This Biblical verse has echoed with a grim resonance in India following the recent terror attack in Pahalgam, Jammu and Kashmir. As yet another tragedy unfolds in the valley, it revives bitter memories and unresolved wounds — reminding Indians of a fateful decision made six decades ago, when a hard-earned strategic advantage was handed back to Pakistan in the name of peace. The Haji Pir Pass, a crucial infiltration route and a symbol of squandered military gains, continues to be a metaphor for India’s “original sin” in Kashmir.
Perched at 2,637 meters (8,652 feet) in the Pir Panjal range, the Haji Pir Pass connects Poonch in Jammu & Kashmir with Rawalakot in Pakistan-occupied Kashmir (PoK). This high-altitude corridor is not just a path through rugged mountains—it’s a lifeline for Pakistan’s infiltration strategy and a chronic vulnerability in India’s defense apparatus.
Before the partition of India in 1947, the main route between Poonch and Uri passed through Haji Pir. It offered an efficient connection between Jammu and the Kashmir valley. Once Pakistan occupied this area during the 1947-48 war, the road became unusable, and India lost direct access to a region that would become a security nightmare.
Had India retained control of Haji Pir, it could have:
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Severed Pakistan’s primary infiltration route into the Kashmir valley.
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Shortened military and civilian transit routes between Poonch and Uri (from 282 km to 56 km).
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Improved logistics and border security.
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Retained a continuous reminder of Pakistan’s tenuous hold over PoK.
Instead, the post-war negotiations of 1965 saw India voluntarily return the pass — a decision many veterans, strategists, and political leaders have since described as nothing short of catastrophic.
In August 1965, Pakistan launched Operation Gibraltar, hoping to spark an uprising in the Kashmir valley by sending thousands of trained guerrillas to incite rebellion. Islamabad believed India, demoralized after the 1962 war with China, would collapse under pressure. Pakistani President Ayub Khan even arrogantly proclaimed, “Hindu morale would not stand more than a couple of blows.”
But instead of a rebellion, Pakistan met resistance. Indian forces counter-attacked, crossing the Ceasefire Line (CFL), and launched Operation Bakshi to capture the Haji Pir Bulge.
Led by Brigadier ZC Bakshi and his 68 Infantry Brigade under 19 Division, the Indian Army undertook a grueling campaign. The mountains were treacherous. The rains were relentless. But Indian troops advanced relentlessly. Capturing Sank and Ledwali Gali, Brigadier Bakshi took a bold, unauthorized decision—skip the next planned attack on Bedori and head straight for Haji Pir.
Major Ranjit Singh Dayal and his battalion climbed through the night of August 27 and, against overwhelming odds, took Haji Pir Pass by dawn on August 28. Pakistan launched counterattacks the next day. They failed. For a brief moment in history, India had a rare upper hand—militarily and strategically.
But on January 10, 1966, the Tashkent Agreement erased that achievement. Under Soviet mediation, India and Pakistan agreed to return to pre-war positions. Haji Pir, captured with blood and courage, went back to Pakistan.
Lieutenant General DB Shekatkar (retd), a noted defense expert, put it bluntly: “If you start losing the gains of war at the negotiating table, they become a disincentive for future wars.”
This pattern repeated itself.
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In 1971, despite having 93,000 Pakistani prisoners of war and occupying over 9,000 sq km of territory, India didn’t press for the return of Haji Pir or the Chhamb sector.
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In 1999, during the Kargil conflict, India had battlefield initiative but made no move toward reclaiming Haji Pir, which could have neutralized infiltration permanently.
Instead, Haji Pir remained what it is today—Pakistan’s most effective artery for cross-border infiltration, the launching point for many terror attacks, and a persistent reminder of India’s strategic naïveté.
The cost of returning Haji Pir is not just symbolic. It is real, painful, and measured in lives lost in Kashmir over the decades.
Terrorists entering through Haji Pir have targeted soldiers, civilians, and political leaders. It has become the entry point for countless attacks in Baramulla, Kupwara, Poonch, and Pulwama. The people of Jammu and Kashmir, and especially those in the border belts, have paid the heaviest price.
Lt Gen Ranjit Singh Dyal, the man who captured Haji Pir and later served as Governor of Andaman and Punjab, lamented in a 2002 interview: “It was a mistake to hand it back. The pass would have given India a definite strategic advantage… our people don’t read maps.”
The terrain matters. Geography matters. Strategy matters. And losing all of them at the table, when they’ve been won on the battlefield, is a failure of statecraft.
Successive governments have ignored the mistake—or worse, defended it. But over time, there’s been a shift. India’s current Defense Minister, Rajnath Singh, made an unusually candid admission in January 2024. Speaking at an Armed Forces Veterans Day event in Jammu’s Akhnoor, he said:
“If it [Haji Pir] was not returned at the negotiating table, the infiltration routes of militants could have been closed.”
That admission reflects what veterans and military historians have long argued: New Delhi’s failure to convert strategic advances into lasting advantage has crippled India’s counter-terrorism efforts in Kashmir.
India has had multiple chances to undo the mistake:
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In 1971, after the Indo-Pak war and Pakistan’s surrender.
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In 1999, when Indian forces pushed Pakistani troops out of Kargil heights.
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Even post-Uri (2016) and Pulwama (2019), when India demonstrated the political will for cross-border action.
Yet, the Haji Pir Pass remains with Pakistan. And infiltration continues.
There’s an analogy gaining ground in Indian strategic circles: the Crimea comparison.
Just as Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev “gifted” Crimea to Ukraine in 1954—a decision that Vladimir Putin reversed 60 years later with military force—India “gifted” Haji Pir to Pakistan in 1966, despite holding all the aces. Some defense commentators now argue that the time has come for India to reclaim what was once rightfully its own.
But the stakes are higher than before.
Unlike 1965, today’s geopolitics are more complex. China’s increased involvement in Ladakh and PoK, rising tensions along the Line of Actual Control, and an emboldened Taliban-Pakistan nexus raise the risk of a larger conflict. Reclaiming Haji Pir today won’t be a local military operation—it could provoke a wider war.
Yet, the strategic logic remains compelling. Holding Haji Pir would:
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Eliminate the single biggest infiltration corridor used by terrorists.
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Provide India leverage in any future negotiations on Kashmir or PoK.
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Shift the psychological balance in India’s favor.
What does reclaiming Haji Pir look like in 2025 and beyond?
It’s not just about tanks or troops. It’s about political will, diplomatic maneuvering, and military preparedness.
India’s evolving doctrine, as seen in the Balakot airstrikes and surgical operations, signals a readiness to act beyond its borders when necessary. But retaking Haji Pir would be a vastly more ambitious—and risky—undertaking.
However, the status quo is unsustainable. The recent Pahalgam attack is a chilling reminder of that. Unless India fixes the hole in its security architecture—the one that lies at 2,637 meters in the Pir Panjal range—it will continue to suffer from the same script: infiltration, terrorism, bloodshed, regret.
The story of Haji Pir is not just military history. It is a parable about foresight, or the lack of it. About choices made under pressure, and their long-term consequences. About missed opportunities, and the price of magnanimity in geopolitics.
India had Haji Pir once. It won it with valor, only to lose it to diplomacy without dividends. Three generations later, that decision still bleeds the country. If the recent terror attacks are any indication, the time for moral reckoning is over. Strategic correction is overdue.
