, the officer becomes a walking ATM of influence—accepted by all, obliged by default, and expected to deliver on everything from water connections to wedding hall discounts. If someone’s scooter is towed, the officer is expected to fix it. If someone’s niece didn’t get a job, the officer should call the HR. And if someone’s neighbour’s dog barks too loudly, the officer is expected to transfer the SHO. After all, what’s the point of knowing an IPS officer if not for some fast-tracked, personalised grievance redressal? But this is merely the prelude. The real drama unfolds when members of this enthusiastic ecosystem start dabbling in activities that fall squarely within the officer’s job description. Imagine initiating action against a cousin running a sand mafia under fictitious names or a family friend involved in a land grab so blatant that even Google Earth can’t unsee it. If the officer acts, they’re heartless and arrogant. If they don’t, they’re corrupt and complicit. A classic lose-lose situation—gift-wrapped in blood ties. The larger police machinery, never one to miss gossip, quickly identifies these characters. Once marked, they become unofficial conduits for everything—transfers, postings, promotions, leave approvals, and occasionally, evidence tampering. “Saamiyaar’s cousin knows the DIG,” becomes a perfectly acceptable reason for a plum posting. The officer, instead of leading from the front, is now a reluctant ringmaster in a political-caste-personal circus. Enter the brokers and networkers—the true pandemic of Indian bureaucracy. These are perennial lurkers with no official designation, yet more power than most Additional DGs. Dressed in safari suits or white veshtis with just the right amount of golden border, they know about transfer orders before the department does. They whisper into the ears of ministers, slide into the back seats of SUVs, and walk into police headquarters like they own the building. Their job? Reduce every officer, insider or outsider, into a grateful puppet. Their method? Subtle corruption disguised as helpful networking, flattery, and introductions to “opportunities.” It’s the outsider officers who are the first to fall. Confused by local customs, cultural codes, and caste arithmetic, they latch onto these smiling brokers like a drowning man to a floating banana peel. And in the name of adapting to the system, they quietly start adjusting their moral compass. “It’s just one transfer,” they tell themselves. “It’s only a posting, not a crime.” Slowly but surely, they slide down the slope, until one day they’re not sure if they’re in charge—or just another puppet on someone’s string. Meanwhile, the astrologers arrive.