IDHAR UDHAR KI BAAT 107 - KOI SHAK (ANY DOUBTS) Brig P S Gothra (Retd)

“Rifle Bhoomi Shastr (lay down your rifle on the ground)… check target.”

I was convinced my Commanding Officer would finally be pleased with my crisp, perfect words of command on the firing range. But there was no nod, no smile—only silence.

Ever since the first dressing-down I had received from him a year and a half earlier, I had been craving his approval. That day he had shouted:
“You bloody idiot, improve your communication skills!”

He had caught me fumbling on the radio set—hadn’t even mastered the basic ‘press to talk’. And here I was, still trying to prove myself worthy.

Just an hour before, my patrol had shot a terrorist—the first success in two years for the entire brigade. I imagined the boss would pat my back, perhaps even boast about me to higher headquarters. Instead, I got another reminder that a soldier’s battle is not only with the enemy but also with his own weaknesses.

So I set to work. I learnt the art of field signals and even improvised some during the fight against the LTTE in Sri Lanka. I made sure my men were always properly briefed and debriefed. On courses, I was graded “suitable to be instructor.” I could shout commands to a marching column without breaking their step. I even began acting like a PT ustad, complete with the drama.

But peacetime battles were of a different kind. Once, in a sand model discussion, the speaker declared:
“We will occupy the isolation positions on the routes by ten at night. In the morning, we will close the noose and occupy the investment positions.”

I raised my hand innocently: “Sir, it is fine to say ‘close the noose’—but how do I brief my soldiers in clear terms?”

The hall erupted in laughter. The speaker announced a tea break.

My friend Ajay didn’t appreciate my humiliation. “Why do you ask stupid questions? Ladai to lagne nahin wali. How does it matter?”

I protested, “But ambiguity can cost lives in combat.”

He shook his head and asked, “Do you know what a mulligan in golf is?” I didn’t.
“It’s a free extra shot after a bad one. Forget Sri Lanka, forget Manipur. Take a mulligan. Learn some smooth Angrezi for the sand model. Be an MC at parties. Announce tambola with cheeky numbers. Write padded-up military papers.”

I left him to his tea. My mind was still stuck on one question—how to brief my soldiers so that no man walks into danger without clarity.

Later, my CO gave me 8 out of 9 in communication skills in my annual report, yet still wrote: “Officer advised to improve his communication skills.”

Years later, when I wore the CO’s hat myself, I understood. In qualities like loyalty, courage, or integrity, there is no scope for “a little less.” But communication? That’s where reports left wiggle room. Yet in my heart I knew—without clarity of communication, there can be no good leadership.

And so, whether in war or in peace, in every briefing I gave my men, I ended with just two words:

“Koi Shak?” (Any doubts?)

Because if the leader himself is not clear, he has no right to lead others into battle.

Jai Hind.