IDHAR UDHAR KI BAAT 137 — CMP AA RAHA HAI Brig PS Gothra (Retd)

“Aaj CMP aa raha hai, Saab!” Sepoy Ravi's face was glowing with happiness. For a moment I thought some senior officer from the Corps of Military Police was visiting our cut-off post.

I later realised that CMP was not a military policeman. It was the chicken. More specifically, those old layer hens with a bright red comb on its head that resembled the red beret of the Corps of Military Police. The live chicken was being brought to the post for dinner. And that was enough to make the entire post cheerful. That day I learnt something important. Indian soldiers find happiness in the smallest of things.

A kheer-papad in a Barakhana. A plate of chai-pakora after a long patrol in rain and slush. A bright sunny day after a week of snowfall so that clothes can finally dry. A rainy morning accompanied by the magical announcement: “Aaj PT nahin hai!” Wearing civil clothes on the administration day. An extra peg in the rum issue. A volleyball match against the neighbouring unit that becomes a matter of national prestige. A samosa or an omelette from the wet canteen. “CO Saab ne good bola.” “Chutti sanction ho gayi.”

“Theek hai, Saab.” “Nalla Saar.” “Chardi Kala.”

These are the answers you will receive from him even when circumstances suggest he should be miserable. He can be standing in knee-deep snow. Marching through deserts. Or carrying loads that would make a mule complain. Yet somehow, he remains cheerful.

The Indian soldier is perhaps the world's greatest improviser. Give him a vegetable tin and he will cut it open and turn it into a tawa. Give him a bamboo stick and it becomes a spatula. Give him atta and he will mark a volleyball court. Give him a carton and it becomes a table. Give him a matchbox and he will turn it into a percussion instrument. He can sleep comfortably on a durrie and a blanket without a charpoy. He can survive a three-day train journey in an unreserved compartment. He can produce a feast where others see only rations. And he can create entertainment where none exists.

His cinema is mimicry of the Subedar. His theatre is a jawan dancing to a film song while pretending to be a heroine. His orchestra is a table being beaten like a drum. His audience is his own comrades. His ticket is free. His laughter is genuine.

And then one day he retires. You meet him after a few years and ask, “Kya haal hai?”

And surprisingly the answer is often: “Theek nahin hai.”

At first this appears strange.  After all, he now has freedom.  No guard duties. No route marches. No fallins. No inspections. No field postings. No snow. No deserts. No punishments. No officers. Then what is missing?

The answer is not the hard life. The answer is the brotherhood. The leg-pulling. The shared suffering. The certainty that the man sleeping next to you will stand by you when things go wrong. The honesty. The simplicity. The feeling of belonging to something larger than yourself.

In civilian life he often discovers something shocking. People lie more. People calculate more. People trust less. And sometimes even relatives are prepared to cheat him.

What he misses is not the Army. He misses the people.

And whenever I think about the soldiers who served under me, another uncomfortable thought comes to mind. Was I worthy of their patience? Their loyalty? Their goodness? Their ability to smile despite hardship?

The answer is probably no.

I made them wear woolen OG socks even in deserts because that was what the system supplied. I gave them those hard khaki PT shoes with almost no cushioning. I gave them very little privacy where they slept. We expected them to carry enormous loads. I accumulated regimental funds for future requirements but never found the courage to buy hydration packs even for my Ghatak boys, who carried heavy bulletproof jackets, ammunition and odd load of water bottles through impossible terrain.

Today, looking back, I wonder whether I should have done more. Much more.

But the soldier never complained. He simply adjusted. Improvised. Adapted. And carried on.

That perhaps is his greatest strength. And my greatest weakness—I started taking that strength for granted.

So today, when I think of Ravi's excitement at the arrival of a chicken called CMP, I realise that happiness was never the chicken. The happiness was being together when the chicken arrived.

I salute every jawan who served with me. They carried more weight than their backpacks revealed. And they taught me far more than I ever taught them.

Jai Hind.

Note:- I am sure the people who have been true soldiers, have much more to add. Please share  it in the comments. The skeleton of this piece was contributed by Col Gautam Kar (Retd)