How to Fix an HP Deskjet 460c with a broken top cover and cartridge problem

DISCLAIMER: This might affect your warranty. I take no responsibility for any damage incurred by you or your printer because of these procedures. Proceed at your own risk.


To Fix The Top Cover Issue:

1. Remove Top cover.
2. Near where the hinges fit, on the top left, you will see a little square hole.
3. Fold a small peice of cardboard so that it is stiff and fits into this hole.
4. Make sure the peice is long so you can pull it out later!
5. Stick the peice into the hole.
6. Printer message should have disappeared.

To Fix the Cartridge Issue:

1. Take problematic cartridge out.
2. Soak a cotton bud (Q-tip)in a little bit of rubbing alcohol or clear (not colored) hand sanitizer.
3. Carefully clean the copper contacts on the back of the cartridge.
4. Check if ink is coming out by rubbing the cotton bud on the ink outlet at the bottom (metallic plate type thing)- if the cotton bud has ink on it you can safely assume it is.
5. Look inside your printer. You should see a corresponding copper contact there.
6. Soak the other side of the cotton bud (clean side, or take a new one) in rubbing alcohol and clean this carefully as well.
7. Ensure at all times no cotton gets stuck to any surfaces.
8. Do not try to print with an empty cartridge- this will burn out the contacts, damaging the cartridge and sometimes even printer permanently.

RESET THE PRINTER by holding the power, resume and cancel buttons down simultaneously for eight seconds.  


To Clean the Ink Service Module

PUT PRINTER COMPLETELY OFF BEFORE STARTING- remove the battery or any other power source. 

1. At the bottom of your printer you will see a removable tab.
2. Remove this tab, and with it the Ink Service Module.
3. Remove it's cover by loosening the 6 tabs carefully.
4. Remove the padding and sponge.
5. Clean the inside of the Ink Service Module with a cotton bud soaked in rubbing alcohol (or colorless hand sanitizer).
6. Ensure you dislodge all dried ink and then rinse it with water until it looks empty. You should see a little horse-shoe shape on the floor of the Module.
7. Dry the module thoroughly with tissue and dry cotton buds.
8. Replace the padding, sponge and cover of the Module.
9. Put Module back in place at the bottom of the printer.
10. Reconnect the printer to a power source AND THEN

RESET THE PRINTER by holding the power, resume and cancel buttons down simultaneously for eight seconds. 


This post specifically is exempt from the copyright considerations on other posts where I have not mentioned this- you may copy the text of this post only without attributing it to Khushboo Shah or linking/citing this blog.

Dear Father,

I lie today.

You bought me up,

The best you could,

Shook off the poverty,

Your mother stood.

You gave me your wisdom,

So great and old!

It never burdened,

A youngish soul.

You made me your Frankenstein-

Did everything you said

Your mother denied. 

I lie today,

Caffeine high,

Warming my bed with melting ice. 

I am not simple because

I have read Europe and become it,

I think man can be questioned,

And that love doesn’t strike!

I am hoity-toity.

I want your three cell phones, and two laptops,

The expensive cognac that you never actually stopped;

An elite education on a rich, rich hill where

I eat meat and disco-hop to my fill with

Friends that you say made me perverse,

Their influence was stronger and worse.

I lied all the time,

Did what I wanted

Despite your discontent,

I was devious enough to

Give you my point of view,

And then defiant enough

To believe your concessions.

I have no scruples,

I was a child who couldn’t choose right from wrong,

I  am an adult who chooses wrong from right

Which is your word if I truly love

And respect you

Experienced soul exalted.

Dear Father,

I see today.

I know you’re blameless for my choice to be who I saw,

And understand that I must be Urja.

A breath of life and simplicity.

Parenting is providing,

You even socialized,

Violence is acceptable,

A means for a result.

Love is unconditional agreement,

No matter the cost.

Men are heavenly beings,

Whose gender-specific needs must be met.

And women are whores,

Who lie and manipulate.

I have hurt you by

Lying to you-

Saying I love you and then

Calling you a hypocrite who is

Not doing anything constructive and

Instead complaining and self-pitying

To give license to the need to strike.

I am not hurt to be called

A whore by you-

I know that you only say it

Because I am one and

You love me so much

That you make me aware enough to change it.

I am a slave to worldly attachments,

I know no truth or love,

I am only using you and do not

Actually care about you.

I only speak to you and write about

You and think of you because

It makes me feel less guilty-

After all,

I do not care enough to be indifferent.

You have allowed me so much!

What mercy!

I did what I was allowed-

How foolish and shallow

And uncaring of me.

I was supposed to be independent and

Cut a man’s balls off if need be,

But not to pick up friends

And go out with them

Or do anything that was not simple

And homely and good.

I’m such an atrocity-

I fight with you and shout at you

When you never raise your voice or

Become dramatic and despite all the

Money you give me- I am an ungrateful child,

Who does not appreciate your wonderful provisions.

I even push you to extremes,

Where you want to break tables

Or my bones to shut me up.

I don’t love you at all,

How can that be when I ask you

To let me be me?

If I did then it wouldn’t matter because

My Father, Dear Father,

Sacrifices must be made for love.

I lie today,

I have chosen a path.

Never to attempt to prove to

You my worth,

Or let my insecurities turn me

Awry or mad or difficult,

To believe in love and

Not to remember your words

Like you remember your mother’s

I see that you have had a

Terrible, horrible childhood and

Must be in a lot of pain,

I forgive you without offering myself

That escape.

I am not lying just now.

You are a wonderful, good person

Who is a little hurt.

I have hurt you more in spite of myself.

You have done your best as a father,

And I my worst as a daughter,

The best you knew with

What you were given.

The best I knew with

All that you gave.

You gave me enough to see that

I must not be trapped by what I have and

Instead be responsible and mature,

To not let myself be weak and wounded and complain

About anything, instead move forward and do things

For real reasons.

I have nothing to hold you responsible for,

Just the good I attribute to your example

Because even what seems to hurt

Only hurts until you decide to stop reopening the wound.

18 years is all I know and it is too long to

Tell the same story.

I implore myself to see the beautiful and not the gory.

Khushboo Shah

YOU HURT MY HEART.

Once upon a time, a humorist said that love is a fallacy. I never quite understood the import of his statement. And then, you came along. 

You were always the charlatan, never too close and disappeared long before you could disappoint. And I was proud enough to believe my appeal could make for a revolution.

I remember watching you sleep. You made for such an ordinary illustration- eyes closed, oblivious; limp and on your stomach, spread out like the tail of a horny peacock. Your long blonde curls, wanton but soft: a fitting imitation of your charming disposition. 

You made it easy for me to transform your confidence into conviction, make your curiosity my allure. Your mesmerizing, singsong voice and easy passion thieved away my reservation at the most convenient of moments. In your defense, I was eager prey. 

Your notion of love as being a transient, simple, enthralling, and uncommitted experience was certainly beautiful, and tempted me to forget all about how I was more conventional about love- I valued it’s unconditionality and the sacrificial aspect of caring it begets. Unfortunately, I remembered about it at the least convenient of moments. Again, I was eager prey. 

I’d memorized you. I think I could even pretend to be you for a day and no one would be the wiser. I knew you- and I knew what was coming, but I’d learned the delicate art of deceiving myself absolutely. It was fairly easy, everything blurred past us without reassurance, and spontaneity is the perfect guise for imprudence. 

I remember your room. Messy, but not smelly, and only messy until you had a sudden urge to clean, usually triggered by the sight of an ant on your bed, foraging about for stale crumbs of sweet foods. You’d run to the aerosol cans, your enviable hips moving distinctly, all the more prominent with  your slightly puffed pants and tight t-shirts. Stimulated by the fireworks, you’d walk out and light a bidi, and I’d watch the flame bring your pretty face alive with color before it ceased, still leaving your dead white skin aglow, but meekly; foretelling the brevity of your passion like a well written introduction. 

I always put the hearts (which I found desirable) first, followed by the diamonds (they are ever so beautiful), the clubs (barely tolerable) next, and the spades (the very ugliest of them all) last whenever I played solitaire. It troubled me infinitely to see them out of order: I’ve always found solace in the tiny details of routine, and even in the stark hallmarks of a scheduled life. But I could never live the clockwork- my thoughts are far too volatile and my emotions manifest themselves despite ardent determination. My open ways made this abundantly clear, and you knew me well enough to know where the window of effortless exit closed.

I wondered why you waited until it did for a long time afterwards, but at some point, even later, I realized it didn’t matter.  Our experience had nurtured me enough to eventually embrace the laborious birth into myself that was imminent. I feared I’d be lost without you, but I realized postpartum that your disappearance let me, in fact, be found by what I was looking for, at my terms. And it helped me find me: I uncovered myself afterwards, I realized that I was less willing to part with myself than I pretended to be, I became more aware of my idiosyncrasies and integrities and I saw that juvenile romanticism just wasn’t for me. I was so much happier with myself at the end of it all. 

I remember leaving. I built a little pile of domesticity, minus the bedding (which you’d need), right outside your door. It was a strange moment, seeing exactly what I’d brought you; but not half as strange as seeing your room without my touch. I felt like a bad clean-up technician had rescinded my existence with Photoshop. You weren’t there, because you were somewhere else, but not far enough. 

I was completely shattered by your methods. It was undoubtedly callous to subject someone to the vision of your utter indifference, and constantly at that. I suppose you had far too much to lose: there was barely a month left to embrace what you couldn’t before, and what is granted always pales in comparison. 

And besides, I can hardly blame you for being heartless. The young aren’t human; they’re still learning to be- immaturity doomed us from the start, but it was one of those falls that is entirely necessary. It helped me to see you so audaciously embrace everything you told me you wouldn’t, to be aware of the fallacy of our premise- and even more, to know I’d always known it. 

I imagine it was amusing to see me deal with the difficulty you posed. It wasn’t the first time it happened, but I’d never experienced anything like it at quite this proximity. You’d colored me invisible that year, and I was still unaware of how to give myself back an identity. I needed help, and it seemed natural that after everything I’d given you, you were the person to approach. You refused me consequence, and that just sank me lower. I had to reiterate my beauty and significance both to myself and to you.  I might have been extreme insofar, but it was the only way that I knew; and I was left in a place that refused to let me trust any helpful whispers. To make matters worse, I have no comprehension of social graces, I’m only extremely fortunate to be naturally agreeable most of the time, understandably not this one- and so there I was: tactlessly acting on every whim that struck me. 

I remember falling sick. Very little within me willed life- the image of my drained figure expelling the last glimmers of nutrition along with what sickened it seemed to mirror how my mind was banishing all my tenderness with its anger. I didn’t sleep at night, and the red night lamp of that sordid room still frightens me in the depths of my dreams. I’ll never forget the dirty brown of my bloody bile, the repulsion that it engendered, or the endless assault on my wrists and throat. I looked in the mirror one day, and recognized a flicker of myself behind my bloodshot, raccoon-eyes and bony figure. I was astonished and heartened; I expected that the illness would have erased me. It woke me up- you were irresponsible, and with full reason, even if you lacked warrant and moral consent. I was on my own, and would probably always be- it was mine to choose to revel in my individuality or repudiate it. 

I was glad not to be alone, glad not to have you thrown in my face. I had time to think, and love to fuel recovery. I made a few promises to myself, mindful that nothing would make me keep them. The process of avowal was what held more prominence with me- it separated my assumptions of self-sufficiency from its comforting reality: I would always be as alone as I wanted to be. I finally realized that the only way to be rid of you was to honestly let you go. 

I remember the emptiness. All that was left were the sheets, and the clothes you gave me. I finally took the sheets back, and you were finally, literally, gone. The room seemed long abandoned, although you’d left only hours before. It was cold, and too open to be inhabited. The little house with the crooked chimney and smoke which stood beside the spatially-deceiving tree was still there, etched on the wall- but it had lost you, and I felt nothing when I saw it. The moment, lamentably, lacked drama: there was no rush of memories, or sudden peace- only a prosaic and hard-earned apathy. 

As I stared at the evidence of loss you’d left behind, I wondered if I’d loved you. I thought I had, and I searched for that feeling, but I found a sort of emptiness that stung me in my chest and gut. I only loved you with what I knew of love, and that was not what you knew of it, leaving us both unloved and loving.

The humorist’s words struck a chord. The fallacy of love lies in its refusal to be defined.  

THE SPIRIT GUIDE.

 “Hello.”

“Would you like a drink?”

“I don’t know. What do you think I would like?”

“I think you’d like a God.”

“Would a God please me?”

“A God would give you reasons to be pleased.”

“And would a God distract me?”

“So well that you wouldn’t even know you were distracted.”

“And would a God provide for inhibition?”

“Even better, a God would provide for excuses to act without either thought or conscience.”

“Is a God unbiased?”

“A God is but a vessel for bias- it is indifferent alone.”

“Does a God taste good?”

“Ask the millions who devour it.”

“Is a God addictive?”

“Habit and ritual tend to die hard.”

“Can a God alleviate pain?”

“Naturally, responsibility is pain’s creator, and a God is its un-doer.”

“Would a God unbalance me?”

“A God will leave no need for you to balance yourself.”

“Could a God kill?”

“It does provide the rationale for death.”

“Is a God dangerous?”

“No, but your perception of a God may be.”

“Must a God be regulated?”

“Power asks to be shared unequally.”

“Is a God socially acceptable?”

“Hidden, or in moderation, almost anything is.”

“Can a God elevate me?”

“Without you warranting it.”

“Is a God good?”

“Only as good you are.”

“Can a God be marketed and consumed?”

“Religion might provide an answer to that.”

“Would a God help me get laid?”

“Yes, he’d even help you get pregnant.”

“Is a God legal?”

“Although some say it shouldn’t be.”

“Can a God help me sleep?”

“Through change, love, and war.”

“Will a God get stronger with time?”

“Yes, and your resistance weaker.”

“Can a God be mixed?”

“To suit any taste.”

“Would a God make for a social atmosphere?”

“Brainwashing seldom fails to.”

“Will a God be there through all my joys and sorrows?”

“If you keep it close and want it.”

“I understand. Give me a God.”

Smirks.

“Right away.”

(Title credit to Avadh)

I’M SPECIAL.

He enchanted her the very first time she saw him. He was white at first, and beautiful, like she’d never been. And then he began to turn blue, like an Indian God. He had a hole in his heart, but she was infinitely mesmerized. She knew no better at her tender age. 

That is such a blatant lie- childhood being tender. She remembers it as anything but, she was at her cruelest when she was a child. Perhaps the insensitivity had something to do with the mixture of inexperience and optional responsibility. 

He had never been cruel. He did horrible things sometimes, but without horrible intent. He stabbed their dog once, but it was not bloody; he seemed to know not to pull the knife out. A dog everyone knew him to love deeply, a dog who knew him to love her deeply- so much so that she let him stab her without protest: not a growl or a snap. She knew he didn’t want to hurt their dog because he didn’t walk away from the damage he caused when he recognized it.  Lucky he could always fix it effortlessly with his boundless charm. 

She envied him deeply for that. She knew that their father’s words were true and that he was in fact angelic, and utterly pure and good; but she was not yet ready to be told she could never match his perfection. She acted out when she realized that what their father said about him was true. She acted out because this realization came long before she wanted it to and long before she was prepared for it. 

She pinched his dry white skin until it sang red and he whimpered in compliance to her demands. Sometimes she did that just for fun. They fought, hands, legs and anything else their growing bodies sprouted; but he never pinched her. He still hasn’t, not once. His mischief was always innocent, and will always be- the naivety of her nerves was testament to the fact. 

Always innocent, but sometimes dangerous. He loved cars, he’d line them up, crash them into each other, race them, and anything else he could think of: but he loved lining them up more than anything else. She remembers that he wanted to watch real cars line up one day, so he went to the road and sat down in the middle. They lined up for miles, and she wished she could have found him a satellite picture. It was genius. Everyone told her that he didn’t know any better. She thought he knew that they didn’t know any better of him. 

He taught her so much of what he knew, and ever so naturally won her confidence. He was always there to stop Him from hurting her, to squeeze her tears away with the longest of hugs after He did anyway, and he was always willing to do something brilliantly stupid to bring her smile back. He showed her what plain fun was. He made it easy to watch Lion King every single day for years and years, and he made watching flowers run with the gutter water for hours seem amusing. He was her dictionary for hysteric laughter and ecstatic pleasure; she drew off his limitless enthusiasm like a suckling baby and he offered with the generosity of a hearty mother. 

And so she gathered that she was mistaken to think she could mother him. He provided for her heart, with patience and forgiveness, never uttering a word about the past. He also had a healthy disregard for material provision, not the kind most people aspire to, but one which let him accept that what he shared wasn’t his. He brought her up without ever asking for the tribute or respect their parents had, and he still earned it threefold, the only way it could be.

He was always so infallible that it took a movie to make her consider that he might have feelings that one could hurt, or a life one could destroy. She proceeded to cry herself dry after she watched it, hoping that she could drown in her guilt and be exonerated. Somewhere between the crying and the reflecting, it occurred to her that if there was anyone who would let her be forgiven and start afresh, it was him. 

He grew beautifully, even more irresistible than before. He defined roles for himself, and kept himself busy with what he loved for the lack of what loved him. She started afresh, but at a distance. They were both learning new things about who they were. She remembers that he was the first one to know that she was becoming a woman, and he giggled and smiled with her until they were too tired to stay awake. No one really knew when he changed from innocence to not quite that- just that it was hilarious at times, and trying at others.

 But he shared it openly, and sometimes a little too openly; like the day he skinny dipped in the swimming pool and then proceeded to explicitly display what was testament to his manhood. The little girls squealed, the older ones turned away, all the boys taunted, and the scandalized adults chided in disapproval. He smiled, and smiled, and smiled: until the livelier of them all paused to smile with him. 

She moved away slowly, a step at a time. He never failed to notice, but he stopped asking for her when he couldn’t remember the last time together at dinner. He was still always overjoyed to see her, even when no one else was. He seemed to understand that she had to go away, more than their parents ever would. And she kept him in her thoughts and heart, never for a moment doubting that she would return to him, having found what he would never lose. 

She loved him, and he was special. Special because he was him; and not because of his short, stubby fingers, his soon-lost-when-smiling, slanted eyes, his eczema ridden ankles, or the little something extra that’s hidden deep inside the last layers of him: he was special because everyone is, no matter what. 

Just a Few Dead Bodies Hoping to Donate Our Eyes

What would you say if you found me alone?

Taking my time to see what I want.

What would you do if the phone went off?

Creeping thoughts broken by its vacant sound.

I think everything is okay with me,

There’s nothing I wouldn’t try to see,

If you asked me openly. 

We’re just a few uncertain notes in the song.

Spinning up and down, thinking we’ll come around.

Love stories left untold,

Play-doh left to mold.

Romance is dead when the rose isn’t red,

But the best things don’t grow old.

I’m autonomous, existing free.

I’m true to me. 

Where would you go if I turned the lights off?

To see if darkness made me feel lonely.

Where would you be if the world was empty?

Reflection needs a surface to be real.

I think I don’t need you,

There’s authenticity in my emotion,

If you let me feel openly. 

We’re just a few doubtful dots on the matrix.

Trying our best to print a real life out.

Professions waiting to materialize,

Dead bodies hoping to donate their eyes.

The love is gone if I’m withdrawn,

But the true is constant.

I’m separate, invitingly whole.

I’m unhampered, not cold.

When would you see me if I asked for space?

To see what I liked about your pretty face. 

When would you laugh if I said I was funny?

Just to see if I could be me in a community.

I think I’m happy with you,

There’s something in this,

If you let me be. 

Oppressor's Anthem

So happy to see you here,
Smiling and perfectly calm.
Your friends would never know,
The storm you’re hiding deep down.
I wonder if you know- not to make you feel bad-
But I really need to understand how you can be the same man.


Does it feel good to be good and bad?
Duplicity is so exciting.
Live like you can’t do anything to make her sad,
But you leave her black and blue and crying.


I don’t mean to question your integrity,
Push you off your feet silently,
I just think that you need to give it a moment of thought-
Wrath is good when you face your demons and your God.


How is a lie all right?
You feel your pain, and you hurt her again.
Do you believe the answer lies in you?
Your methods, are they true to you?


I’m glad to see you can stand yourselves,
Happy that you can be the God you say you are.
Saintly action is defined by the Holy ones-
While we just say anything you want to hear,
To heal our broken hearts and assuage our trepid fears.
Your word is law and you’re perfectly clear.