IDHAR UDHAR KI BAAT 135 - PLAQUES, DOGS & POSTERITY Brig PS Gothra (Retd)

 

“Saab ji, age saab di plate nun kuttian ne nahin puchhna (Saab, one day even dogs won’t spare the Saab’s plaque).” The do-it-all Havildar said it so casually that for a moment I could not even react.

I had just asked him to change the inauguration plaque for the third time because, yet again, the date of inauguration had changed. Somewhere higher up, protocol and prestige were wrestling with each other again.

The Havildar’s remark sounded dangerously close to insolence. For a few seconds, I genuinely felt like giving him a proper dressing down. But practicality often defeats emotions.  The fellow knew every mason, every painter, every welder and every shortcut in the cantonment. The deadline was tight and the event had to happen smoothly. So I swallowed my irritation.

The inauguration eventually went off very well. Speeches were made, photographers clicked away furiously, chai and pakoras disappeared with military efficiency, and everyone left satisfied that history had been created.

Later, when tempers had cooled and uniforms had loosened a little, I called the Havildar.

“Now explain what exactly you meant that day.”

He smiled in the relaxed manner only old unit hands can manage. “Saab ji, I have been making inauguration plaques for seven years. One VIP comes, one stone goes up. Then another bigger VIP comes, and this one is quietly removed. The poor officer whose name is written there thinks it has gone into eternity. Unfortunately the plaque sometimes lands up as a manhole cover.”

Then he paused dramatically, enjoying the rare opportunity to philosophise before an officer.

“There are always two reasons.”

As a young Company Commander, I thought I knew one of them already — that there is always a bigger naukribaaz waiting in line.

But I let him continue.

“First, Saab, in future there is always someone bigger than the present big man.”

He adjusted his pagri and carried on.

“Second, new designs keep coming. Old plaques start looking ugly. Buildings lose importance. Renovation happens. Sometimes even the building itself disappears.”

Then came the line that stayed with me for life.

“And sometimes, Saab ji… the plaque becomes so low because of repairs and new flooring… that dogs lift their leg on the VIP’s name. After all, nearby rubble helps them reach proper height.”

I could not help laughing.

I did not punish him.

But his philosophy remained permanently lodged somewhere in my head.

After that day, whenever someone suggested putting my name prominently on an inauguration stone, I would insist that only the appointment be written — not the individual’s name. And I always ensured the plaque was fixed at more than six feet height.

A soldier learns strange lessons in strange classrooms.

Yet the human urge to leave behind one’s name is very real.

This year, when I visited my old unit after twenty-five years, I quietly searched for traces of myself. Some photograph in a corridor. A mention in a briefing room. A board somewhere.

For officers, memory is a strange thing. While serving, one feels indispensable. But units move on with professional ruthlessness. New boys arrive. New COs come. New wars, new exercises, new stories. And slowly you realise the battalion was never yours. You merely passed through it for a few years while believing it belonged to you.

For a fleeting moment, I felt slightly foolish. Perhaps I should also have planted my name somewhere more firmly.

Then, during Mandir parade the next day, Colonel Dinesh pointed toward an old prayer board frame.

There it was.

“Presented by Maj P. S. Gothra.”

I suddenly remembered spending around seven hundred rupees on it in those days — not a small amount then. Colonel Dinesh had got it made for me from Malerkotla.

Half the lettering had faded because generations of assistant poojaris had polished it daily with Brasso. Yet, strangely, seeing that nearly-erased name gave immense happiness. Perhaps remembrance does not need grandeur. 

Last week, while walking on Platform Number One at the Chandigarh railway station, I noticed a plaque. It commemorated the inauguration of the station in 1954 by Shri Bhim Sen Sachar, then Chief Minister of Punjab. Time had played its own game there too.

Over decades, repeated renovations and increased platform height had pushed the plaques dangerously low. Another round of modernization may reduce them to ankle level. Or perhaps they will quietly disappear behind some shining new stainless-steel wall carrying newer names.

And that is how history often moves, empires disappear less dramatically than we imagine. Mostly they vanish under fresh paint, new flooring and revised SOPs.

Which brings me to a humble suggestion for the current generation of leaders and senior officers.

Do not worry too much about granite plaques.

Instead, do such solid work that tomorrow’s digital world throws up your name automatically when someone asks AI:

“Who was the finest officer of that era?”

But remember — AI will be a merciless judge. It will compare claims with evidence. Speeches with actions. Reputation with reality. Digital memory may prove even more merciless than fading stone.

And if despite all this wisdom you still desperately want your name permanently engraved on granite — then at least ensure the plaque is mounted above dog-leg height. Because Gen Z may not salute your legacy. But a passing stray dog certainly will. The safest memorial, perhaps, is not granite. It is character. (Thoda Jyoda Ho Gaya Kya?)

Jai Hind.

Drop in your comments regarding politicians inaugurating every  bench in the parks or every hand pump or manhole installed.  Do people get fooled by such antics?