As grief slowly turns into burning rage, India once again faces the grim and painful reality of terrorism sponsored from across its western border. Years and decades of Pakistan's deliberate encouragement and covert support of violent jihadist activities have pushed India to a tipping point. New Delhi, responding swiftly, is now moving to diplomatically isolate Islamabad while also cautiously planning tougher and more resolute countermeasures behind the scenes.

The trigger for this fresh wave of fury is the horrifying massacre at Pahalgam, which shook the conscience of the entire nation. Hindu tourists were meticulously identified, hunted down, and mercilessly executed in cold blood. Reports revealed the shocking details of the attackers religiously profiling victims, with some even forced to disrobe to confirm circumcision—an appalling and grotesque display of hate. The sheer brutality of this slaughter, the carefully planned targeting, and the indescribable humiliation inflicted upon innocent civilians have set off an eruption of nationwide anger. India is no longer content with just mourning; it is loudly and unmistakably demanding justice—and beyond that, a stern retribution.

Yet, even in this hour of national anguish, political unity remains elusive. The knives of political rivalry are already out, with some Congress leaders choosing to mock and openly challenge the government instead of standing united against terror. Former Punjab Chief Minister Charanjit Singh Channi publicly cast doubt on the Balakot airstrikes carried out by the Indian Air Force. Another Congress leader, Ajay Rai, took political theatrics to a disturbing level by parading around with a toy Rafale jet decorated absurdly with lemons and chilies—actions blatantly trivializing critical national security concerns. This was indeed political theatre at its absolute worst, mocking both the nation's grief and its resolve.

Even more disturbing is the selective memory or deliberate amnesia exhibited by the Congress. In their attempt to portray Prime Minister Modi and the BJP as hesitant or weak in confronting Pakistan—a claim the BJP swiftly and robustly rejects, especially when contrasting Modi’s actions with former Prime Minister Manmohan Singh's inaction following the devastating 26/11 attacks—the Congress conveniently ignores its own troubled and damaging legacy. Over decades of Congress rule, a series of grave geopolitical and strategic errors were made, which directly contributed to the ongoing crisis in Kashmir.

One of these critical and costly errors was the decision to return the Haji Pir Pass.

The mountain pass that should have never been returned

India's extraordinary military triumph over Pakistan in the 1965 war offered an unprecedented and historic strategic advantage. Among the most significant territorial gains was the Haji Pir Pass. Positioned dramatically at an altitude of 2,637 meters in the formidable Pir Panjal mountain range, this was far more than just high ground—it was a strategic asset of immense tactical importance. The pass provided India with a vastly shorter, safer, and strategically critical corridor connecting Jammu and Kashmir, which would have significantly impeded cross-border infiltration from Pakistan.

In August 1965, beneath the shadow of heavy monsoon clouds and amidst relentless enemy fire, the Indian Army executed a daring, near-impossible military operation. Major (later Lt Gen) Ranjit Singh Dayal led a small group of elite soldiers from the renowned 1st Para Special Forces through the dangerous, slippery, and virtually inaccessible terrain of the Hyderabad Nallah. With only biscuits packed as their sustenance, these soldiers courageously advanced under the protective cloak of darkness and heavy rainfall. Their grit and determination were extraordinary. By the break of dawn on August 26, against all odds, they had succeeded—the strategically vital Haji Pir Pass was securely in Indian hands.

This operation was nothing short of remarkable—a genuine military miracle accomplished with sheer bravery, strategic brilliance, and minimal resources.

At this time, Pakistan was deeply engaged in executing "Operation Gibraltar"—an aggressive strategy aimed at infiltrating thousands of irregular fighters into Jammu and Kashmir, using the Haji Pir Bulge as a convenient infiltration route. Vast caches of arms and ammunition were being secretly stockpiled behind enemy lines. Recognizing the imminent threat, Indian Army Chief General J.N. Chaudhury decisively called for swift and aggressive action. His directive was straightforward and bold: “Make them react to us,” he ordered—and this is precisely what the Indian Army did, swiftly turning the tables on Pakistan.

Haji Pir Pass was captured by Indian Armed Forces in 1965 war

The daring operation to seize the Haji Pir Pass by the Indian Army was not merely a symbolic victory; it decisively disrupted Pakistan’s meticulously laid plans. By capturing this strategic location, India effectively blocked critical infiltration routes that Pakistan intended to exploit, throwing their aggressive designs into utter chaos. However, India's triumph soon faced a fierce and desperate Pakistani response. Just days after losing Haji Pir, Islamabad launched Operation Grand Slam, a swift and aggressive blitzkrieg-like offensive aimed directly at Akhnoor. The clear intent was chilling—to sever the vital link between Jammu and Kashmir and the rest of India, effectively isolating the region entirely.

Recognizing the imminent threat, India rapidly mounted a powerful counter-offensive. On September 6, Indian forces launched bold attacks penetrating deep into Pakistan, targeting strategically vital areas around Lahore and Sialkot. This audacious maneuver forced Pakistan’s forces into a defensive retreat, narrowly preventing a potential disaster. Had Operation Grand Slam succeeded, Pakistan would have controlled the critical Jammu-Srinagar highway, thereby capturing the entire state. Thankfully, disaster was narrowly averted, but only just.

Yet, the hard-earned strategic advantage, won by the blood, bravery, and sacrifice of Indian soldiers on the unforgiving terrain, was short-lived. Diplomacy, distant from the battlegrounds, would soon reverse this crucial achievement, undermining India's military gains.

Tashkent: Where strategic advantage was traded for the chimera of peace

Merely five months after this critical victory, in a distant diplomatic setting thousands of miles away, India's strategic advantage slipped irreversibly through its fingers. During the Soviet-brokered peace talks held at Tashkent, Prime Minister Lal Bahadur Shastri agreed, inexplicably, to return the strategically vital Haji Pir Pass back to Pakistan. The Tashkent Declaration was formally signed on January 10, 1966, sealing India's diplomatic surrender. Tragically, the very next day, Shastri died mysteriously, further deepening the sense of betrayal felt across the nation. For countless Indians, this was not diplomatic negotiation—it was capitulation, plain and simple.

This decision became a disturbing precedent, especially starkly remembered during the 1971 Bangladesh war of liberation, when India again chose diplomacy over strategic interest. Despite capturing approximately 93,000 Prisoners of War from Pakistan, India inexplicably agreed to release them, once more chasing the elusive illusion of lasting peace with a nation that has historically defined its very existence by deep-seated hostility towards India.

The Indian military establishment was shocked and stunned by the decision taken in Tashkent. This diplomatic surrender had two devastating consequences. Firstly, it allowed Pakistan to regain control over a key infiltration corridor, enabling endless insurgencies and terrorist attacks. Secondly, India relinquished a priceless geographic advantage—territory that had the potential to permanently transform the Kashmir conflict in India's favor. And yet, despite the hard-earned advantage, India willingly surrendered the very terrain that could have permanently secured its strategic flank.

A missed opportunity in 1971

In the immediate aftermath of the 1965 ceasefire, India undeniably held significant strategic leverage. Pakistani forces had come dangerously close—just four kilometers from the crucial Akhnoor bridge. Driven by fear of a renewed Pakistani offensive that could endanger Jammu, Indian policymakers made a critical decision. In return for Pakistan’s withdrawal from the sensitive Chhamb region, India agreed, reluctantly, to give back control of the Haji Pir Pass—a decision that would haunt strategic thinkers for decades to come.

However, the real tragedy was yet to unfold. Despite a golden opportunity during the decisive 1971 war, when India enjoyed overwhelming military superiority and strategic momentum, it surprisingly never attempted to retake Haji Pir. Lt Gen Ranjit Singh Dayal, the architect of the original 1965 victory, later reflected with deep regret, stating clearly: “It was a mistake to hand it back. Our people don’t read maps.”

Indeed, maps narrated the strategic truth with unerring clarity. Maj Gen (Retd.) Sheru Thapliyal emphasized how keeping Haji Pir would have drastically limited Pakistani infiltration into the Kashmir Valley, Poonch, and Rajouri. It could have dramatically shortened the vital road connecting Jammu to Srinagar via Uri and Poonch by 200 kilometers, making the route significantly safer and easier to defend.

Veteran special forces officer P.C. Katoch offered an even starker analysis: the pass might appear modest in terms of altitude, but its military significance was unquestionably immense. The bitter irony? India’s crucial strategic advantage was lost—not in the fierce heat of battle—but quietly, inexplicably, around a diplomatic negotiating table.

Strategic advantage lost at a negotiating table

The painful saga of Haji Pir is more than a historical footnote; it serves as a profound lesson in strategic decision-making, vividly illustrating the stark divide between military victories and political compromises. This narrative is a reflection of India's struggles with strategic clarity—of extraordinary victories achieved by courageous soldiers being squandered by politicians who lacked the foresight or willingness to recognize their importance. It is a story of maps misunderstood, sacrifices forgotten, and strategic lessons repeatedly ignored.

Today, as India faces yet another violent provocation, the memory of the Haji Pir fiasco becomes critically important, serving as an enduring and solemn reminder. Some strategic opportunities rarely, if ever, come a second time. When they do appear again, the nation must not hesitate, falter, or forget the past's painful lessons. Some mistakes might eventually be forgiven or forgotten by history. However, others, like the strategic blunder involving Haji Pir, remain permanently etched into the rugged mountains themselves—forever seared into the consciousness of a nation that must heed its historical mistakes if it hopes to secure a peaceful, secure, and strategically sound future.