A Gritty, No-Nonsense Indian Military History Through The Lens Of A Relentless Commander

Shooting Straight: A Military Biography of Lt Gen. Rostum K. Nanavatty. Arjun Subramaniam. HarperCollins. 2025. Pages 400. Rs 699.

In June 2001, as Delhi prepared for a historic summit, a very different plan was brewing in the mountains of Kashmir. Prime Minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee had invited Pakistan’s military ruler, General Pervez Musharraf, to Agra, raising hopes of peace.

But in the mind of Lieutenant General Rostum K Nanavatty, the newly appointed chief of the Northern Command, the summit’s failure was inevitable. He had seen Pakistan’s playbook too many times to fall for it now.

Nanavatty was no stranger to Kashmir. He had commanded troops in Siachen from 1988 to 1990 and led the 19 Infantry Division in Baramulla during the bloodiest years of the insurgency.

Now, four months into his command, he was ready to change the rules of the game. He proposed something audacious — Operation KABADDI, a series of limited cross-border strikes to capture strategic positions across the Line of Control (LoC).

The idea was simple: punish Pakistan, disrupt terrorist launch pads, and redraw the LoC in India’s favour.

When he laid out the plan before Army Chief General S Padmanabhan, the response was sharp. “Why not brigade-sized operations?” the chief asked. “Are you prepared for escalation?” Nanavatty, ever the strategist, answered with conviction: “Sir, we have the strength and resilience to outlast them.” The chief pressed further, “Will you hold the ground you capture?” “Unless ordered otherwise,” Nanavatty replied.

After a nod of approval, preparations began. By July, units along the LoC were primed for action. Brigades had their objectives mapped, artillery was in position, and battalions were ready to move at a moment’s notice.

The stage was set for a bold move. Had the green light been given, the LoC would have been redefined forever. But then, it was September 2001, and the world had changed.

This is just one episode among many — decisions made in war rooms, gambles that almost played out, and battles that never happened — that Air Vice Marshal Arjun Subramaniam pieces together to offer an unfiltered look at the man, his leadership, and the moments that shaped India’s recent military history in Shooting Straight: A Military Biography of Lt Gen. Rostum K. Nanavatty.

Battles Lost

Nanavatty wasn’t one to let others chart his course.

As a young officer navigating the intricacies of counterinsurgency in Nagaland’s jungles, he turned down the role of Aide-De-Camp (ADC) to then General Officer Commanding-in-Chief, Eastern Command, Sam Manekshaw — just years before he became Chief of Staff.

Years later, he’d get an earful from Manekshaw’s daughter about that decision, but it did little to change his ways. A few years down the line, he would turn down another future chief just as easily.

By 1977, when infantry battalions were being handpicked for conversion into mechanised units, Lieutenant Krishnaswamy Sundarji — who by then knew Nanavatty well — asked if he’d consider making the switch. The answer, unsurprisingly, was no.

But fate has a way of dictating its own course.

In the 1970s, despite the fluctuating tides of India–United States (US) relations, the Indian Army quietly took advantage of American military aid programmes, securing limited spots for its officers in specialised training courses.

One such programme was the Infantry Officers’ Advanced Course at Fort Benning, Georgia — a rigorous career course designed for US Army captains. Nanavatty’s name made the list, though not without an interesting backstory of its own, and by August 1971, he was en route to Fort Benning.

Back home, history was unfolding. The subcontinent stood on the brink of war. As tensions escalated and whispers of battle turned to certainty, Nanavatty grappled with a soldier’s worst frustration — the prospect of being left out. He had arrived too late for the 1962 war and had missed out during the 1965 conflict too, though not for lack of trying. Now, stationed thousands of miles away in the US, he feared missing yet another war.

Determined to fight, he pursued every possible avenue.

When war became increasingly imminent, Nanavatty reached out to the Indian Military Attache in Washington, hoping for an order to return to his unit. No such order came.

Frustrated but undeterred, he took a bold step — writing directly to General Manekshaw, then the chief, pleading to be pulled from the course.

The reply was swift and firm: officers abroad would not be recalled. Unwilling to accept defeat, he turned to his last hope — his father, Kaikhushru Nanavatty, who had a personal rapport with Manekshaw. But even that connection did not work.

“I quite understand Rostum’s anxiety to get back and be where the fighting is—indeed, I would expect nothing less from him,” Manekshaw told Kaikhushru. “But he, too, has a job to do there, which is to imbibe higher education for the higher ranks that await him in the future.”

Nanavatty had tried everything. He had pushed the system, tested the hierarchy, and even invoked personal connections. But he wasn’t angling for favours — he was a soldier desperate to be where he belonged.

Like the disappointment of missing the action in 1965 and 1971, Nanavatty’s unwavering penchant for ‘shooting straight’ — whether in his writings or his assessments of operational realities — would remain with him for the rest of his career. His candour would earn him both admiration and exasperation in equal measure, along with a few seven-point reports and, one suspects, some deeply exasperated sighs from his commanders.

...And Battles Won

​Following a brief tenure in Sri Lanka, where the Indian Peace Keeping Force (IPKF) faced significant challenges combating the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE), Nanavatty volunteered to lead the 102 Infantry Brigade stationed at the Siachen Glacier.

Siachen was a world away from Sri Lanka, both in terms of climate and combat. Here, there were no dense jungles or hidden rebels — only an expanse of ice and rock where survival itself was half the battle.

The origins of the conflict dated back to Operation Meghdoot in 1984, when India had moved swiftly to occupy the glacier before Pakistan could stake its claim. The Pakistanis, having realised their misstep, had since been trying to claw their way back into a position of strength.

By the time Nanavatty assumed command in late 1988, Siachen had settled into a brutal rhythm of survival and sporadic skirmishes. His mission was clear: maintain control of the Actual Ground Position Line (AGPL) at all costs.

Despite his reputation as an experienced soldier, he was no natural-born mountain warrior. But this was an opportunity to soldier in the high mountains to overcome his fears. He had to learn, and learn he did — quickly and firsthand.

"Often I would “cheat”—fly in and walk out!" Nanavatty tells Subramaniam.

His deep dives into the glacier’s treacherous terrain paid dividends. He began to understand its quirks — the unpredictable weather patterns, the invisible crevasses that could swallow men whole, and most importantly, the enemy’s movements.

He knew that controlling the battlefield in Siachen meant not just holding positions but also being able to dominate the enemy through observation and precision fire. And that’s when the Bofors guns arrived.

India’s newly acquired Bofors 155mm FH 77 towed guns were the talk of military circles, and in Siachen, Nanavatty was about to see just how effective they could be.

A trial engagement was ordered, with the target being a Pakistani position ominously named ‘New Bunker’ in the Bilafond La sector. As the first shells were fired, the impact was immediate and spectacular. Watching the precision with which the Bofors struck the target, Nanavatty was impressed. This trial, he believes, was probably the first time the Bofors gun was fired in anger anywhere in the world.

By the winter of 1988-89, Brigadier Nanavatty was satisfied with the hold India had gained over the enemy in the Northern Glacier. It was time to push further. His eyes turned to the Central and Southern Glacier Sub Sectors.

On one of his aerial reconnaissance flights, Nanavatty spotted something too good to miss — a Pakistani camp nestled in the Chumik Glacier, likely supporting enemy positions on the Saltoro Ridge. The sight of the camp against the white snow made it an irresistible target. As the aircraft banked, Nanavatty muttered, “Another good test for the Bofors battery.”

Back at the base camp, he ordered an air OP shoot on Chumik Camp. The first attempt failed — terrain complications created "dead ground," rendering the artillery fire ineffective. With no immediate success, the attacks were called off. Shortly after, Nanavatty went on leave. His deputy, Colonel J K Sharma, took charge.

During his break, Nanavatty was informed that all was not well in Siachen. However, he believed he would have been alerted if any urgent situation had arisen.

Returning to duty, he was reassured that everything was under control. But the truth soon emerged — Sharma had made another attempt to shell Chumik Camp, again without success. Worse, intelligence reported that the Pakistanis had inducted a Special Service Group (SSG) company into the area.

Alarm bells rang. Sharma feared that the enemy was planning to seize Point (Pt) 6400, the highest feature in the Central Glacier Sub Sector.

Resolved to stay ahead of the enemy, Sharma deployed troops to secure the feature, accomplishing the mission without encountering any Pakistani opposition.

But when Nanavatty returned, he wasn’t thrilled. “It gave us no real advantage except to boast about occupying another peak,” he said bluntly.

The enemy’s existing positions already overlooked supply routes, and holding Pt 6400 would only add another 21,000-foot post that needed costly air support. To him, Pakistan’s lack of interest in the feature all these years spoke volumes.

The enemy soon responded. In a daring move, Pakistani SSG commandos were transported underslung by helicopters and dropped onto the Saltoro Ridge. As they advanced, they ran into Indian troops near Pt 6400.

The Pakistanis encountered a "protective element of 2 DOGRA...In the ensuing firefight, the enemy suffered casualties and left behind two AK-47 rifles and a Commando dagger," Subramaniam writes, adding, "The Pakistani narrative not surprisingly is different."

By early May, Pt 6400 was on the brink. Supply routes were gone, a helicopter sat disabled on the precarious helipad used for supplies, and wounded soldiers awaited evacuation.

On 5 May, with his superiors present, Nanavatty didn’t sugarcoat it — 'Either we call for a ceasefire or be prepared to lose our men on Pt 6400.'

The room went silent. After an exchange of glances, Lieutenant General B C Nanda, the General Officer Commanding-in-Chief, Northern Command, suggested contacting the Director General of Military Operations. Flag meetings followed in Kargil soon after.

The first meeting quickly resulted in an immediate ceasefire, allowing the wounded to be evacuated and the stranded helicopter to be flown out in a daring manoeuvre. But the ceasefire came too late for a Junior commissioned officer (JOC) and six soldiers at the support base, who perished in an avalanche.

The JCO’s last words over the radio were haunting: “Sahib, hum yahan se nikal nahi payenge: sab ko hammer Ram Ram keh dena. (We won’t make it out of here. Give our best to everyone.)”

During a second meeting, Nanavatty was directed to present a demand Pakistan would never entertain. Sure enough, the Pakistani negotiator promptly gathered his papers and left the table. By the third meeting, pragmatism took over.

Operation IBEX cost Pakistan five officers and eight soldiers, while India lost one JCO and seven soldiers. Critics later accused Nanavatty of surrendering the initiative, but he remained firm:

"The elevation of the feature apart, it had little or no tactical significance; our ability to administratively support the post was uncertain; and there was the question of the safety of our men—I am sure we did the right thing by seeking a ceasefire."

Nanavatty's view has prevailed.

Preserving Military History

Military history is not merely a record of battles but a repository of decisions, dilemmas, and doctrines that continue to inform contemporary strategic thinking.

Nanavatty’s audacious plan to redraw the LoC in 2001, thwarted by the global impact of 9/11, and his pragmatic retreat from Pt 6400 in Siachen are not isolated anecdotes but windows into the strategic calculus that underpins national security decision-making.

These stories, often confined to war rooms or shared in hushed tones among veterans, hold lessons for both military practitioners and civilian policymakers.

Subramaniam’s narrative situates Nanavatty’s career — from the dense forests of Nagaland to the icy desolation of Siachen — within the broader evolution of India’s security landscape. Yet, his thwarted ambitions in 1965 and 1971, tactical ingenuity in Sri Lanka, and steady leadership in Kashmir during the turbulent 1990s represent just one thread in a vast tapestry.

This era also saw nuclear weapon testing, the Kargil War, unrest in Punjab, and persistent insurgencies in the North East — pivotal episodes whose countless untold stories risk fading into obscurity.

As veterans age and firsthand accounts grow scarce, the risk of losing these lessons to time, classified files, or reticence heightens. This effort is not merely academic but a matter of national security, ensuring the past continues to shape tomorrow’s strategies.