By Robert Clements
Listen to the Generals..!
My mother didn’t raise me on just verses from the scriptures or moral science textbooks. She raised me on stories—real stories—of her two brothers. One was a top-ranking officer who flew fighter jets with the Indian Air Force, and the other marched his way up the ranks of the Indian Army.
In our house, truth came not just in verses but in uniforms, medals, and the quiet dignity of two men who didn’t boast, but simply served.
And no, these weren’t sugar-coated bedtime tales of valour and victory. These were raw, unfiltered accounts of courage, missteps, and sacrifice. Of having to bail out of an aircraft on fire. Of missions that went wrong. Of fellow officers who never came back. Of orders that didn’t work and had to be changed mid-flight or mid-battle. Strategic errors? Yes. Tactical failures? Certainly. But what stood out was that they were never hidden, never hushed up. They were studied. Acknowledged. Learned from.
That was my mother’s style of parenting. Not lofty quotes from the Bible or stern lessons from Moral Science periods. Just this simple, powerful lesson:
Truth doesn’t make you smaller. It makes you stronger.
Which is why, when I saw our Chief of Defence Staff speaking at a global security dialogue in Singapore recently and admitting, quite bluntly, that “we lost a few aircraft” during Operation Sindoor, I found myself choking on my biscuit. Not out of shock—but out of admiration.
Because here was a man, representing one of the most disciplined arms of our republic, standing on an international platform and saying, “Yes, we made a mistake. And yes, we learned from it.” No drama. No spin. No, “foreign hand” theories. Just plain old honesty.
He even added that the loss helped them tweak their strategy, and that led to eventual success.
Now imagine that. A government functionary who didn’t pull out charts to show how many aircraft we didn’t lose. Who didn’t say, “Have you seen what China lost?” or “At least we’re not Pakistan.” He just… admitted a mistake. And grew from it.
Dear netas, are you listening? Or is the mic muted when truth speaks?
Because every time you deny a mistake, every time you dismiss a credible report, or brush away a burning issue with, “It didn’t happen,” you’re not projecting strength. You’re showcasing something else entirely—insecurity. You start sounding like that kid in school who comes last in class and then shouts, “Anyway, the teacher hates me!”
When generals lose lives, they don’t rewrite history. They write reports. They analyse what went wrong. They issue statements, not slogans. And they certainly don’t call The Economist “anti-national” or suggest that Amnesty International is a “foreign-funded destabilizing agent” without a shred of proof.
They face the facts. That’s what makes them generals.
And what do we have in you politicians? Leaders who would rather plug leaks in data than leaks in bridges. Who refuse to accept international rankings when they’re bad, and then do victory laps when the same bodies say something remotely positive. Who change definitions of “poverty” and “hunger” so they can claim improvement without lifting a grain of rice.
Lynching? “One-off incident.”
Churches vandalized? “Local mischief.”
Press freedoms declining? “Just media exaggeration.”
Religious freedom? “Still the most tolerant in the world.”
Meanwhile, journalists are jailed for tweets, activists vanish under outdated sedition laws, and fact-checkers are booked for spreading facts.
What we need is less spin and more spine.
Because when you lie about small failures, you don’t just deceive the public. You slowly start deceiving yourself. And a nation that begins to believe its own lies becomes immune to correction. Immune to introspection. And eventually… immune to redemption.
Let’s be honest: how long can a house of cards stand when even the breeze is blowing from within?
There’s a reason soldiers earn the nation’s respect without flashy social media campaigns. A general doesn’t need to trend on Twitter to prove his leadership. A commander earns it in the trenches, in the cockpits, in the scars he carries and the coffins he salutes.
Compare that with the politician who jumps at the first opportunity to unveil a plaque, but vanishes when disaster strikes. Who calls for candlelight vigils, but never lights the lamp of truth. Who smiles for every inauguration photo but frowns at every uncomfortable question.
Or maybe, doesn’t face a question or even a press conference full of questions.
So listen to the generals, dear politicians. Not just because they wear stars on their shoulders, but because they earn them. Every single one.
Listen to how they speak. They don’t call dissent “treason.” They don’t call human rights “obstacles.” They don’t build echo chambers—they build battalions. Battalions that function on clarity, courage, and accountability.
And if ever you’re tempted to deny the obvious, to twist the facts, to spin another yarn, do yourself a favour—read a war memoir. Sit with a veteran. Or better still, visit a military cemetery. Maybe Pune or Kohima. Walk down the rows of names etched in stone. None of them lied. None of them ran. They stood their ground. Not on the strength of slogans—but on the strength of truth.
And if you need bedtime stories to learn all this, I still have some of my mother’s. They’re not in any holy book, but they’ve shaped better men than many of those sitting in Parliament today.
So here’s a toast. To the uniformed truth-tellers. To those who lead with courage and speak with clarity. And to a future—hopefully—where our leaders learn that admitting failure isn’t political suicide, but moral resurrection.
Jai Hind. And Jai Truth…!
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