Defence in our own hands: Why indigenisation is India’s most urgent strategic need!

Raju Korti
Six years ago, when General Bipin Rawat helmed the Indian Army, I had penned a detailed article advocating the strategic importance of indigenising our defence production. At the time, the argument rested on long-term foresight -- on the need to be future-ready, to build an industrial-military complex that could match our ambitions as a regional power. Today, that foresight has become an imperative, forced upon us by the intensifying heat of our geography and geopolitics.

With the re-eruption of tensions along the India-Pakistan border, the value of self-reliance in defence is no longer a matter of policy discourse but one of survival and sovereign assertion. In a region riddled with hostility, where even moments of calm are only uneasy truces, relying on foreign markets to equip our forces is a vulnerability we can ill afford.

India is the fifth largest military spender in the world -- a statistic that should ideally align with technological self-sufficiency. Yet, close to 60% of our weapons systems continue to be imported. This isn't just a fiscal drain; it leaves critical gaps in our response mechanism during crises. Foreign suppliers are vulnerable to geopolitical pressures, logistical delays, and at times, even implicit bias. An indigenised defence infrastructure doesn’t merely speak of nationalism -- it signals autonomy, preparedness, and resilience.

To be fair, the Ministry of Defence has been steering policy and investment towards this goal. The emphasis on the Make in India initiative within the defence sector has begun yielding some tangible results. But the road ahead is long and urgent. The three branches of our armed forces -- Army, Navy, and Air Force -- each offer examples of both progress and potential.

The Indian Army’s past dependence on foreign-manufactured assault rifles, particularly the INSAS series, often meant logistical bottlenecks and inter-operability issues. The recent initiative to co-produce the AK-203 rifles in Amethi -- under a joint venture between India and Russia -- is a significant move toward domestic capability. With technology transfer in place, it marks not just a manufacturing shift but a technological one. These rifles are slated to be the backbone of infantry operations in hostile terrains like Kashmir and along the LOC, ensuring frontline soldiers aren’t short-changed on reliability or firepower.

Less conspicuous but immensely consequential is the indigenisation underway in the Indian Navy. Over 60% of its equipment is now built in India. The commissioning of INS Vikrant, India's first indigenously built aircraft carrier, is both a technological and symbolic milestone. So are the Scorpene-class submarines constructed at Mazagon Dock and the range of indigenous warships under Project 15B and Project 17A. Given China's aggressive naval posturing in the Indian Ocean, a self-reliant Navy becomes not just a regional stabilizer but a deterrent force.

The Defence Research and Development Organization (DRDO), often maligned for delays, deserves credit for turning a corner. The Akash surface-to-air missile system, a completely indigenised product, is already operational with the Army and Air Force. The missile has performed reliably in various conditions and adds a credible layer to India’s multi-tiered air defence architecture.

The Light Combat Aircraft (LCA) Tejas, after years of development, is finally gaining traction with the Indian Air Force. It may not yet rival imported platforms in every parameter, but it provides a base upon which India can iterate, improve, and industrialise. Meanwhile, DRDO’s Astra missile, an indigenously developed air-to-air missile, has added teeth to our fighter fleet.

India’s defence research institutions are also working on frontier technologies -- artificial intelligence, unmanned aerial systems, and electronic warfare tools -- that promise to multiply the effectiveness of existing platforms. These initiatives are critical in giving our Air Force the edge in a fast-evolving battlefield where cyber and space dimensions are becoming as important as land and air.

Indigenisation isn’t just about producing a piece of hardware within national borders. It’s about creating ecosystems -- of innovation, of employment, of industrial resilience. It’s about reducing our fiscal deficit by cutting expensive imports. But more critically, it is about gaining strategic autonomy in a world increasingly driven by unpredictable alliances and polarised supply chains.

In 2025, the stakes are far higher than they were when I first wrote on this subject. With hostile neighbours who are both nuclear-armed and unpredictable, India cannot risk a situation where a crucial defence system is caught in customs or locked behind a diplomatic stalemate. The old adage in military doctrine holds true: Amateurs discuss strategy; professionals talk logistics.

The future of our security lies not just on the battlefield, but in our factories, laboratories, and design bureaus. If war is the final test of a nation's sovereignty, then indigenisation is the syllabus we must master before the exam arrives.

In social media we trust (even for airstrikes)!

Raju Korti
Once upon a saner time, wars were confirmed by radar blips and intelligence briefings. Once in a while by the Red Cross activity and reports from war correspondents. Now, we seem to be living in an age where geopolitical victories are measured in likes, retweets, and forwarded WhatsApp messages.

Take the case of Khwaja Asif, a senior Pakistani politician, who recently declared -- with a straight face -- that Pakistan had shot down five Indian jets. When asked for proof, one might expect satellite imagery, radar logs, or at least a shaky video with breathless commentary. Instead, he offered the unimpeachable source of truth: “It’s all over the social media...on Indian social media.

”Yes, sir. Nothing says “military credibility” quite like a grainy meme with Comic Sans font and a watermark that says Indian_Army_Real_Factz_007.This isn’t an isolated incident. Social media has become the new courtroom of public opinion, where a viral video outweighs verified news, and a trending hashtag can practically trigger a United Nations debate. Politicians now check Twitter trends before drafting policy, and influencers can sometimes topple the credibility of journalists armed with facts. Even courtroom verdicts seem subject to what the internet "feels" about the accused.

Remember when a Bollywood celebrity's dog barked oddly and #HauntedPoodle was trending? There were conspiracy theories, fan wars, and even pet psychics weighing in -- all before anyone bothered to check if the dog was just hiccupping.

This is the era of the screenshot gospel. If it is on Instagram, it must be true. If it is not on TikTok, it didn’t happen. And if someone says they shot down five jets but can’t produce a single image or official statement -- well, surely a 13-year-old on Telegram will leak something soon enough.

So the next time you want to declare victory -- in war, love, or even a neighbourly cricket match -- don’t call a press conference. Just post a blurry image, add a crying-laughing emoji, and wait for the algorithm to do its job. After all, in the grand court of social media, viral beats verifiable. Every single time.

The social media validation is already making the mainstream media look like a disruptive technology!

“Mr Pub Ji Najam Sethi” and his ideas of diplomatic charm!

Raju Korti
(By now a baffled, bemused, and barely sober observer of subcontinental absurdities!)

It’s not every day that one hears of diplomacy being reduced to glamourised charm offensives in pubs -- but then, Najam Sethi is no ordinary man. Over the years, he has been a journalist, a cricket board chief, a political whisperer, a talk show regular, and now, apparently, an unpaid scriptwriter for a satirical Netflix series that merges House of Cards with Sex and the City -- set in Islamabad.

I have watched the video thrice now, each time hoping he might wink at the camera to indicate he was joking. But no, there it was, delivered with all the gravitas of a man who once decided that selecting a cricket captain was his true calling. Now, diplomacy too must bear the brunt of his benevolent brainstorming.

Let me summarize: in response to India’s growing influence in Washington, Mr. Sethi, in his infinite wisdom, has proposed that Pakistan send “attractive women” to charm American think tanks, instead of relying on its allegedly “timid bureaucrats.” For someone who has worn many hats, Sethi appears to have now misplaced the one marked “dignity.”

Sethi insists this is how diplomacy works: not with policy papers, hard data, or well-reasoned arguments -- but with park strolls, pub chats, and a hint of flirtatious finesse. I don’t know if this eureka moment struck him during “happy hours” in Lahore but it certainly qualifies as a low point in the already unceremonious pile of foreign policy advice Pakistan has seen.

What next? Trade agreements negotiated over candlelit dinners? UN resolutions rewritten as sonnets?Mind you, this is a country facing global scrutiny over terrorism, and its “senior intellectuals” are mulling whether dim lighting and a dazzling smile might succeed where policy and principle have failed.

The best part is Sethi's contempt for bureaucrats -- those poor souls trying to uphold what’s left of Pakistan’s diplomatic structure. According to him, they’re just not “pub people.” Really, now. Imagine calling your nation’s foreign service timid because they prefer formal memos to bar banter. What are they supposed to do -- practice diplomacy over karaoke?

One wonders, has Najam Sethi ever met an actual think tanker? These are people who yak about use of nuclear weapons during breakfast, lunch and dinner. Sending in “charmers” to debate sanctions and regional instability is like hiring stand-up comedians to negotiate ceasefires.

In one fell swoop, Sethi has also managed to insult the intelligence community -- not the spies, but the policy wonks in Washington, who actually run the think tanks. Apparently, they are so easily swayed that all it takes is a knowing smile and a clever pun about Kashmir to win them over. I am sure they are blushing beetroot red.

Pakistan’s women, quite rightly, erupted in anger. Activists condemned the comments as not just sexist but staggeringly stupid. And I dare say the men didn’t fare much better -- reduced to caricatures of incompetence in Sethi’s telling of the tale.

If Najam Sethi is serious -- and I dread the possibility -- then it is time he rewrote the textbook on diplomacy. Suggested title: High Heels, Low Policy: Soft Power the Sethi Way. Available soon at every bar counter and foreign ministry waiting room near you.

Until then, I suggest we all take a long stroll – preferably with headphones in place -- because the next time Mr. Sethi decides to “think aloud,” we might just find ourselves discussing strategic deterrence over speed dating.

God, Destiny, Providence.. A multi-order differential equation!

Raju Korti
The debate between God and Destiny is as old as human thought itself. Are they two sides of the same coin, or is one merely a human interpretation of the other? Philosophers, theologians, and sceptics have wrestled with this question for centuries, only to end up at the same paradox: if everything is preordained, then what role does God play beyond being an observer? And if God is the grand orchestrator, does free will have any meaning at all?

Destiny, at its core, is the belief that things unfold as they are meant to. It is the cosmic script, indifferent to individual prayers or human intervention. The Greeks called it Moira, the Vedantic tradition speaks of Karma, and modern science may as well call it Determinism. Destiny does not argue, does not plead, and certainly does not negotiate. It moves, unbothered by our aspirations, much like a river flowing inevitably toward the ocean. Even Einstein, who was sceptical of a personal God, believed in an orderly universe governed by laws that left little room for randomness. “God does not play dice with the universe,” he famously said -- though destiny, it seems, might.

God, on the other hand, is often seen as the conscious force behind this script. Depending on whom you ask, God either writes destiny, alters it, or watches it unfold with mild amusement. Some say God is personal, intervening when prayers are sincere enough. Others argue that God is simply an idea, a construct of the human need to find meaning in an indifferent cosmos. If destiny is the path, then God is either the architect or a silent witness -- depending on how much faith one chooses to have.

The real question, then, is whom to trust -- God or destiny? If one believes in destiny, trust is unnecessary; what must happen will happen, regardless of human expectation. If one believes in God, trust is an act of faith, a submission to a higher order that may or may not reveal itself. The paradox is inescapable: those who trust destiny need not pray, and those who trust God must accept that His ways are mysterious.

Perhaps the only reasonable conclusion is that both are merely perspectives of the same grand uncertainty. God is the name we give when we seek comfort; destiny is the explanation we accept when things do not go our way. The wise, it seems, place their faith in neither and instead trust only in the moment—where the past and the future collapse into a single point, unburdened by either God’s plan or destiny’s indifference. And maybe, just maybe, that is where true freedom lies.

Living ghosts in no man's land!

Raju Korti
I can visualize the Attari-Wagah border, a no-man’s-land where the air is thick with tension and uncertainty. I see a group of Pakistani nationals huddle under the scorching sun, their faces etched with despair. They were deported by India in the wake of the April 22, 2025, Pahalgam massacre, a brutal attack that claimed 28 lives and reignited the smouldering enmity between these nuclear-armed neighbours. But Pakistan has slammed its gates shut, refusing to accept its own citizens. Stranded between two nations that reject them, these individuals are caught in a legal and humanitarian purgatory. What happens to them? What is their status when neither country claims them? And has this happened before?

As a witness to this unfolding crisis, I see the human cost of geopolitical brinkmanship. These deportees -- men, women, some with children clutching their hands -- are not just collateral damage in a diplomatic standoff; they are lives suspended in limbo. India, citing security concerns after the massacre, revoked visas and ordered all Pakistani nationals to leave by April 27, 2025. Pakistan, denying involvement in the attack and accusing India of overreach, has refused to open its border, leaving many stranded. The Attari-Wagah crossing, once a symbol of cautious connectivity, is now a closed gate, guarded by soldiers on both sides.

Their legal status is a bureaucratic nightmare. International law, including the principle of non-refoulement, mandates that a country must accept its nationals if they are deported. Yet Pakistan’s refusal defies this norm, and India, unwilling to harbour them, cannot forcibly send them across a sealed border. This leaves the deportees in a stateless-like condition -- not stateless in the legal sense, as they are still Pakistani citizens, but effectively without a country to claim them. India may detain them in camps or jails, as suggested by some observers, while diplomatic wrangling continues. But detention is a stopgap, not a solution. Without legal status to remain in India or a path back to Pakistan, they exist in a gray zone, vulnerable to exploitation, deprivation, and loss of dignity.

The immediate future is grim. India could set up temporary holding facilities, as it has done for other undocumented migrants, but resources are strained, and public sentiment, inflamed by the massacre, is hostile. Some deportees, like Suraj Kumar, who came to India for a pilgrimage, plead for mercy, their visas cancelled through no fault of their own. Others, like Maria Masih, a Pakistani woman married to an Indian, face the agony of potential family separation. Pakistan’s stance, meanwhile, seems driven by a mix of defiance and internal political pressures, with its leadership wary of appearing weak amid accusations of supporting terrorism. A diplomatic resolution could take weeks, months, or longer, leaving these individuals to languish.

If I remember correctly, this is not the first time people have been trapped between nations. History offers chilling parallels. In 1971, after the Bangladesh Liberation War, thousands of Bihari Muslims, considered Pakistani loyalists, were stranded in Bangladesh. Pakistan initially refused to repatriate them, fearing ethnic tensions, while Bangladesh viewed them as outsiders. Many lived in squalid camps, like Geneva Camp in Dhaka, for decades, stateless and forgotten until partial repatriation began in the 1980s. Similarly, in the 1990s, Bhutan expelled ethnic Nepalis, many of whom ended up in refugee camps in Nepal. Bhutan refused their return, and Nepal, unable to absorb them, left them in limbo for years until third countries like the US offered resettlement.

Closer to the present, the 2019 India-Pakistan standoff after the Pulwama attack saw similar border tensions. While not as severe as today’s crisis, cross-border movement froze, and some Pakistani nationals in India faced deportation orders. Most were eventually repatriated after backchannel talks, but the process was slow, and some endured detention. These cases show that resolution often hinges on political will. When governments prioritize posturing over pragmatism, the human toll mounts. Third-party mediation, like the UN or neutral countries, sometimes helps, but Pakistan’s call for a “neutral probe” into the Pahalgam attack has gained little traction, with only China offering tepid support.

What can be done? I watch the picture of a child among the deportees clinging to a tattered bag, her eyes scanning the horizon for hope. Should India provide short-term humanitarian aid -- food, shelter, medical care -- to prevent a crisis from becoming a tragedy? Long-term, both nations need to negotiate, perhaps through backchannels, to resolve the repatriation deadlock. The UN or a neutral body could mediate, though pride and mistrust make this unlikely. The deportees, meanwhile, are pawns in a larger game, their fate tied to the whims of two governments locked in a cycle of retribution.

As the sun dips below the border, casting long shadows over the stranded, I am struck by the absurdity of their plight. They are citizens of a nation that disowns them, guests in a country that expels them. Their story is a stark reminder that when borders become battlelines, it is the vulnerable who pay the price. History tells us this can end -- through diplomacy, pressure, or time -- but until then, these souls remain ghosts in a divided land.

Living ghosts in no man's land!

Raju Korti
I can visualize the Attari-Wagah border, a no-man’s-land where the air is thick with tension and uncertainty. I see a group of Pakistani nationals huddle under the scorching sun, their faces etched with despair. They were deported by India in the wake of the April 22, 2025, Pahalgam massacre, a brutal attack that claimed 28 lives and reignited the smouldering enmity between these nuclear-armed neighbours. But Pakistan has slammed its gates shut, refusing to accept its own citizens. Stranded between two nations that reject them, these individuals are caught in a legal and humanitarian purgatory. What happens to them? What is their status when neither country claims them? And has this happened before?

As a witness to this unfolding crisis, I see the human cost of geopolitical brinkmanship. These deportees -- men, women, some with children clutching their hands -- are not just collateral damage in a diplomatic standoff; they are lives suspended in limbo. India, citing security concerns after the massacre, revoked visas and ordered all Pakistani nationals to leave by April 27, 2025. Pakistan, denying involvement in the attack and accusing India of overreach, has refused to open its border, leaving many stranded. The Attari-Wagah crossing, once a symbol of cautious connectivity, is now a closed gate, guarded by soldiers on both sides.

The Attari-Wagah border

Their legal status is a bureaucratic nightmare. International law, including the principle of non-refoulement, mandates that a country must accept its nationals if they are deported. Yet Pakistan’s refusal defies this norm, and India, unwilling to harbour them, cannot forcibly send them across a sealed border. This leaves the deportees in a stateless-like condition -- not stateless in the legal sense, as they are still Pakistani citizens, but effectively without a country to claim them. India may detain them in camps or jails, as suggested by some observers, while diplomatic wrangling continues. But detention is a stopgap, not a solution. Without legal status to remain in India or a path back to Pakistan, they exist in a gray zone, vulnerable to exploitation, deprivation, and loss of dignity.

The immediate future is grim. India could set up temporary holding facilities, as it has done for other undocumented migrants, but resources are strained, and public sentiment, inflamed by the massacre, is hostile. Some deportees, like Suraj Kumar, who came to India for a pilgrimage, plead for mercy, their visas cancelled through no fault of their own. Others, like Maria Masih, a Pakistani woman married to an Indian, face the agony of potential family separation. Pakistan’s stance, meanwhile, seems driven by a mix of defiance and internal political pressures, with its leadership wary of appearing weak amid accusations of supporting terrorism. A diplomatic resolution could take weeks, months, or longer, leaving these individuals to languish.

If I remember correctly, this is not the first time people have been trapped between nations. History offers chilling parallels. In 1971, after the Bangladesh Liberation War, thousands of Bihari Muslims, considered Pakistani loyalists, were stranded in Bangladesh. Pakistan initially refused to repatriate them, fearing ethnic tensions, while Bangladesh viewed them as outsiders. Many lived in squalid camps, like Geneva Camp in Dhaka, for decades, stateless and forgotten until partial repatriation began in the 1980s. Similarly, in the 1990s, Bhutan expelled ethnic Nepalis, many of whom ended up in refugee camps in Nepal. Bhutan refused their return, and Nepal, unable to absorb them, left them in limbo for years until third countries like the US offered resettlement.

Closer to the present, the 2019 India-Pakistan standoff after the Pulwama attack saw similar border tensions. While not as severe as today’s crisis, cross-border movement froze, and some Pakistani nationals in India faced deportation orders. Most were eventually repatriated after backchannel talks, but the process was slow, and some endured detention. These cases show that resolution often hinges on political will. When governments prioritize posturing over pragmatism, the human toll mounts. Third-party mediation, like the UN or neutral countries, sometimes helps, but Pakistan’s call for a “neutral probe” into the Pahalgam attack has gained little traction, with only China offering tepid support.

What can be done? I watch the picture of a child among the deportees clinging to a tattered bag, her eyes scanning the horizon for hope. Should India provide short-term humanitarian aid -- food, shelter, medical care -- to prevent a crisis from becoming a tragedy? Long-term, both nations need to negotiate, perhaps through backchannels, to resolve the repatriation deadlock. The UN or a neutral body could mediate, though pride and mistrust make this unlikely. The deportees, meanwhile, are pawns in a larger game, their fate tied to the whims of two governments locked in a cycle of retribution.

As the sun dips below the border, casting long shadows over the stranded, I am struck by the absurdity of their plight. They are citizens of a nation that disowns them, guests in a country that expels them. Their story is a stark reminder that when borders become battle lines, it is the vulnerable who pay the price. History tells us this can end -- through diplomacy, pressure, or time -- but until then, these souls remain ghosts in a divided land.

Pak’s nuclear brinkmanship: The time to act Is now!

Raju Korti
The ink had barely dried on condemnations of the latest terrorist strike in Pahalgam when Pakistan’s habitual nuclear sabre-rattling reared its head again. Defence minister Khawaja Asif reminded the world that Pakistan would not hesitate to use nuclear weapons if its "existence" were threatened. Another leader, Hanif Abbasi, upped the ante, warning that 130 warheads, including the Shaheen and Ghaznavi missiles, were already "arranged" for India. As if these threats were some form of diplomatic punctuation.

As an observer of the subcontinent’s precarious geopolitics, I no longer find these threats shocking. I find them deeply, institutionally disturbing.

Pakistan’s casual invocation of nuclear weapons has become more of a pattern than a provocation. It reflects a chronic militaristic impulse rooted not just in fringe elements like the Hafiz Saeeds and Masood Azhars of the world, but worryingly, within Pakistan’s mainstream military and political establishment. The line that separates the state from its so-called non-state actors has long been blurry, perhaps deliberately so.

What we are witnessing today is not the isolated ranting of a rogue minister, but the echo of a state that uses its nuclear arsenal not as a deterrent, but as a diplomatic crutch. The danger is not just in the rhetoric --it’s in the systemic fragility of a nuclear-armed state with a soft underbelly vulnerable to chaos, radicalism, and potential implosion.

Let’s be blunt. A nuclear state that has harboured Osama bin Laden in plain sight, empowered extremist ideologies, and repeatedly collapsed into political instability is not just a regional problem -- it is a global nightmare waiting to unfold.

The United States has long feared the possibility of Pakistan’s nuclear weapons falling into the wrong hands. As far back as 2011, NBC News reported on America’s "snatch-and-grab" contingency plans -- military operations designed to secure Pakistan’s nukes if they were ever at risk of being compromised. That was over a decade ago. Since then, Pakistan has added to its arsenal, expanded its delivery capabilities, and -- according to a senior US official -- may soon have long-range missiles that can reach beyond South Asia.

The fact that such a country is still treated with diplomatic caution—rather than urgent international intervention -- baffles me.

Yes, the "snatch-and-grab" idea has its detractors. Former Pakistani president Pervez Musharraf warned it would trigger "total confrontation." Nuclear physicist Pervez Hoodbhoy has rightly pointed out that Pakistan’s warheads are deeply embedded across tunnels, cities, and military bases. A military intervention could backfire catastrophically.

And yet, doing nothing is even more dangerous.

The world cannot afford to wait for the moment when internal strife, a terrorist breach, or an ideological takeover in Pakistan opens the floodgates to its nuclear arsenal. The scenarios once dismissed as far-fetched are now unsettlingly plausible.First, a credible international coalition -- including the US, India, and other nuclear powers -- must quietly but decisively enhance surveillance, intelligence sharing, and contingency planning specific to Pakistan’s nuclear assets. Second, pressure must be ramped up on Pakistan’s military and intelligence complex -- not just through sanctions, but through isolating key actors involved in nuclear brinkmanship and terror sponsorship.

Third, it is time to end the indulgent fallacy that separates Pakistan’s so-called ‘deep state’ from its elected state. When ministers openly talk of nuclear retaliation, and when radical groups enjoy protective patronage, the distinction is both meaningless and dangerous.

The doctrine of deterrence presumes rational actors. But rationality cannot be assumed in a state where political chaos and radicalism routinely eclipse reason. Unlike India’s declared no-first-use policy, Pakistan’s nuclear posture is alarmingly ambiguous, and its internal volatility makes it even more hazardous.

The time to secure Pakistan’s nukes -- diplomatically, strategically, and if necessary, operationally -- is not after catastrophe strikes. It is before.

The nuclear shadow over South Asia isn’t a Cold War relic. It is a living, breathing, unpredictable threat. And the next time a Pakistani minister waves the nuclear card, the world must stop brushing it off as rhetoric.

It may not be a bluff forever.