Losing rank, gaining insight

‘Cadets! Shaam paanch bajay Major Saab ke samnay pheeti waalon ka parade hoga!’

The announcement came almost as soon as we had arrived and settled in the NCC camp. As a proud rank holder, I felt instantly important. Puffed up with pride, I began to await the evening ceremony with great eagerness.

We assembled well before time. At exactly five o’clock, Major Saab arrived. Elegantly attired in military uniform, with the national emblem shining on his broad shoulders, he looked smart, authoritative, and unmistakably strict. His very presence inspired awe.

The proceedings began with inspection. The Major moved down the line, minutely examining uniforms, belt buckles, boots, haircuts, and even nails. When he stopped before me, my confidence faltered. I was placed among those declared “poorly dressed”—our uniforms wrinkled and boots insufficiently polished. The consolation that others shared my fate helped little; my spirits had already sunk.

Next came the parade. “Saavdhaan! Vishraam! Aagay badh! Peechay mud!” Commands rang out sharply. Still smarting from the inspection, I tried to keep pace, but my half-heartedness hampered it from happening. I missed steps, lost rhythm, and struggled through the exhausting forty minutes. 

Then came the verdict. I stood among four cadets declared “not fit for the rank”. My cherished chevron—the badge of my being a Lance Naik—was removed. It was humiliation piled upon humiliation. This time, even shared misfortune brought no comfort. I could only accept the setback in silence.

The camp schedule, however, allowed little time for self-pity. For the next ten days we were immersed in drill and parade; tracking and patrolling; rifle practice; and camouflage and concealment. Gradually, the sting of that first day faded into the rigour of routine.

The final day arrived with the valedictory function, which included a cultural programme. Many hesitated to perform before the imposing Major, but some senior students broke the ice. My friends then urged me to sing a ghazal. Reluctantly, I agreed and began my favourite, Marne ki duayen ki un maangoon… 

As I sang, my initial hesitation dissolved. The familiar melody steadied me; confidence replaced nervousness. The audience responded warmly, and by the final couplets, several voices joined in. What had begun timidly ended on a note of shared enjoyment.

The real surprise came during the Major’s address.

Referring to my performance, he observed that the involvement I displayed while singing had been missing during the parade. His remark was neither harsh nor sarcastic—simply perceptive. Yet it struck home with remarkable clarity. He had noticed not just what I did, but how I did it.

In that moment, disappointment turned into understanding. The loss of my chevron was not merely a disciplinary action; it was a lesson. I had taken one responsibility casually while giving my whole heart to another. The difference lay not in ability, but in attitude.

That camp taught me something no textbook could: discipline is not confined to uniforms or drill grounds—it is a habit of mind. Whatever we undertake deserves our full commitment. Certainly, sometimes we win; sometimes we learn — and often, it’s losing that leaves us learned.