Humour hidden between the lines

IN the solemn, clockwork world of the Army Headquarters — where files move faster than new recruits and every document must pass through at least seven layers of paperwork — there once roamed a legendary figure: our Deputy Director General (DDG), a Brigadier by rank but a mystery by penmanship. He had earned corridor-wide fame for two remarkable talents: handwriting that looked like abstract art created during an earthquake and laser-sharp concentration that made even submarines seem socially aware.

Picture our morning conference: officers gathered around the table while our DDG remained buried nose-deep in files with the dedication of an archaeologist. Mr X, another officer, politely asked the DDG if he could attend a meeting at a higher headquarters. The Brigadier, still engrossed in his file, nodded without looking up. Mr X left quietly.

Just then, the officer sitting beside me leaned over and whispered like a seasoned astrologer, “Dekhna… ab DDG bolega — ‘Where is Mr X?’” Exactly two minutes later, our leader emerged from his paperwork cave. His eyes swept the room before locking onto me with military precision. “Where is Mr X?” he asked with all the authority of someone who definitely hadn’t just given permission. The room held its collective breath as I fought the urge to salute my prophetic colleague. “Sir, you gave him permission just now. He’s gone to attend the meeting.” The room stayed silent, but I could feel the suppressed chuckles vibrating in the air. My neighbour, the whispering astrologer, gave a smug nod — ‘mission prediction’ was successful.

But if the vanishing act wasn’t enough, the real daily adventure was the DDG’s handwritten drafts. The man trusted no one to type or take dictation — he scribbled every letter, memo and note himself, handing them to me for typing. Unfortunately, his handwriting looked like a spider had slipped in ink and danced across the page during a power cut. Every draft was like a battlefield, and I was the lone soldier staring at mysterious shapes, flipping pages at different angles, holding them up to the light like an archaeologist decoding ancient scrolls.

One fine day, after much inner pep talk, I dared to request politely, “Sir, if you could write a bit more clearly, it would really help.” He looked up, smiled casually and said, “You’ll get used to it. Don’t worry.” I turned to leave, relieved that I hadn’t been court-martialled for the suggestion, when he called out again, this time with unexpected sincerity: “But if you can’t read something, come to me within half an hour… because after that, even I won’t be able to read what I wrote.” And with that, he went back to scribbling the next national puzzle.

And that summed up life under the DDG — full of unexpected comedy, whispered predictions, cryptic codes disguised as handwriting and golden rules such as this one: always decode fast, or the author himself will forget what he meant. Army discipline was strict, but humour, hidden between the lines (sometimes literally), made it all wonderfully unforgettable.

Musings