During my service in the Indian Army, I harboured a deep envy for those officers who carried a perfectly organised notepad. The envy was born out of sheer frustration; no matter how hard I tried, I could never maintain one. My notepad was almost like God and Time—it had neither a beginning nor an end. I never knew what I wrote or where I wrote in it, making retrieval completely impossible. Why? Because I never even attempted to organise it.

Some officers of the ultra-meticulous variety divided their pads into pristine, labeled sections: orders from the Commanding Officer, instructions from the Battery Commander, tasks allotted to Sergeant Majors, and so forth. Some even utilised a complex multi-colored ink system to rank points by priority or severity.

A few went so far as to keep a notepad permanently stationed beside their toilet seat. Supposedly, all earth-shaking ideas dawned on them while they were on the throne, and the thoughts had to be captured immediately lest they be lost forever.

Inspired by a senior officer, I once attempted to replicate this discipline. I carefully drew lines and created sections in a brand-new pad. But the moment I actually wrote in it, the book instantly reverted to its chaotic, God-like status. Later, when I tried to decipher what I had written, I realised it would have been significantly easier for me to decode the ancient Harappan script than my own handwriting.

The Harappan Dilemma

The Harappan script was used by the Indus Valley Civilization some 4,000 years ago. From excavations in present-day Pakistan and Northwest India, archaeologists have recovered several thousand short inscriptions, mostly consisting of four to five signs. To this day, no scholar has successfully deciphered them.

Interestingly, although the cradle of the Indus Valley Civilization sits squarely in the heart of modern Pakistan, that nation claims virtually no cultural heritage from this indisputable historical fact. Due to the civilization’s non-Islamic roots, Pakistan has found it convenient to hand over all cultural heritage claims to India.

The Motions of the Script

In my case, the notepad eventually degenerated into a mere uniform appendage, stuffed awkwardly into the left breast pocket of my tunic. In the Regiment of Artillery, we proudly wear our lanyard on the right shoulder, with its tail end tucked into the right breast pocket. Naturally, the left pocket was surrendered to the notepad.

At the slightest hint of an instruction coming my way from a senior officer, I pulled out the pad and dutifully go through the motions of writing. The pad accompanied me to every conference, briefing, and war game. Like every other officer in the room, I scribbled furiously into it using my personal version of the Harappan script. However, when it actually came time to execute the mission, I found it far more comfortable to rely entirely on my memory.

The Masterpiece Caricature

Captain Desh Raj (now a veteran Colonel) was the self-appointed commander and mentor for all the young officers in our Regiment. A phenomenal sportsman who captained almost every regimental team, he took his role as our guide very seriously.

One day, immediately following the Commanding Officer’s monthly Sainik Sammelan (the CO’s address to all soldiers and officers), Captain Desh Raj summoned the five of us to the anteroom.

“Show me your pads,” he barked. “I want to see the points you noted down from the CO’s briefing.“

Four of us shifted uncomfortably, desperately trying to hide our notebooks. Sensing our hesitation, Captain Desh Raj swiftly snatched the pads from our hands and flipped through them. He looked up, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

“None of you can draw a decent caricature of our Commanding Officer,” he declared. “Your artistic skills need serious honing. Look at my pad. Next time, I want to see a better caricature of the CO than this masterpiece of mine!“

That was the exact moment I realised all that intense note-taking by the young officers was a front. They were doing the exact same thing Captain Desh Raj was doing! Years later, when I became a Battery Commander and eventually a Commanding Officer, I ensured that none of my Sainik Sammelans ever exceeded ten minutes. I was mortally terrified that my subordinates would spend the time drawing a caricature of me, so I simply resolved never to give them the time to do it.

The Thirteen-Month Notepad

In an Army governed entirely by rigid checklists and Standard Operating Procedures (SOPs), I proudly trod a different path, relying solely on my memory. I prioritised, analysed, and filed tasks away inside my mind, executing them to the best of my ability. I had my share of failures, of course, but my fierce dedication to the mission always outweighed my mistakes. I made a silent vow to myself: the day I forgot or failed to execute an assigned task, I would accept the consequences and carry a notepad for the rest of my career. Fortunately, it never came to that.

At the end of our grueling, 13-month Long Gunnery Staff Course, our juniors presented the student officers with mock prizes. You guessed it—I was handed the absolute smallest notepad available in the market. Attached to it was a note: “This will last for your entire military service.”

Outsmarting the Brigade Commander

Later in my career, I was posted as a Brigade Major. Our Brigade Commander was perpetually peeved by my refusal to carry a pad when he summoned me. He tried every command-trick in the book to break my habit, but failed.

One morning, his Personal Assistant (PA) approached me nervously. “Sir, the Brigade Commander has summoned you. Please, carry this pad and pen inside with you.“

To keep the peace, I walked into the Commander’s office holding the pad. He smiled warmly, pleased with his apparent victory, and asked me to take a seat. He proceeded to brief me on ten highly complex tasks. I sat there, religiously noting down every single word onto the notepad. At the end of the brief, thoroughly satisfied that he had finally disciplined his Brigade Major, he called for a cup of tea.

The two of us sipped our tea, chatting amiably about mundane military matters. When we finished, I saluted, left his office, and immediately set out to execute the orders.

An hour later, my phone rang. It was the Commander, requesting a progress report. I methodically briefed him: seven tasks were fully completed, and the remaining three were currently in progress.

Confounded by the speed, he summoned me back to his office. As I walked through the door, he pointed to the center of his desk. There sat the notepad. In my casual departure after tea, I had inadvertently left it right in front of him.

“What is this pad doing here?” he asked, staring at it.

“Sir, it is exactly where it is supposed to be,” I replied evenly. “I don’t need it.“

The Commander, a thorough gentleman, looked at me, exasperated but curious. “Seriously, Reji, tell me—why don’t you carry a pad at all times like every other officer?“

My instant, unfiltered reply was: “Sir, only cricket players and women use pads. I am neither.” (My sincere apologies to anyone who finds the old military humour of that era politically incorrect!)

That did it. The Commander burst out laughing and never asked me to carry a notebook again.

Breaking the Chain

When I finally assumed command of the Regiment, my very first order to our officers was clear: no one was to pull out a notepad the moment I started speaking.

“Listen to me with your full attention,” I told them. “If I feel an instruction is too complicated or likely to cause confusion, my Staff Officer or I will issue it to you in writing with every detail mapped out.”

A few months into my command, our Regimental Havildar Major, Kaptan Singh, approached me with a smile. “Sir, whenever you start a conversation, my hand automatically flies to my left breast pocket to pull out my pad. Then I remember it is an anathema to you, and I snap it back down. Most of our soldiers face the exact same dilemma.“

It was a living testament to that famous, unchanging military axiom: “It is always easier to put a new idea into a military mind, but it is next to impossible to take an old one out!”

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