The Goat That Counted

A Memory from the Lonely Side of Command

There is a loneliness in command that breeds a certain kind of cynicism. Not the angry kind, but the quiet kind—where you learn to suspect your own speeches, even your own optimism.

I rarely walked into Sainik Sammelans with notes or grand plans. I would look into their eyes and know that today, it wasn’t about what I said. It was about how I said it.

One such day, whispers had begun drifting in—medals awarded in other sectors. Our unit hadn’t received one. It wasn’t anger, but a dull disappointment, like the kind that seeps into boots after a long wet march. I knew they felt it.

So I stood before them and said—

“We’ll count a goat this evening. Mutton and rice. Celebration.”

Eyes lifted. A few half-smiles broke out.

Then I added—

“And about the news… Naro mein vishwas nahi raha. Not even the ones I tell myself. Forget what I say to you—I don’t know how much I lie to myself.”

That caught them off guard. A silence. Some acquiescing sniggers. Then attention. Real attention.

“What will stay with us tomorrow is not the medal list. It will be how much fun we had at the Barakhana.”

I called the cooks. Gave them a bottle to make the work go light. Told them to fetch the goat.

That night, we laughed. We remembered comrades. We ate as a family. And no medal could have done what the Barakhana did.

The Real Story Beneath the Celebration

This wasn’t just an impulsive feast. It was, in truth, an elegy with spice and firewood.

Earlier, some of our forward echelons had reached a place called Hayuliang—a tricky mountain station. My team was to follow with the main load. At night, I got word from the Colonel General Staff: two Engineer trucks had gone off the road into a gorge.

I immediately dispatched two ambulances, one from each approach. They reached in good time—but we weren’t equipped for rope rescue.

Soon, a specialized army unit joined in. They found survivors. They needed help. One young Mizo AMC officer volunteered. He went down in that dark of the night, got entangled, lost footing, and perhaps lost nerve. Another senior, overweight paramedic, without a word, went down and did what was needed.

The GOC, I think, was particularly disappointed in the officer. So disappointed, he overlooked the other Jawan who had risked his life as well. It was not his fault. The system is such that the weight of the entire tragedy would fall on his shoulders. GOC had hoped even a minor success by the young officer would have given him some respite. It might have even given him bragging rights. He was especially sore because he had told the Corp Commander, that an officer has gone down. The instance was not only a grim tragedy. It also reflected on the leadership quality of the CO Engineers, CO Field Hospital, and the GoC himself. It is a usual story that is played out reminds of the game passing the parcel.

A lady doctor, Capt Vandana, played a stellar role—coordinating helicopter recces, first aid, Stitching and evacuation. Doing her best. Alongside her was Maj Souma, a spirited Mizo officer, known not just for his duty. He was crestfallen, for he did not know what happened. Young officers are cushioned, the seniors shaved, GoC , CO Engineer and I were already bald, so you have it.

Souma was also renowned as a grand badminton player. He was actually GoC’s partner. GoC was a good badminton player himself. However, he is old and stressed now. We used to supply whatever painkillers and fancy Ayurvedic formulation he was fond of. It was all right, that is how it happens, and we were happy.

In Hayuliang, while all this tragic action was unfolding, GoC and young Souma played badminton against me. Col A, who was actually an agent of Div HQ, was not an officer. He used to play from the side of GoC’s court. So for me it was 2.5 enemies. or what they say 2.5 front war.

Just before departure of GoC, a badminton tournament was held. My permanent partner was, as usual, Col A. GoC had sided with a ferocious player of RVC. He was out protecting GoC. I was saving myself from Col A by intercepting most shots that went his way. Col A incidentally had hairs, he was shaved for his unseemly devotion and became like the rest of us. CO RVC was already retiring.

CO RVC had had a harrowing exercise too. This was along with mule pack ADS. Gen Bipin Rawat was scheduled to inspect the deployment from across the mountain during the pouring rains of Arunachal. There was no communication. There was only a narrow window of sight. The laden mules were backed up thrice, not turned back. They were backed up. The mule train is not like an ordinary train. All the mules are engines with slow processors, unfamiliar with reverse gear. Finally Gen Rawat squinted nodded and mules had a respite along with mule pack ADS of 402 field hospital.

The Barakhana was for them. For the ignored Jawan, the tired paramedic, the lady doctors who stitched men back together. For the goat, the rice. For a night of humanity. And for showing we don’t need your benevolence, you need our help.

Final Reflection

Sometimes a CO must wear cynicism like a shawl—loose, scratchy, necessary. But beneath it, there must be a tender spine.

Not every act of leadership is a citation. Some are just evenings well-fed and well-remembered.

• The Council of Beasts
• The Woman and the Knife: Cold Steel in Command
• In the Northern Reaches of Himachal
• Counting of Ants
• Cocky Munir and His Golden Eggs