IDHAR UDHAR KI BAAT 140 — MOVE ON. Brig PS Gothra (Retd.)

"Koi nahin... move on."

   Those were my father's words when I looked at him in despair. I had just been admitted to Class VII. The problem was—I wasn't ready for it. A few weeks earlier, I had appeared for an admission test at a convent school.

    "You know this?" the teacher asked.

   "I no," I replied confidently, shaking my head from side to side. I had no idea there existed a word called know that sounded exactly like no.

    Within minutes she announced her verdict.

    "The boy can be admitted to Class III."

     The problem was that I had already passed Class V from an Inglish-medium school in my village.

     Fortunately, another school held an entrance examination a month later. My father arranged tuition, and I passed. But by then the only seat in Class VI had been filled by a transfer case. The school advised me to repeat Class V. Then destiny intervened.

     One of my father's friends managed to get me admitted directly into Class VII after a few bottles of Rum exchanged hands.

    "Papa, I won't survive there," I said

    He smiled and replied, "Koi nahin... move on."

    That was perhaps the first time I heard those words. I had no idea they would follow me throughout my life.

     The first few months were a daily battle. Teachers spoke English. Students answered in English. I thought in Punjabi. Every period felt like an ambush. Punishments became routine—not because I was mischievous, but because my brain translated every sentence before understanding it.

     Fortunately, I possessed one weapon that has helped me throughout life—analysis. I soon analysed that the safest place in class was the last bench. The brilliant students occupied the front rows and attracted all the teacher's attention. Years later, while studying military tactics, I realised they were nothing but the covering troops or screens in defence operation of war, dissipating the enemy's strength before it reached the vital ground.

     Unfortunately, some teachers had the irritating habit of scanning the last bench. And a small Sikh boy wearing a black putka was impossible to miss. That forced me to learn my second military lesson long before joining the Army—camouflage. I noticed that if I remained perfectly still, teachers were less likely to notice me. Movement attracts attention.

     Then I improved the technique. I pasted black charts on the wall behind my seat so that my putka merged with the background. Years later, the Army had a respectable name for it—Field Craft.

    Life has a strange habit. It first teaches lessons in classrooms. Then examines them on battlefields.

     Over the years the world kept repeating the same advice. When I killed an insurgent for the first time and struggled with the guilt of killing a human..."Move on."

    When I lost soldiers under my command..."Move on."

    When my parents passed away..."Move on."

    A failed examination. A broken relationship. Getting mauled in the boxing ring,  Financial losses. Supersession. The advice never changes. Only the reason does.

     Setbacks come in two varieties. Some like a failure in examination or rejection for promotion are painful—but recoverable.

     Then there are setbacks of conscience like losing men under command, a doctor’s inability to save a patient. A driver’s momentary negligence taking a child's life. These wounds do not heal with calendars. They keep asking silent questions that have no easy answers.

    Kabir perhaps said it best:

बीती ताहि बिसार दे, आगे की सुधि ले। "Forget what has passed; prepare yourself for what lies ahead."

     Simple words. Difficult to practice.

Jai Hind.

Note:- The idea for this piece came from Brig Sunil Yadav.