IDHAR UDHAR KI BAAT 89- BACK TO BASICS Brig PS Gothra (Retd)

"Sir, this incident clearly shows that the hierarchy is weak when it comes to standing by its own," the young man said firmly.

I replied, “What exactly do you expect? That the hierarchy should give you a free hand, and you’ll go around beating up people? That’s not going to happen.”

The youngster said. “With all due respect, sir, you sound timid. I doubt you’ve ever stood by your men.”

I smiled. “I won’t defend myself with words. Those who’ve served under my command would have their say. But I will tell you this—things must be done with finesse. You don’t overpower; you outthink.”

He nodded, trying to understand.

“In fact,” I continued, “that’s what many of our protocols are based on—quiet strategy. Take the duty checking at night, for example. Do you know why an officer always takes a Duty JCO or NCO along?”

“That’s the protocol?”

“Yes,” I said, “but protocol has purpose. As an officer, you’ll often make decisions that your men might not like. At night, tensions are higher, tempers shorter. Having a JCO with you isn’t just tradition—it’s insurance. A calming presence, a buffer. As an officer you must know not just where to be, but also where not to be, and when.”

He looked at me, curious. “Where not to be?”

“Yes,” I said, leaning in. “If a jawan is reported drunk and creating a ruckus, you don't go charging in. You simply give an order to confine him. If you confront him and he abuses you, the charge against him remains just 'intoxication'—but your dignity? That takes a hit. The officer's reputation is fragile. You must protect it—in the unit and in civilian spaces.”

He nodded slowly. “No one ever explained it like that.”

“That’s the problem. My seniors taught me something long ago—it’s not easy to carry the dignity of an officer. You must live it, every day. And sometimes, the lesson comes in strange ways.”

I paused, debating whether to continue. But he seemed receptive. So, I added, “He once told me—don’t visit questionable places (red light areas). But if, by chance, you do, never say you're an officer. And always pay generously. Not for their sake—for yours. The uniform must stay above whispers.”

He laughed, surprised by my candour.

I smiled too. “Listen, since you’re in the mood to absorb, here’s more. You must look like an officer. Always. Dark trousers, a plain shirt and well polished shoes smells class. Even when going for physical training—wear ironed clothes. Even the white PT socks should be spotless when you wear. The PT shoes should be white. Step out of your room in a gown, not just pyjamas. You’re a Sardar—when you go out in public, wear your turban properly. The cut surds tend to go without turban. No one can believe that he is an officer with that hair cut.”

“I am not a cut surd sir. And what about clean shaven people,” he asked with a mischief in his eyes.

“Clean-shaven men with a crew cut signal discipline, even before you speak. Also when you appear in public with your girlfriend or wife, make sure you both look graceful. Because whether you like it or not, the world is watching—and what they see reflects on the uniform.”

He hesitated, then smirked. “But sir, these days girls like to dress modern—sometimes, a bit revealing.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Then don’t make such a girl your girlfriend. If you plan to marry her, educate her. The officer’s wife is looked up by many. Her grace adds to army’s honour. If she insists on wearing revealing clothes, take her to Goa. Let her wear what she wants by the beach, not the market.”

He nodded, but asked, “Sir… do you think the hierarchy could’ve handled the situation differently?”

 “From what I know, both the Army and R&AW are doing everything to ensure the culprits are booked. What happened was wrong—no citizen deserves that. It must not happen again. And it won’t, if the wrongdoers are punished properly.”

Still, I could sense his doubt. And honestly, I understood it. We’ve had a shortage of officers for far too long. The basics—the things that used to be passed on over a quiet drink or a game in the mess—have been missed. Officers today are overworked. Over-tasked. There’s no time left for slow mentorship. And that’s a loss we haven’t yet accounted for.

Then he asked, “Sir… it’s all good in theory. But what would you have done if it was you who had been beaten?”

That was a tough one. I knew exactly what I would’ve done. But some truths are better left unsaid.

I simply smiled, stood up, and walked away.

And I’m sure, as I left, the youngster must’ve thought: "There goes another gassy old man, full of stories."

Maybe I was. But those stories, son—they built the very walls you serve within.