IDHAR UDHAR KI BAAT 104- MANAGE Brig PS Gothra (Retd)

“Saab has taken 15  Crore rupees from the vendor,” the driver said casually, as the car began its descent from Baramulla towards Uri.

They stopped at a routine Army checkpoint — common in the Kashmir of 1991. The driver stepped out to inform the jawan that it was a project vehicle. A soldier, slinging his rifle, came up to the window and glanced inside. The occupant instinctively reached for his Army ID, then paused. The soldier didn't look particularly interested. No curiosity. Just a cursory glance and a nod.

While the driver jotted down vehicle details in the register, the occupant sat still, mind churning. Why had the driver told him about his father taking a large, unauthorized sum from a vendor? It wasn’t the first time the man had crossed the line with his words. Just few months ago in the Baramulla bazaar, he’d introduced him — to a stranger — as “Saab ka ladka.” Worse, the stranger turned out to be a  terrorist with an AK 47 rifle hiding under his phiren. Thank God he hadn’t added that the “ladka” was an Army serving officer.

Was this some twisted smear campaign? Or did the driver simply not know better?

Because all his life, the son had seen otherwise.

Back in 1972, when his father was in uniform, he’d seen him scold the Mess Havildar for taking ghee and sugar from the jawans’ cookhouse. He’d watched him visit the unit baniya at month’s end with post-dated cheques. No fake cartage bills. No inflated TA claims. In fact, when commanding an independent unit, he’d insisted on paying extra for his share in Mess parties — as per SOP. (The share used to be in sliding scale with the senior officer charged more and the junior officers charged less)

He had lived with frugality — not because he was poor, but because he didn’t want to be corrupt.

Even after leaving the Army, his father had stayed clean, despite being in an organization where ‘cuts’ and ‘commissions’ were an open secret. He had once told his son as to why he doesn’t want to be dishonest.

So why now?

Had he broken? Was the pressure of EMIs after buying the ₹3.5 lakh house finally too much? Or maybe, after seeing his son go through hell in Sri Lanka and Manipur, he wanted him to quit the fauj. Maybe that night in Khoja Bagh — when terrorists came looking for them in the guest house — made him question if this nation was worth serving honestly anymore.

The driver returned. The engine started with a jolt.

“Log bahut khush hain,” he said, checking the rearview mirror.

“Why?” the son asked, eyebrows raised.

“Because Saab took the money — and made the patwaris, kanugoes, tehsildars …. all  sign from home. Revenue offices are not working on the pretext of terrorism.  The land acquisition was stuck for months. Now it's moving. People can finally see work starting.”

The son stayed silent, listening.

“Saab was scared that landowners would drag the matter to court which will again put the clock back.  One of them already got a verdict — double the compensation.”

The driver after a pause smiled and said, “So Saab is using the vendor’s money to quietly pay people — over and above what they get officially — just to avoid more delay.”

A long pause filled the vehicle.

The son finally smiled. A slow, proud, silent smile.

This wasn’t corruption. This was something else. Something every fauji knew deep down. A condition they never named in official documents.

It was called “manage.”

A stubborn sense of purpose. A refusal to let the mission fail — even if the method wasn’t clean.

And in that moment, he understood his father better than ever before.