IDHAR UDHAR KI BAAT 75- CHALTA HAI Brig PS Gothra(Retd)

 

"Sir, are you from the Army?" a teenage girl asked, her eyes wide with curiosity after witnessing the change of guard ceremony at the War Memorial.

"Yes," I replied, mildly surprised. "But how did you know? I’m not wearing anything that screams 'ex-serviceman.'"

She smiled knowingly. "It’s the way you stood—upright and proud. Anyone could tell you're a Fauji."

Her words warmed my heart. Praise is rare after retirement, and for a moment, I basked in it. But my moment of pride was cut short when she followed up with, “Why were the Navy and Army soldiers standing together for a while?”

“Oh, that was for the handing and taking over of guard duties,” I explained.

“But they barely spoke to each other! All I heard were some loud, clipped commands. It didn’t look like much of a handover,” she said, her tone skeptical.

I chuckled. “Ah, that’s the ceremonial part. The actual handover happens beforehand. What you saw is more about tradition than communication.”

She seemed unconvinced, and I could sense another barrage of questions coming. Before she could grill me further, I quickly excused myself. “Someone’s waiting for me in the car,” I said, making a hasty retreat.

As soon as I got into the car, my friend gave me a knowing look. “What’s wrong? You look rattled.”

I sighed. “I’m having one of those moments of deep regret—thinking about all the times I let my chalta hai attitude win during my service.”

“What brought this on?”

I explained, “Back when I was a young officer, I realized how pointless some ceremonial drills were during guard handovers. I even raised it with the Adjutant, but he shut me down. I swore I’d fix it when I became a Commanding Officer (CO). But when I finally got there, I’d become so comfortable with the system that I did nothing.”

“That’s it? You’re upset about some drills?” he said dismissively.

“No, there’s more,” I said. “For instance, I spent countless hours mastering how to fix weapon malfunctions in training. But during actual encounter, when the size-se-mota round got stuck in my carbine, I couldn’t fix it. I was so frustrated that I vowed to write to my seniors about the carbine’s shortcomings. But I never did. That weapon stayed in service for two more decades, wasting time and risking lives.”

“Maybe your seniors wouldn’t have taken it well.”

“That’s the problem—we always expect someone else to bell the cat,” I said, my frustration growing. “Then there’s the mess bhojan prastut drill. A Havildar once told me he didn’t want to take up the job of mess in-charge because his kids studied in the same school as the officers’ kids. He worried they’d be teased for seeing him salute or announce Sriman Bhojan Tyar Hai in the mess. I thought, why not replace the drill with a simple buzzer or light? But when I became CO, I left it untouched. Same with buglers standing precariously on rooftops to announce a VIP’s arrival. In this era of sound systems, why are we still doing that? And don’t get me started on pipers parading around the dining table during dinner nights—it’s colonial nostalgia at its worst.”

“Hmm,” my friend said, but I wasn’t done.

“Unit bands, too. Why not centralize them at Tri services level? Record the tunes once and let soldiers focus on real soldierly  skills. Watching soldiers play at weddings and private functions is disheartening. Today’s battlefield is full of sensors and tech; marching tunes don’t win wars anymore.”

My friend nodded thoughtfully. “But as CO, you had a lot on your plate. You couldn’t fix everything.”

“That’s just an excuse,” I admitted. “The truth is, I was scared to rock the boat. I didn’t even destroy the outdated documents, always thinking, What if we need them later? Even after automation, I kept physical registers running alongside digital ones. Didn't have the courage to discontinue the book inspections. Instead of streamlining and reducing the clerical work, I just added extra clerks from GD soldiers. It was pure jo chalta hai, chalne do.”

My friend let out a heavy sigh. “God help you,” he said, signalling the driver to stop the car. “I have some work here. I’ll meet you tomorrow.”

As I sat in the car alone, I reflected on my inaction. My chalta hai attitude had betrayed the ambitious young officer I once was—the one who wanted to challenge the system and make life easier for his subordinates. It’s easy to dismiss regrets as hindsight wisdom, but isn’t it criminal not to learn from them? If I’d acted on even half my ideas, maybe today’s soldiers would have more time for their families, more time to train, and fewer unnecessary burdens.

But I didn’t. And now, all I can do is hope the next generation doesn’t repeat my mistakes.

Note:- Criticism or new ideas most welcome as part  comments. Don't get into Mainu Ki.