Terror in Pahalgam, betrayal in Tashkent: How Congress’ strategic blunder of returning Haji Pir Pass to Pakistan in 1966 continues to bleed India

As grief gives way to fury, a seething India finds itself once again confronting the reality of jihadist terror nurtured across its western border. Decades of Pakistani complicity in fomenting violence have brought the nation to a boiling point. New Delhi now pushes for Pakistan’s diplomatic isolation, while quietly weighing tougher, more decisive countermeasures.

The trigger this time—a horrifying act of savagery in Pahalgam. Hindu tourists were hunted down and executed in cold blood, reportedly after being religiously profiled. Some were even forced to disrobe to confirm circumcision—a grotesque ritual of hate. The brutal nature of the killings, the calculated targeting, and the indignity inflicted on the victims have ignited nationwide outrage. India is no longer just mourning—it is demanding justice, and more than that, retribution.

Yet, amid this national reckoning, the political knives are out. Some Congress leaders, instead of standing with the nation, have chosen to mock and question the government. Former Punjab Chief Minister Charanjit Singh Channi cast doubts on the Balakot airstrikes. Congress leader Ajay Rai went further, waving a toy Rafale jet adorned with lemons and chilies, making a mockery of national security.

It is political theatre at its worst.

Worse still is the amnesia. In attempting to portray Prime Minister Modi and the BJP as hesitant to act against Pakistan—a claim the BJP vigorously counters, especially when contrasting it with former PM Manmohan Singh’s post-26/11 inaction—Congress ignores its own damaging legacy. A long series of miscalculations, both geographic and geopolitical, committed under Congress rule, sowed the seeds of today’s Kashmir crisis.

One of the most costly? The return of the Haji Pir Pass.

The mountain pass that should have never been returned

India’s resounding military victory in the 1965 war with Pakistan offered an unprecedented strategic opportunity. Among the most critical gains was the Haji Pir Pass—perched at 2,637 meters in the formidable Pir Panjal range, it wasn’t just a patch of high ground. It was a tactical prize that offered a vastly shorter and more secure land corridor between Jammu and Kashmir. Retaining it could have made cross-border infiltration arduous, if not impossible.

In August 1965, under the shadow of monsoon clouds and enemy fire, the Indian Army launched a daring offensive. Major (later Lt Gen) Ranjit Singh Dayal led the elite 1st Para Special Forces through the treacherous Hyderabad Nallah. With just biscuits in their packs, they struck under cover of rain and darkness. By dawn on August 26, the impossible had been done—Haji Pir Pass was in Indian hands.

It was a feat of military brilliance, unheard of in 1965, achieved with raw courage and minimal resources.

At the time, Pakistan was executing Operation Gibraltar—a plan to infiltrate thousands of irregulars into Jammu and Kashmir, using the Haji Pir Bulge as a funnel. Behind enemy lines, arms and supplies were stockpiled. Indian Army Chief General J.N. Chaudhury called for bold, offensive action. “Make them react to us,” he ordered—and that’s exactly what the Army did.

The operation not only plugged infiltration routes but also threw Pakistan’s plans into disarray. But just days later, Islamabad launched Operation Grand Slam, a blitzkrieg-like attack on Akhnoor meant to sever Jammu and Kashmir from the rest of India. India’s quick counter-offensive on September 6, pushing into Lahore and Sialkot, forced Pakistan to pull back. Had it succeeded, Pakistan would have taken control of the Jammu-Srinagar highway, and with it, the entire state. Disaster was averted—barely.

But what was won by sweat and blood on the ground was soon lost to diplomacy in a conference room abroad.

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

Just five months later, during the Soviet-brokered Tashkent talks, Prime Minister Lal Bahadur Shastri agreed to return Haji Pir to Pakistan. The declaration was signed on January 10, 1966. Shastri died mysteriously the very next day. For many, it wasn’t diplomacy. It was capitulation.

And those who closely followed the 1971 Bangladesh war of liberation, it was an appalling precedent that came back to haunt India, when it agreed to return 93,000 Prisoners of War captured in Bangladesh, again while chasing the chimera of peace with a nation whose identity was deeply rooted in its pathological animosity towards India.

The surrender in Tashkent had stunned military establishment as it led to two crippling disadvantages: Pakistan retained a key infiltration route, and India lost a critical piece of geography that could’ve altered the Kashmir equation permanently.

For many back in India, it wasn’t just surrender, it was an opportunity lost to secure its flank permanently.

A missed opportunity in 1971

After the 1965 ceasefire, India had leverage. Pakistani forces were just four kilometers from the vital Akhnoor bridge. Indian policymakers, fearing another dagger thrust at Jammu, agreed to return Haji Pir in exchange for Pakistani withdrawal from Chhamb.

The real tragedy? India never attempted to retake Haji Pir in the 1971 war, despite having overwhelming superiority and strategic momentum on the Western front. As Lt Gen Dayal would later reflect, “It was a mistake to hand it back. Our people don’t read maps.”

Indeed, maps tell the tale clearly. According to Maj Gen (Retd.) Sheru Thapliyal, had Haji Pir remained with India, infiltration into the Kashmir Valley, Poonch, and Rajouri would have been drastically reduced. The road from Jammu to Srinagar via Uri and Poonch would have been 200 km shorter—and far more secure.

Veteran special forces officer P.C. Katoch put it plainly: the pass, though modest in altitude, was mighty in military significance. And yet, it was lost—not in battle, but at the negotiating table.

Strategic advantage lost at a negotiating table

The saga of Haji Pir is not merely a chapter in military history. It is a mirror held up to India’s strategic thinking—of victories won by soldiers but lost by politicians. It is a tale of maps ignored, sacrifices squandered, and hard lessons still unlearned.

Today, as India faces yet another bloody provocation, the story of Haji Pir serves as a solemn reminder: some opportunities don’t come twice. And when they do, the nation must not flinch, falter, or forget.

Some mistakes are forgiven. Others, like Haji Pir, are etched into the mountains—and seared on to the memory of a nation that must learn from its past to safeguard its future.

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