Beyond the Battery: Why Hydrogen Still Matters in the Future of Transport

A personal recollection of electric transport, stored energy, hydrogen and the continuing search for a practical replacement for petrol and diesel

© Dhinakar Rajaram 2026

Foreword

Transport technology is often discussed as though the present generation has invented the questions that it is trying to answer. The reality is rather different. The search for an alternative to petrol and diesel has been continuing for well over a century, and both battery-electric propulsion and hydrogen-powered transport have histories considerably older than today's headlines suggest.

My own interest in this subject goes back more than three decades. Some of what I remember comes from what I encountered in the early 1990s; some comes from things I subsequently saw, studied and experienced; and some has acquired a new significance as technologies that once appeared futuristic have begun to return to practical transportation.

This essay therefore combines personal recollection with historical and technological examination. Where an old recollection cannot now be independently established, I have treated it as recollection rather than fact. Where historical records are available, I have allowed the record to speak for itself.

The central question is not whether batteries are good or bad. Batteries are an extraordinary technology and have transformed electric transportation. My question is a different one: how can an electric vehicle replenish its energy quickly enough and conveniently enough to preserve the freedom and flexibility that made petrol and diesel vehicles so successful?

That question leads naturally to hydrogen.

About the Author

I have been interested in technology, transport and engineering ideas for many decades. My interest has never been confined to technologies that happened to be fashionable at a particular time. I have always been intrigued by the engineering problem behind the machine: how energy is produced, how it is stored, how it is transmitted and, ultimately, how it is made useful.

More than thirty-three years ago, I was already thinking about alternative forms of propulsion. In 1990, I designed a concept for a self-generating electric vehicle using a series of batteries and alternators. I mention this not as a claim of a commercially viable invention, but as evidence of the questions that occupied my mind at the time: how could an electric vehicle be made less dependent upon fixed charging infrastructure, and how could its operating range be extended?

My interest in the subject was also reinforced by what I encountered concerning hydrogen-powered transport and by seeing examples of early electric railway technology in India.

At Tambaram, I have personally seen the preserved YCG-1-class electric locomotive displayed at the electric locomotive shed beside GST Road. The actual photographs I once took of the locomotive are unfortunately no longer available to me. The locomotive itself, however, remains part of the railway heritage that can still be seen. Another YCG-1-class locomotive is preserved at the National Rail Museum in New Delhi, although the battery tender associated with these locomotives is no longer preserved with it.

Preface

There is a tendency in present-day discussions to divide transport into two camps: the battery-electric camp and the hydrogen camp. I do not subscribe to such a simplistic division.

A battery is an excellent means of storing electrical energy. An electric motor is an excellent means of converting electrical energy into mechanical motion. There is no contradiction in recognising both facts while questioning whether a large battery is always the most convenient means of supplying energy to every type of vehicle.

The success of petrol and diesel was not due solely to the internal-combustion engine. It was also due to an exceptionally convenient energy-delivery system. Fuel could be carried in a tank, transported almost anywhere, stored for considerable periods and replenished rapidly.

A motorist could enter a petrol station, fill the tank, pay for the fuel and continue the journey. The process usually took only a few minutes. The vehicle did not have to remain stationary for a prolonged period while its energy store underwent an electrochemical charging process.

That simple practical advantage should not be underestimated.

The future of transport therefore involves more than asking which propulsion system is the most efficient on paper. It must also ask how people actually use vehicles: how far they travel, how often they stop, how much payload they carry, how quickly they must return to service and what infrastructure is available to them.

It is from this perspective that I continue to regard hydrogen as a serious contender.

1. The Question That Has Not Gone Away

The fundamental problem of transportation is deceptively simple. A vehicle requires energy, but that energy must somehow accompany the vehicle or remain available along its route.

Petrol and diesel solved the problem through portable chemical energy. A tank could hold a substantial quantity of fuel without adding an impractical amount of weight to the vehicle. The fuel could be replenished rapidly and the vehicle could then travel hundreds of kilometres before requiring another stop.

Electricity solved the propulsion problem admirably, but historically it required a different arrangement. A railway could use overhead wires or a third rail. A tram could remain connected to its electrical supply. A trolleybus could draw current continuously while operating on a fixed route.

The difficulty begins when an electric vehicle must travel freely away from fixed electrical infrastructure.

That is precisely where batteries enter the story.

2. An Indian Example from the 1930s

Long before the present battery-electric vehicle revolution, Indian railway engineers had already confronted the problem of supplying electric traction beyond the reach of overhead electrification.

The South Indian Railway's Madras Beach–Tambaram metre-gauge system was electrified at 1,500 V DC in the early 1930s. Four electric locomotives of the YCG-1 class, built by Hawthorn Leslie with electrical equipment from English Electric, were introduced for this system.

These locomotives were conventional electric locomotives in the sense that they normally drew power from the overhead electrical system. Yet there was a clever provision for circumstances in which they had to work on unelectrified sidings and other sections.

Battery tenders could be coupled to the locomotives.

The battery tender was, in effect, a mobile store of electrical energy. The locomotive remained an electric locomotive, but its dependence upon the overhead line could temporarily be overcome by carrying stored electricity behind it.

This is a remarkable piece of engineering history. The problem was not solved by abandoning electric propulsion. It was solved by finding another way of carrying energy.

I have personally seen the preserved YCG-1-class locomotive at Tambaram, its historic home area. The example at the National Rail Museum in New Delhi also provides a reminder of this early chapter in Indian electric traction. The battery tenders, however, have disappeared from preservation and were lost many decades ago.

To my mind, the principle is worth remembering: electric propulsion does not necessarily mean that the vehicle must always remain physically connected to an electrical supply.

3. The Electric Vehicle Was Already Here More Than a Century Ago

The modern electric vehicle is often presented as though it were a creation of the twenty-first century. It is not. The electric motor, the rechargeable battery and the electric road vehicle all belong to a much older technological history.

When I began thinking about electric and hydrogen-powered transport more than three decades ago, I was therefore not looking at an entirely new idea. I was looking at an old idea whose time, in some respects, appeared to have come again.

Electric vehicles were being experimented with during the closing years of the nineteenth century. By the beginning of the twentieth century, electric cars had already appeared on public roads, and electric taxis were not merely theoretical machines.

One particularly striking example comes from New York. Electric taxis were operating there as early as 1895. The fact is worth remembering because it places electric road transport at the very beginning of the automobile age itself. The internal-combustion engine did not emerge into a world in which electric propulsion was absent. It emerged into a world in which several competing forms of propulsion were already being tested.

Steam, electricity, coal and the internal-combustion engine were all contenders.

The subsequent victory of petrol and diesel was therefore not the inevitable result of one technology being inherently superior in every respect. It was the result of a combination of circumstances: improvements in the internal-combustion engine, the increasing availability of petroleum, the development of roads and fuel distribution, the growing range of motor vehicles and, importantly, the extraordinary convenience of liquid-fuel refuelling.

That last factor deserves particular attention.

Electricity Was Not Defeated by the Motor Alone

The early electric car possessed several virtues. It was comparatively quiet, mechanically simple and free from the starting difficulties associated with early petrol engines. There was no carburettor to adjust, no manual ignition procedure and no exhaust system in the modern sense.

But the battery presented a fundamental limitation.

The vehicle carried its energy store with it, and once that stored electrical energy had been depleted, the vehicle required either time for recharging or another charged source of electrical energy.

Petrol and diesel offered a different proposition. Their energy density was extremely high by the standards of contemporary battery technology, and the energy could be transferred into the vehicle in a matter of minutes.

That difference became increasingly important as motor vehicles were expected to travel farther and perform more demanding work.

Electric Taxis in New York

The history of electric taxis provides an especially useful example because a taxi is not an ordinary private vehicle. It is a working vehicle.

A taxi earns money while it is carrying passengers and loses productive time while it is unavailable for service. Consequently, the question of how quickly its energy can be replenished is not merely a matter of personal convenience. It is an economic consideration.

Electric taxis were already being operated in New York in the 1890s. Their existence demonstrates that the fundamental concept of using an electric motor for urban passenger transport is more than a century old.

The lesson from that period is not that electric vehicles were failures. Rather, it is that the surrounding energy infrastructure is just as important as the vehicle itself.

Britain's Electric Vehicles of the 1940s

A British Pathé film I recently came across provides another fascinating glimpse into this history. The film shows an electric vehicle of the 1940 period operating in Britain.

Seen through modern eyes, such a vehicle can appear surprisingly familiar. It had an electric drivetrain at a time when the motor car was increasingly associated with the internal-combustion engine.

Its existence also reminds us that electric road transport did not disappear entirely during the first half of the twentieth century. It survived in particular niches where its characteristics were useful.

This included urban delivery work and other applications in which vehicles travelled predictable routes, returned to a known base and could be recharged during periods when they were not required for service.

In other words, the limitations of battery technology could sometimes be accommodated by changing the operating pattern of the vehicle.

Sweden and the Battery-Electric Vehicle

Sweden provides another important chapter in this history.

Battery-electric road vehicles were being developed and operated in Sweden during the first half of the twentieth century. During the 1940s, shortages of conventional fuels made electric propulsion particularly attractive for certain forms of commercial transport.

Svensk Elektrobil AB, associated with ASEA, produced battery-electric commercial vehicles. The company's vehicles demonstrate that the electric road vehicle was not merely an inventor's curiosity. It could be engineered for practical work.

The vehicles of the period, naturally, possessed none of the advantages of modern lithium-ion battery systems. Lead-acid batteries were heavy, energy density was low and range was limited. Yet the principle was perfectly sound: electrical energy could be stored chemically and converted into mechanical motion through an electric motor.

The Battery-Swapping Idea Was Not New Either

There is another aspect of the Swedish story that particularly interests me.

I recently came across historical footage showing Swedish electric taxis having their batteries changed. The principle is remarkably simple. Instead of keeping the vehicle stationary while its discharged battery is recharged, the depleted battery is removed and replaced by a charged battery.

From the driver's point of view, this changes the nature of the problem completely.

The vehicle does not have to wait for the battery to regain its charge. The energy store itself is exchanged.

This is precisely the distinction that is once again being discussed in the twenty-first century with modern battery-swapping systems.

The concept is therefore not an invention of the present generation. What has changed is the technology available to implement it.

Modern batteries are vastly lighter and more energy-dense than the lead-acid batteries of the early electric-vehicle era. Automated handling systems can perform battery exchanges with remarkable speed. Digital systems can monitor battery condition, state of charge and usage history.

Yet the fundamental proposition remains exactly the same:

Do not necessarily wait for the energy store to recharge; exchange the depleted energy store for a charged one.

A Lesson From the Past

These examples alter the way in which the present debate about electric vehicles ought to be understood.

Battery-electric vehicles are not a sudden technological revolution without precedent. They represent the latest stage of a development that has been proceeding, with interruptions and reversals, for well over a century.

Likewise, battery swapping is not a fashionable novelty. It is an old engineering response to a simple operational problem.

The problem is time.

A private motorist may be perfectly happy to connect a vehicle to a charger overnight. A commercial operator whose vehicle must remain productive throughout the day may regard the same waiting period very differently.

This distinction is central to my interest in hydrogen.

I do not regard the battery-electric vehicle as an inferior form of transport. Far from it. The battery is an extraordinarily capable energy-storage device, and modern electric vehicles have demonstrated what can be achieved with it.

My question is simply whether every form of transport should be expected to obtain its energy in the same manner.

The history of electric transport suggests otherwise.

Some vehicles were connected continuously to overhead wires. Some carried batteries. Some used battery tenders. Some returned to a depot for charging. Some experimented with battery exchange.

Each was an attempt to solve the same underlying problem:

How can an electric vehicle obtain sufficient energy, with the least disruption to its work?

That question brings us naturally to hydrogen.

4. The Petrol Station Was More Than a Fuel Station

One of the reasons petrol and diesel vehicles became so successful was that their refuelling infrastructure fitted naturally into the rhythm of human travel.

The petrol station became an almost universal piece of transport infrastructure. A driver did not have to plan an elaborate charging schedule. The vehicle could be refuelled whenever convenient.

This characteristic is sometimes overlooked when comparing battery-electric vehicles with conventional vehicles.

The issue is not merely range. It is downtime.

A commercial vehicle that remains stationary for an hour is not merely consuming electricity; it may be losing productive time. A taxi that spends a substantial part of its working day charging is not simply experiencing an energy problem; it is experiencing an operational problem. The same consideration applies to delivery vehicles, buses, long-distance trucks and other high-utilisation vehicles.

Fast charging has improved the situation considerably, and battery technology continues to advance. Nevertheless, the basic difference remains: a battery must accept electrical energy through a controlled charging process, whereas a conventional fuel tank can generally be replenished very rapidly.

This is the principal reason why I remain interested in hydrogen.

5. Hydrogen: Electricity Without a Large Battery

A hydrogen fuel-cell vehicle is still, fundamentally, an electric vehicle.

The difference lies in where the energy is stored.

In a battery-electric vehicle, electricity is stored electrochemically in the battery and delivered to the motor through power electronics.

In a hydrogen fuel-cell vehicle, hydrogen is stored aboard the vehicle. The fuel cell converts the chemical energy of hydrogen into electricity, which then powers an electric motor.

The simplified chain is:

Hydrogen → fuel cell → electricity → electric motor → wheels

Thus, the apparent opposition between an EV and a hydrogen vehicle is somewhat misleading. A fuel-cell vehicle is also an electric vehicle. The real distinction is between different methods of storing and replenishing energy.

6. Iceland and the Hydrogen Experiment

Iceland became one of the most interesting early test beds for hydrogen transport because of its unusual energy circumstances.

The country possesses abundant renewable electricity from hydroelectric and geothermal sources. This created an opportunity to produce hydrogen by electrolysis using electricity and water.

It is important, however, to make a distinction. Iceland did not possess an inexhaustible natural reservoir of usable molecular hydrogen simply waiting to be collected from geysers and thermal vents. The hydrogen used in the transport programme was produced using electricity and water.

The significance of Iceland was therefore its renewable energy base.

The ECTOS project, or Ecological City Transport System, began in 2001. A hydrogen production, compression, storage and dispensing station was inaugurated in Reykjavík in 2003. The first hydrogen fuel-cell buses entered normal public service in October 2003.

Three Mercedes-Benz Citaro fuel-cell buses operated on Reykjavík's public transport system. The hydrogen station produced hydrogen by electrolysis, using fresh water and electricity. The buses were subsequently operated through further demonstration work, including the HyFLEET:CUTE programme.

This is an important correction to a memory I carried for many years. I remember hydrogen transport in Iceland being reported by the BBC around the early period of my recollection. I cannot now establish that Reykjavík buses were actually operating on hydrogen in the early 1990s. The documentary evidence places the public hydrogen-bus operation in 2003.

The memory of the subject was therefore substantially ahead of the actual bus deployment, even if the precise date had become blurred by the passage of more than three decades.

7. What Iceland Really Demonstrated

The Icelandic experiment demonstrated something more significant than merely putting hydrogen into a bus.

It demonstrated a complete energy chain:

Renewable electricity → electrolysis → hydrogen → storage → refuelling → fuel cell → electric motor.

In other words, electricity could be converted into a transportable chemical energy carrier.

That is one of hydrogen's principal attractions.

A battery stores electrical energy directly. Hydrogen stores energy in chemical form and can subsequently be converted back into electricity when required.

Neither method is perfect. Direct electricity-to-battery-to-motor propulsion is generally more energy efficient than producing hydrogen, compressing or storing it, and then converting it back into electricity through a fuel cell.

But efficiency is not the only consideration in transport.

Storage, weight, range, utilisation, refuelling time, infrastructure and operational economics also matter.

8. China Brings Hydrogen to Two Wheels

Recent developments in China have made the hydrogen discussion even more interesting.

Hydrogen fuel-cell two-wheelers are now being developed and deployed in practical applications, including shared mobility, delivery and short-distance urban transport.

In 2025, Chinese regional authorities and industry reports described hydrogen fuel-cell two-wheelers being introduced in cities including Shanghai, Foshan and Chengdu. Some systems use solid-state hydrogen storage rather than conventional high-pressure storage.

In March 2026, China Daily reported that hydrogen-powered shared bicycles in Chengdu had reached substantial operational deployment, with individual vehicles carrying about 100 grams of hydrogen and achieving a reported range approaching 100 kilometres.

China has also moved towards formal technical standards for fuel-cell electric motorcycles and mopeds. National standards published in 2026 cover both safety requirements and testing of energy consumption and range.

This development is significant because it takes hydrogen beyond the image of an experimental bus or an expensive demonstration car.

It places hydrogen in a category where rapid energy replenishment, daily utilisation and operational availability may be more important than absolute drivetrain efficiency.

9. Why I Continue to Look Towards Hydrogen

My preference for hydrogen does not arise from opposition to batteries.

I regard battery technology as one of the great achievements of modern engineering. Batteries have transformed portable electronics, communications, energy storage and transportation.

My concern is narrower.

I question whether a large battery is necessarily the best solution for every vehicle that requires frequent, rapid and flexible replenishment of energy.

Consider a taxi driver, a delivery rider, a long-distance truck operator or a bus company. Their vehicle is not merely a means of transport. It is an operating asset.

Time spent waiting for energy can become a commercial cost.

If hydrogen can be dispensed rapidly, stored safely and supplied economically, a fuel-cell vehicle could retain many of the operational characteristics that made petrol and diesel so convenient while using an electric drivetrain.

The analogy with CNG and LPG is useful. Drivers already understand the basic concept of arriving at a station, connecting a fuelling nozzle, transferring a gaseous fuel into a storage system and continuing their journey.

Hydrogen would require considerably more sophisticated infrastructure and stringent safety systems, but the behavioural model would be familiar: drive, refuel and continue.

10. The Difficulties Hydrogen Cannot Be Allowed to Hide

A serious discussion of hydrogen must also acknowledge its disadvantages.

Hydrogen is not a primary energy source in the same sense as sunlight, wind, coal or natural gas. It is an energy carrier. The energy required to produce it must come from somewhere.

If hydrogen is produced using renewable electricity, the environmental case can be strong. If it is produced from fossil fuels without effective carbon capture, the environmental advantage is greatly reduced.

Hydrogen also presents engineering challenges. It has a very low volumetric energy density under ordinary conditions and therefore requires compression, liquefaction or alternative storage methods. Tanks, pipelines, compressors, dispensers and fuel-cell systems add complexity and cost.

Hydrogen is also not automatically cheaper than petrol, diesel or electricity merely because it can be refuelled quickly.

There is no magic wand.

The hydrogen economy will succeed only if production, storage, distribution, dispensing and vehicle technology become sufficiently economical and reliable.

11. Battery and Hydrogen Need Not Be Enemies

The most sensible future may not involve one technology defeating the other.

Small passenger vehicles used primarily for short urban journeys may be extremely well suited to battery-electric propulsion. Home charging can be particularly convenient for owners who park their vehicles for many hours.

Electricity from the grid can go directly into the battery without the additional conversion steps required for hydrogen.

Hydrogen, on the other hand, may become particularly interesting where range, rapid refuelling, payload and vehicle utilisation are important.

Heavy road transport, long-distance commercial vehicles, buses, specialised fleets and certain industrial applications may therefore justify a different energy architecture.

The answer need not be ideological.

12. The Real Competition Is Not Between Hydrogen and Batteries

After considering the subject for many years, I believe the real competition is not between hydrogen and batteries as such.

It is between different ways of satisfying the requirements of mobility.

A successful transport energy system must provide:

• adequate range;
• reasonable vehicle weight;
• rapid and convenient replenishment;
• safe energy storage;
• reliable infrastructure;
• reasonable operating cost;
• acceptable environmental performance;
• high vehicle availability; and
• freedom from unnecessary interruptions to the journey.

No technology should receive a free pass merely because it is fashionable. Equally, no technology should be dismissed merely because it is unfamiliar.

13. From the YCG Locomotive to the Hydrogen Two-Wheeler

There is an extraordinary thread running through the examples discussed here.

In 1930s Madras, an electric locomotive could use overhead electricity and, when necessary, a battery tender.

In 1940s Sweden, battery-electric commercial vehicles demonstrated that road transport could operate without petrol.

Decades later, battery swapping emerged repeatedly as an idea for overcoming charging delays.

Iceland demonstrated that renewable electricity could be converted into hydrogen and used to power public transport through fuel cells.

China is now applying hydrogen fuel-cell technology to two-wheelers and other commercial transport applications.

The machines have changed, but the question remains remarkably constant:

How do we put sufficient usable energy into a vehicle without making the vehicle impractical or interrupting its work unnecessarily?

14. Thirty-Three Years Later

More than three decades after I first began thinking seriously about hydrogen as a transport fuel, the subject has still not disappeared.

Battery-electric vehicles have advanced enormously. Charging networks have expanded. Battery chemistry has improved. Electric motors and power electronics have become highly sophisticated.

Yet hydrogen has also survived the passing of fashions. It has moved from laboratory experiments to buses, cars, commercial vehicles, industrial equipment and, increasingly, two-wheelers.

I therefore do not see the future as a choice between a battery world and a hydrogen world.

I see a transport system in which different energy-storage methods may coexist because different vehicles perform different tasks.

The passenger car that spends most of the night parked at home may have little difficulty with battery charging.

A taxi, delivery vehicle or heavy truck working continuously may value rapid replenishment much more highly.

For such applications, hydrogen deserves to remain on the table.

That is why, despite my appreciation of battery technology, I continue to look towards hydrogen as a potentially important transport fuel of the future.

15. The Future May Be More Diverse Than We Expect

Technological history rarely proceeds in a straight line.

One technology may dominate for a period and then encounter an application for which another technology proves more suitable. Sometimes an old idea returns after its supporting technology has matured.

Battery vehicles are not new. Hydrogen vehicles are not new. Electric railways are not new. Battery swapping is not new.

What is new is the technological capability available to us today.

We now possess power electronics, advanced electric motors, high-performance batteries, sophisticated fuel cells, improved hydrogen storage systems, digital energy management and renewable electricity generation on a scale that earlier generations could scarcely have imagined.

The sensible course is therefore not to close the door on any technology prematurely.

The ultimate objective is simple: cleaner, safer, more efficient and genuinely convenient mobility.

If batteries can provide it for one class of vehicle, they should be used.

If hydrogen can provide it more effectively for another, hydrogen should not be dismissed.

The road ahead may belong not to one fuel, one battery chemistry or one propulsion system, but to a carefully balanced combination of technologies.

Glossary

Battery Electric Vehicle (BEV)

A vehicle propelled by electric motors using electricity stored primarily in rechargeable batteries.

Fuel Cell Electric Vehicle (FCEV)

An electric vehicle in which a fuel cell converts the chemical energy of hydrogen into electricity to power the electric drivetrain.

H₂

The molecular formula for hydrogen gas. The correct scientific notation is H₂, not H².

Hydrogen Fuel Cell

An electrochemical device that generates electricity from hydrogen and an oxidising agent, normally oxygen from air.

Electrolysis

The process of using electricity to split water into hydrogen and oxygen.

Energy Carrier

A substance or medium capable of storing and transporting usable energy. Hydrogen is an energy carrier rather than a primary source of energy.

Battery Tender

A separate vehicle carrying batteries and coupled to a locomotive or other electric vehicle to provide stored electrical energy where fixed electrical supply is unavailable.

YCG-1

The classification of an early Indian 1,500 V DC electric locomotive used on the Madras Beach–Tambaram system from the 1930s. The class had provision for coupling to battery tenders for work on unelectrified sections.

Refuelling

The replenishment of a vehicle's stored chemical energy, such as petrol, diesel, CNG, LPG or hydrogen.

Charging

The process of transferring electrical energy into a rechargeable battery.

Energy Density

The amount of energy stored per unit of mass or volume. It is an important consideration in transport because vehicle mass and available space directly affect performance.

References and Further Reading

1. Indian Railway Fan Club Association, material on Indian DC electric, battery and dual-traction locomotives, including the YCG-1 class.
2. Icelandic New Energy, ECTOS project documentation and history of hydrogen fuel-cell buses in Reykjavík.
3. European Commission CORDIS, ECTOS — Ecological City Transport System.
4. Contemporary and historical material concerning Svensk Elektrobil AB and Swedish battery-electric vehicles of the 1940s.
5. Chinese government and Chinese national-standard documentation concerning hydrogen fuel-cell motorcycles and mopeds.
6. Contemporary Chinese reporting on hydrogen fuel-cell two-wheelers and shared mobility applications.

Note on historical recollection: Personal memories cited in this essay are identified as such where documentary confirmation is incomplete. Historical claims have been separated from recollection rather than presented as equivalent forms of evidence.

A Note on Scientific Temper

This essay is written in the spirit of Article 51A(h) of the Constitution of India, which calls upon citizens “to develop the scientific temper, humanism and the spirit of inquiry and reform”. The purpose is not to advocate a technology merely because it is fashionable, but to examine evidence, acknowledge limitations and remain open to competing technological possibilities.

Copyright and Usage

© Dhinakar Rajaram 2026. All rights reserved.

This article, including its original text, analysis, observations and presentation, is the intellectual work of Dhinakar Rajaram. No part of this article may be reproduced, republished, distributed, modified or commercially exploited, in whole or in part, without prior written permission from the author, except for brief quotations used for purposes of review, criticism, scholarship or fair dealing as permitted by applicable law.

Readers are welcome to share the original article through its published web address. When referring to the article elsewhere, please retain the author's name and provide a clear attribution to Dhinakar Rajaram.

Authorship and Historical Recollection

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This essay combines historical research with personal recollections extending back more than three decades. Personal recollections are identified as such and are not presented as documentary evidence where independent verification has not been possible.

Historical information has been examined against available documentary, institutional and technical sources. Where dates, specifications or historical details vary between sources, the wording of the article has been kept appropriately cautious rather than presenting uncertain information as established fact.

Scientific Temper

This article is written in the spirit of scientific temper and the spirit of inquiry. It does not seek to portray battery-electric vehicles and hydrogen fuel-cell vehicles as mutually exclusive technologies. Their respective advantages, limitations, infrastructure requirements and practical applications deserve examination on their own merits.

The central question explored here is how transport can obtain, store and replenish usable energy while maintaining efficiency, safety, practicality and freedom of movement.

Article Information

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Author: Dhinakar Rajaram

Subject: Hydrogen, battery-electric vehicles, electric transport, energy storage and the history of alternative vehicle propulsion.

Historical themes: Early electric vehicles, electric taxis, battery swapping, Swedish electric vehicles, the YCG-1 class of Indian electric locomotives, Icelandic hydrogen transport and modern Chinese hydrogen two-wheelers.

Publication year: 2026

Tags and Hashtags

#Hydrogen #H2 #HydrogenVehicles #HydrogenFuelCell #FuelCellVehicles #ElectricVehicles #EV #BatteryEV #BatteryElectricVehicle #ElectricMobility #FutureOfTransport #TransportTechnology #CleanEnergy #EnergyStorage #HydrogenEconomy #AlternativeFuels #SustainableTransport #ElectricTransport #ElectricTaxi #BatterySwapping #IndianRailways #YCG1 #Tambaram #MadrasRailway #Iceland #Sweden #China #EngineeringHistory #TransportHistory #AutomotiveHistory #EnergyTechnology

Disclaimer

This article is intended for historical, technological and educational discussion. Statements concerning emerging technologies, future transport systems, costs, infrastructure and commercial viability should not be interpreted as investment, engineering, regulatory or commercial advice.

Technology develops continuously. Specifications, operating practices, costs and infrastructure may change after the publication of this article.

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© Dhinakar Rajaram 2026. All rights reserved.

From the electric vehicles of the nineteenth century to the hydrogen vehicles of the twenty-first, the search continues for a better way to carry energy on the road. >

The Adversary Is Watching

Part IV: The Adversary Is Watching

Pakistan’s Turkish Drones, the New Contest for Battlefield Awareness, and the Shadow of Another Conflict

A geopolitical assessment of the emerging military pattern following Operation Sindoor

Foreword

Military history is littered with examples of nations preparing for the last war while the next one quietly takes shape around them. The danger lies not merely in failing to possess the latest weapon. It lies in failing to recognise that warfare itself has altered its habits.

Operation Sindoor demonstrated, among other things, that the modern battlefield can no longer be understood solely through maps, formations and conventional front lines. Drones, missiles, sensors, satellites, electronic warfare, integrated air defence and information networks have become part of a single and increasingly interconnected military environment.

The three preceding essays in this series examined different aspects of that transformation. The first considered the changing geography of warfare and reflected upon warnings concerning the wider battlefield. The second examined the possibility that an adversary, having experienced defeat or disappointment, would study the encounter and alter its methods. The third turned towards the question of persistent surveillance and argued that the ability to see the battlefield early may become as important as the ability to strike it.

Events now being reported during August 2026 provide an opportunity to revisit those arguments.

Pakistan has reportedly begun employing Turkish-made Bayraktar TB2 unmanned aerial vehicles near sensitive sectors of the Line of Control for surveillance and intelligence-gathering. At approximately the same time, open-source flight-tracking observations and subsequent media reporting drew attention to an unusual concentration of Turkish military transport flights into Pakistan, accompanied by reports of Chinese military transport activity.

None of this, by itself, proves that Pakistan has decided upon war.

That distinction must be maintained.

Yet a number of retired military officers and defence commentators have begun to interpret the cumulative pattern as evidence that Pakistan may be preparing for another confrontation. Their assessments are not official intelligence, nor can they establish a timetable or prove political intent. Nevertheless, such observations cannot simply be brushed aside. Military veterans possess professional experience which I do not claim to possess, and when several observers independently begin to notice a developing pattern, the pattern itself deserves examination.

This essay therefore does not predict war. It asks a different question.

What might Pakistan's present military activity mean if viewed not as a collection of isolated incidents, but as part of a larger process of adaptation, preparation and strategic observation?

Preface: A Fourth Look at the Same Horizon

There is a temptation in contemporary strategic commentary to treat every development as a separate headline. A drone is spotted. A transport aircraft lands. A retired general speaks. A government updates a travel advisory. Each event is discussed for a day or two before another headline replaces it.

But military preparation rarely announces itself in a single dramatic gesture.

It is often revealed through accumulation.

A new surveillance platform here. A replenishment flight there. An unusual concentration of military logistics. A strengthening of defence partnerships. A greater emphasis upon unmanned systems. The movement of equipment to air bases. Changes in readiness. A gradual adjustment of doctrine.

Individually, any one of these may have an innocent or routine explanation. Collectively, however, they may justify closer scrutiny.

This is particularly true in South Asia, where geography, history and strategic distrust ensure that military preparations are rarely regarded as politically neutral. The Line of Control is not an abstract line drawn upon a map. It is one of the world's most heavily militarised and politically sensitive frontiers.

The introduction of persistent unmanned surveillance into such an environment therefore deserves attention even when no shot has been fired.

The purpose of this essay is not to sound a trumpet of alarm. It is to examine what can presently be observed, what remains uncertain, and why the distinction between the two is itself important.

The Argument So Far

This fourth essay forms part of a continuing examination of the strategic environment surrounding and following Operation Sindoor.

• Part I: Beyond the Border examined the changing geography of warfare and the possibility that future threats would not necessarily conform to traditional assumptions about the battlefield.
• Part II: The Prospect of a Second Reckoning considered a fundamental principle of military affairs: an adversary studies, learns and adapts.
• Part III: The Eye Above the Battlefield examined India's growing requirement for persistent surveillance and the role of space-based and networked intelligence in reducing the interval between detection and decision.

The fourth essay introduces an uncomfortable but necessary reciprocal question.

If India is strengthening its ability to observe the battlefield, is Pakistan attempting to strengthen its ability to observe India?

The reported deployment of Bayraktar TB2 drones near the Line of Control gives that question a new and immediate relevance.

1. The Adversary Is Watching

For much of the public imagination, a military drone is associated primarily with attack. One imagines a missile descending upon a vehicle, a building or a military installation.

Yet the most important function of an unmanned aircraft may sometimes be the one least visible to the public.

It watches.

A medium-altitude, long-endurance platform does not necessarily have to release a weapon to influence the battlefield. Its value may lie in the information it collects and the decisions that information subsequently enables.

The Bayraktar TB2 belongs to a class of unmanned aircraft designed for intelligence, surveillance and reconnaissance as well as armed missions. Its endurance and electro-optical and infrared capabilities give such a platform the capacity to observe activity over extended periods.

That distinction is crucial.

A reconnaissance mission conducted once may reveal a moment.

Persistent surveillance can reveal a pattern.

And patterns are often more valuable to military planners than isolated images.

A convoy observed on one occasion may simply be a convoy. Repeated observation of the same route may reveal rhythms of movement. Changes in activity may become visible. Unusual concentrations may be noticed. A baseline may gradually be established against which subsequent changes can be measured.

This does not mean that every reported TB2 sortie has such an objective. The specific purpose of individual missions is not publicly known. Nevertheless, the general strategic value of persistent surveillance is well understood.

In the language of modern warfare, the question is not merely whether a platform can shoot.

The question is what it can see, for how long it can see it, and how rapidly the information can be transmitted to those capable of acting upon it.

2. The Bayraktar TB2: More Than a Drone

The Bayraktar TB2 has acquired considerable international recognition through its employment in several conflicts. Its significance, however, should not be exaggerated into mythology. Like every military system, it possesses strengths, limitations and vulnerabilities.

Its importance in the present context lies in the combination of endurance, sensor capability and networked utility.

Such an aircraft can serve as a node within a wider military system comprising ground stations, communications links, intelligence analysts, command headquarters and, potentially, other strike or surveillance assets.

This is why the drone itself should not be examined in isolation.

A modern unmanned aircraft is only the visible part of a larger chain:

Sensor → Communication → Analysis → Command → Decision → Action.

Break the chain at any point and the value of the information may be reduced.

Protect the chain, however, and even a relatively modest platform can become strategically useful.

Recent reporting has also raised questions concerning possible upgrades and satellite communications. Such reports must be handled with caution. Public information does not establish the precise configuration of every aircraft reportedly operated by Pakistan, and it would therefore be improper to assume that every TB2 in Pakistani service possesses identical capabilities.

Nevertheless, the broader trend is unmistakable. Modern unmanned warfare is moving towards greater persistence, longer communication ranges and deeper integration with wider command-and-control networks.

3. The Sixty-Hour Airbridge

Almost simultaneously with the renewed attention upon Pakistani drone capabilities came another development.

Between approximately 19 and 21 August 2026, open-source observers and subsequent media reports identified an unusual concentration of Turkish military transport activity into Pakistan. Turkish C-130 Hercules and Airbus A400M aircraft were reported operating into important Pakistani air bases, including Nur Khan, Masroor and Murid.

Reports also referred to Chinese military transport activity during the same general period.

The significance of such activity lies partly in its timing and partly in its concentration.

Military transport aircraft do not attract strategic attention merely because they fly. Nations conduct military logistics every day. What attracted notice was the apparent density of activity within a relatively short period and the involvement of Pakistan's increasingly important defence partners.

Yet here the analyst must resist the temptation to leap from observation to certainty.

The aircraft movements have been reported. The precise cargo has not been publicly established.

Speculation has included drones, loitering munitions, counter-drone systems, air-defence components and other military equipment. Such possibilities are analytically plausible within the context of Pakistan's existing defence relationships. They are not, however, equivalent to a confirmed cargo manifest.

This distinction is not pedantry.

It is the difference between intelligence and conjecture.

Open-source intelligence can reveal a remarkable amount. Flight paths, aircraft registrations, satellite imagery, airfield activity and logistical patterns may all be studied. But OSINT also has limits. An aircraft can be identified without its cargo being known. A flight can be observed without its ultimate purpose being established.

Thus the correct conclusion is neither that the airlift was meaningless nor that every rumour concerning it is true.

The correct conclusion is that an unusual pattern of military logistics occurred, and its precise purpose remains uncertain.

4. The Emerging Strategic Triangle

The broader context is equally important.

Pakistan's military relationship with China is long established and extensive. Turkey, meanwhile, has emerged as an increasingly significant partner in areas ranging from naval cooperation to unmanned systems and defence technology.

This does not automatically mean that Beijing and Ankara are jointly orchestrating a particular military contingency against India. Such a conclusion would require evidence that is not presently available in the public domain.

Nevertheless, Pakistan's ability to draw military technology, equipment and industrial cooperation from more than one external partner is strategically relevant.

A state recovering from an earlier confrontation does not necessarily rebuild in precisely the same manner in which it fought before.

It may diversify.

It may replenish.

It may study which systems proved vulnerable and which capabilities were insufficient.

It may seek new technologies to compensate for old weaknesses.

In this respect, the growing emphasis upon unmanned systems deserves particular attention. Drones are relatively flexible instruments. They can be employed for reconnaissance, target observation, artillery adjustment, electronic support, strike or deception, depending upon their design and configuration.

The result is a battlefield in which the distinction between intelligence collection and combat operations becomes increasingly blurred.

5. The Veterans' Warning

Over recent days, several retired military personnel and defence commentators have publicly examined these developments. A number of them have expressed the view that Pakistan's present pattern of military activity may indicate preparation for another conflict.

At present, this remains an assessment.

It is not a declaration by an intelligence agency. It is not proof that Pakistan has made a political decision to initiate hostilities. Nor does it establish that war will occur within a particular number of days or months.

But neither should such assessments be casually dismissed.

Military professionals spend decades studying mobilisation, logistics, operational preparation, force posture and the difference between routine activity and unusual military patterns. Their conclusions may differ, and no veteran is infallible. Yet when experienced observers independently begin examining the same collection of developments, their observations deserve to be placed within the wider analytical picture.

One of the central warnings emerging from these discussions is not necessarily that war is certain.

It is that military preparation can begin long before political intentions become publicly visible.

This is a reasonable proposition.

A nation may prepare for several contingencies simultaneously. It may strengthen its forces without intending to fight immediately. Conversely, preparations that initially appear precautionary may later become relevant if the political situation deteriorates.

Preparation is therefore not proof of intent.

But preparation is still preparation.

That is why the present developments warrant study.

6. The Line of Control as a Sensor Battlefield

The Line of Control is traditionally imagined as a physical military frontier: soldiers in fortified positions, artillery behind the front, patrols moving through difficult terrain and observation posts looking across valleys and ridges.

That picture remains real.

But it is no longer complete.

The modern frontier is increasingly layered above the ground.

Above the soldiers may operate:

• unmanned aerial vehicles;
• electro-optical and infrared sensors;
• ground-based radar;
• counter-UAS systems;
• electronic warfare equipment;
• communications networks;
• airborne surveillance platforms; and
• space-based assets.

A landscape shaped by successive conflicts: This photograph was taken by me near the Kargil–Skardu Road in the Ladakh region. The surrounding frontier landscape carries the memory of more than one conflict, including military operations during the 1971 war and the 1999 Kargil War. Today, the terrain remains part of the wider strategic environment shaped by the Line of Control, with territory on the far side lying in the region of Gilgit-Baltistan currently under Pakistani administration and claimed by India as part of the former princely State of Jammu and Kashmir. What was once a battlefield defined principally by ridgelines, roads, observation posts and artillery has now become part of a far more complex military environment in which unmanned aircraft, electro-optical sensors, radar, electronic warfare and space-based surveillance increasingly extend the contest far beyond what can be seen from the ground.

Photograph © Dhinakar Rajaram

A wider view of the same strategic landscape: This photograph, also taken by me near the Kargil–Skardu Road, shows the broader mountainous terrain in which geography, history and military strategy have repeatedly intersected. The landscape that once witnessed conventional military operations and later formed part of the wider theatre of the 1999 Kargil conflict must today also be understood as part of a changing technological environment shaped by surveillance, unmanned systems, sensors and networked warfare.

Photograph © Dhinakar Rajaram

The terrain has not changed.

The information environment has.

The LoC is therefore becoming not merely a military frontier but a sensor battlefield.

Each side seeks greater awareness of the other's activity while simultaneously attempting to protect its own movements from observation.

This creates a new form of strategic competition.

To see without being seen.

To detect without being deceived.

To understand before the adversary understands.

In such an environment, the destruction of a drone may be less important than understanding the network behind it.

7. The Direct Connection with the Eye Above the Battlefield

The argument developed in the preceding essay concerned India's ability to reduce uncertainty through persistent surveillance and a more integrated intelligence architecture.

The latest reports concerning Pakistani TB2 activity illustrate the reciprocal nature of that challenge.

If one side attempts to see farther, the other must assume that it too is being observed.

If one side seeks to shorten the interval between detection and decision, the other may attempt to do the same.

Thus the contest is not simply between one drone and one missile.

It is between systems.

One system attempts to collect information.

Another attempts to deny, disrupt or deceive that collection.

One system attempts to transform observation into action.

Another attempts to break the chain before action can occur.

The true contest therefore lies within what might be described as the sensor-to-decision cycle.

That brings us back to one of the central propositions of Part III.

The real commodity is time.

But time cannot be purchased without information.

A force that sees an approaching threat earlier has more time to classify it, verify it, decide upon a response and act.

A force that loses situational awareness may discover that the decisive interval has already disappeared.

8. Has the Second Reckoning Already Begun?

Part II considered the possibility of a second reckoning: the prospect that the lessons of an earlier confrontation would not simply disappear but would be studied.

That proposition should now be revisited.

No rational military organisation wishes to repeat an earlier experience without adaptation. If particular methods proved ineffective, alternatives may be sought. If existing surveillance proved inadequate, new systems may be acquired. If an air-defence network requires replenishment, efforts may be made to restore it.

Viewed through that lens, the reported emphasis upon drones, surveillance and military replenishment becomes more intelligible.

It does not prove that a second conflict is imminent.

But it does suggest that the strategic environment has not remained frozen following Operation Sindoor.

The adversary may be learning.

And if the adversary is learning, India must assume that its own previous methods, deployments and responses are being studied as well.

That is not pessimism.

It is the ordinary logic of military competition.

9. The Wider Atmosphere of Regional Uncertainty

Another aspect of the present environment is the increasingly visible concern reflected in international travel advice.

Such advisories must not be misrepresented. A travel warning is not a secret intelligence assessment and cannot be treated as evidence that a war is imminent.

Australia's current advice urges its citizens to reconsider travel to Pakistan overall, while applying higher levels of caution to particular areas. Other governments maintain their own area-specific warnings and restrictions concerning Pakistan and the wider region.

The reasons are not limited to the India–Pakistan equation. Pakistan's western frontier, internal security concerns, terrorism and the conflict environment surrounding Afghanistan also contribute to the overall assessment.

Nevertheless, these advisories provide a useful reminder of a broader reality.

The region is not being viewed internationally as one of uncomplicated strategic tranquillity.

Security risks overlap.

Frontier tensions overlap.

Military developments in one theatre may influence perceptions in another.

South Asia and its adjoining strategic spaces are increasingly interconnected.

10. Why Open-Source Intelligence Matters

There is another lesson in the present episode.

In earlier decades, the public often had little means of observing military activity except through official announcements or conventional journalism.

That world has changed.

Today, aircraft movements may be tracked. Satellite imagery may reveal changes at air bases. Commercial imagery can be compared across time. Public notices, navigation data and photographs can be examined.

Open-source intelligence has therefore become an important supplement to official information.

But it is precisely because OSINT is powerful that it must be handled responsibly.

Observation is not the same as interpretation.

Interpretation is not the same as proof.

A flight path may be genuine while the explanation attached to it is wrong. A satellite image may show activity without revealing the intention behind it. A military aircraft may land at an air base without publicly disclosing what it carried.

The discipline required is therefore simple, though not always easy to maintain:

Observe carefully. Separate fact from inference. Acknowledge uncertainty. Then assess the pattern.

That is the method adopted in this essay.

11. India's Answer Must Be to See the Watcher

The natural public question following reports of hostile or potentially hostile surveillance activity is often: which missile can destroy the drone?

That question is understandable but incomplete.

The first requirement is to know that the platform exists, identify it correctly, understand what it is doing and determine the wider network to which it belongs.

India's Layered Air Defence: More Than a Collection of Missiles

The answer to an evolving aerial threat does not lie in a single missile system. Modern air defence is an integrated architecture in which surveillance, radar, command-and-control networks, electronic warfare and interceptor systems operate across different ranges and altitudes.

India's air-defence architecture therefore consists of several overlapping layers rather than one supposedly impregnable shield.

Long-Range Layer — S-400 Triumf

The S-400 provides long-range air-defence capability intended to protect vital areas against a variety of aerial threats. Certain interceptor missiles associated with the S-400 system are credited with engagement ranges extending up to approximately 400 kilometres. However, this figure should not be interpreted as a universal range against every target. Actual engagement capability depends upon the missile employed, the nature and altitude of the target and operational circumstances.

Medium-Range Layer — MRSAM / Barak-8 and Akash

The MRSAM, commonly associated with the Barak-8 family, provides an important medium-range layer of air defence. Alongside it, India's indigenous Akash system provides another significant surface-to-air capability and is operational with both the Indian Army and the Indian Air Force.

These systems should not be understood merely through a single range figure. Their importance lies in their ability to form part of a wider defensive network designed to engage different categories of aerial threats.

Short-Range and Quick-Reaction Layer — QRSAM and SPYDER

Shorter-range threats require faster reaction times. India's Quick Reaction Surface-to-Air Missile system, or QRSAM, has been developed to provide mobile air defence against aerial threats, while the SPYDER system contributes to short-range and quick-reaction air-defence capability.

Such systems become particularly important when the threat environment includes aircraft, helicopters, unmanned aerial vehicles and other targets operating at lower altitudes or emerging with little warning.

The Invisible Layer — Sensors, Networks and Command

Perhaps the most important element of modern air defence is the layer which is least visible to the public.

Radar stations, electro-optical sensors, communication networks, command centres and battlefield-management systems must work together to create an accurate and timely picture of the aerial environment.

Systems such as Akashteer represent the growing importance of integrated command-and-control architecture in Indian air defence. The value of such a system lies not simply in possessing information, but in transmitting it rapidly to the appropriate command authority and enabling a timely response.

The real strength of a layered air-defence architecture therefore does not lie merely in the maximum range of an individual missile.

Its effectiveness depends upon the relationship between detection, identification, tracking, command, communication and interception.

No modern nation can honestly claim that its skies are completely impregnable. Air defence is a continuing contest between detection and concealment, penetration and interception, technology and counter-technology.

The strategic objective is not to create an imaginary wall around the nation. It is to make hostile aerial activity increasingly difficult to conduct, increasingly uncertain in outcome and increasingly costly to the adversary.

A layered response may involve several elements:

• ground and airborne sensors;
• radar and electro-optical detection;
• electronic warfare;
• counter-UAS systems;
• integrated command-and-control networks;
• air-defence interceptors where appropriate; and
• space-based and other persistent surveillance assets.

The precise composition of such a system is naturally a matter for the armed forces and the institutions responsible for national security.

From the broader strategic perspective, however, the principle is clear.

India must not merely defend against the weapon. It must understand the system behind the weapon.

A drone is a platform.

The greater challenge may lie in the intelligence architecture that enables it.

12. The Shadow of the Next Conflict

There is, at present, no publicly established evidence that Pakistan has fixed a date for war or taken an irreversible political decision to initiate another conflict with India.

That must be stated plainly.

Yet it would be equally unwise to insist that the developments of recent weeks are meaningless simply because the final intention behind them has not been publicly revealed.

The reported employment of Bayraktar TB2 drones near the Line of Control, the unusual concentration of Turkish military transport activity, reported Chinese military movements, the continuing growth of Pakistan's defence relationships and the warnings expressed by experienced military veterans together form a pattern worthy of serious examination.

What the pattern ultimately signifies remains uncertain.

It may represent replenishment.

It may represent modernisation.

It may represent preparation for several possible contingencies.

Or it may form part of a more deliberate preparation for another confrontation.

At present, none of these possibilities can be declared with certainty.

But uncertainty is not the same thing as irrelevance.

The strategic lesson is therefore not that India should panic.

It is that India should watch.

Watch the aircraft.

Watch the air bases.

Watch the drones.

Watch the networks behind them.

Watch the changing relationships between states.

And, perhaps most importantly, understand that in modern warfare the first contest may begin long before the first shot is fired.

It begins when one side starts to learn.

It deepens when one side begins to watch.

And it becomes dangerous when the other side fails to realise that it is being watched.

The battlefield of the future may therefore not belong simply to the side possessing the greater number of weapons.

It may belong to the side that first understands what the other side is preparing to do.

For in the coming age of warfare, the first advantage may not be the ability to fire first.

It may be the ability to see first.

Read the Earlier Parts of This Series

1. Part I: Beyond the Border: A Sober Reflection on Major Madan Kumar's Warning and the New Geography of Warfare
2. Part II: On the Prospect of a Second Reckoning: India's Strategic Challenge After Operation Sindoor
3. Part III: The Eye Above the Battlefield: India's Space-Based Surveillance and the Future of Strategic Awareness

Glossary

ISR

Intelligence, Surveillance and Reconnaissance. The collection and processing of information to support military decision-making.

MALE UAV

Medium-Altitude, Long-Endurance Unmanned Aerial Vehicle, designed to remain airborne for extended periods while carrying sensors or other payloads.

Bayraktar TB2

A Turkish-designed unmanned aerial platform capable of intelligence, surveillance and reconnaissance missions and, depending upon configuration, armed operations.

OSINT

Open-Source Intelligence: intelligence derived from publicly accessible information, including satellite imagery, flight data, official documents, photographs and media reporting.

Counter-UAS

A range of technologies and systems intended to detect, track, disrupt or neutralise unmanned aerial systems.

SATCOM

Satellite Communications, enabling communications through satellite networks and potentially extending operational connectivity beyond conventional line-of-sight links.

Sensor-to-Decision Cycle

The chain through which information is detected, transmitted, analysed and converted into a military or political decision.

Layered Air Defence

A defensive architecture employing multiple sensors and interception systems at different ranges and altitudes.

Situational Awareness

The ability to understand events, forces and developments within an operational environment and anticipate their possible consequences.

References and Further Reading

• Official and publicly available information concerning the Bayraktar TB2 and its stated operational capabilities.
• Recent reporting on the reported deployment of Bayraktar TB2 platforms near sensitive sectors of the Line of Control.
• Recent reporting concerning Turkish military transport activity into Pakistan between 19 and 21 August 2026.
• Open-source flight-tracking information and OSINT-based reporting concerning military transport activity involving Pakistan, Turkey and China.
• Australian Government travel advice for Pakistan and other publicly available international travel advisories concerning the regional security environment.
• Public commentary and video analyses by retired military officers and defence commentators, including Major Madan Kumar's recent discussion of the developing situation.
• The three preceding essays in this Operation Sindoor series.

Note on methodology: This essay distinguishes, as far as publicly available information permits, between reported events, open-source observations, informed military assessments and analytical inference. Where the precise cargo, intent or operational purpose of a military movement has not been publicly established, it is treated as uncertain rather than presented as fact.

About the Author

I am an independent writer with a sustained interest in science, technology, astronomy, history, geopolitics and the manner in which technological change reshapes the world around us.

I do not claim military expertise, nor do I attempt to substitute personal conjecture for professional knowledge. My interest lies in examining publicly available information, comparing developments across time and asking whether apparently separate events may form part of a larger strategic pattern.

Where military veterans and specialists offer assessments based upon professional experience, I believe their observations deserve serious consideration, even when those assessments cannot be treated as confirmed intelligence. The purpose of my writing is therefore not to manufacture certainty where none exists, but to distinguish between what is known, what is reported, what is inferred and what remains uncertain.

In an age in which information travels faster than verification, the discipline of asking careful questions may be as important as the confidence to offer answers.

© Dhinakar Rajaram, 2026

Copyright

© Dhinakar Rajaram 2026. All rights reserved.

This essay is my independent work and represents my personal analysis of developments relating to the strategic and geopolitical environment surrounding India, Pakistan and the wider region. It has been written on the basis of publicly available information, open-source intelligence, media reporting, published analyses, technical information and the observations of military veterans and other defence commentators.

I do not claim access to classified intelligence, confidential military assessments or privileged government information. Where official confirmation is unavailable, I have attempted to distinguish as carefully as possible between established facts, reported developments, open-source observations, professional assessments, analytical inference and matters that remain uncertain.

The views and conclusions expressed in this essay are my own and should not be interpreted as representing the position of the Government of India, the Indian Armed Forces, any government department, intelligence organisation, military institution or other official body.

In examining contemporary military and geopolitical developments, I recognise that publicly available information is often incomplete and that the precise purpose behind particular military movements, deployments or logistical activity may not immediately be known. For this reason, where a matter remains unconfirmed, I have sought not to present conjecture as established fact.

The assessments and observations of retired military officers, defence specialists and other commentators referred to in this essay are considered as part of the wider body of contemporary analysis. Their professional experience may provide valuable perspective, but their assessments are identified as assessments and should not automatically be regarded as confirmed intelligence.

The purpose of this essay is neither to predict war nor to create unnecessary alarm. It is to examine a series of contemporary developments, consider them within their wider strategic context and ask what they may collectively signify. In an environment where official information may necessarily be limited, open-source research and careful analysis can provide useful perspectives, provided that the distinction between observation, inference and certainty is not abandoned.

This work is intended for discussion, study and the encouragement of informed inquiry into contemporary geopolitical and strategic affairs. Any errors that may subsequently become apparent are unintentional and arise from the limitations inherent in analysing rapidly developing events through publicly available sources.

© Dhinakar Rajaram 2026. All rights reserved.

Hashtags

#OperationSindoor #India #Pakistan #Geopolitics #NationalSecurity #LineOfControl #BayraktarTB2 #DroneWarfare #OSINT #StrategicAffairs #IndianDefence #AirDefence #MilitaryTechnology #SouthAsia #TurkeyPakistan #ChinaPakistan #BattlefieldAwareness #SpaceSecurity #DhinakarRajaram

A Vision on Rails: Imagining India’s Northern Railway Gateway to Eurasia

A Vision on Rails: A Discussion for a Future in Which Gilgit-Baltistan Reverts to India

An Essay on Geography, Geopolitics, Connectivity and a Possible Eurasian Railway

By Dhinakar Rajaram

Introduction

I have approached this subject somewhat differently from a conventional blog article. The more I examined the geography, the engineering possibilities and the political assumptions involved, the more I felt that the subject was better suited to an extended discussion than to a neatly compartmentalised narrative. It is, at its heart, a question about what might become possible if circumstances were to change — and where such a possibility might lead.

It is, rather, a question to be discussed.

So I am putting the idea here as a long-form essay — not as a forecast, not as a government proposal, and certainly not as a claim that such a railway is presently under construction or even formally proposed.

It is a thought experiment.

The starting point was a recent Russian discussion about the desirability of developing railway access towards the Indian Ocean. That immediately set me thinking about a much larger geographical question.

If, at some point in the future, circumstances were to permit Gilgit-Baltistan to return to Indian administration, could that territory become part of a northern Eurasian railway corridor linking Central Asia and Russia with India's railway system?

That is the question I want to explore.

There is an important distinction to be made at the outset.

Russia has NOT announced a railway from Russia to India through Gilgit-Baltistan.

What has actually been discussed is considerably more modest and, at the same time, rather interesting. Russian Deputy Prime Minister Marat Khusnullin spoke about the strategic desirability of a railway connection towards the Indian Ocean, mentioning possible routes through Turkmenistan, Iran, Afghanistan and Pakistan, and indicating that routes providing access to India could also be considered.

Separately, Russia and Pakistan have been discussing a freight railway connection, including possible Moscow–Faisalabad and Moscow–Karachi services.

Those are real discussions.

The railway I am about to describe is mine.

It is an analytical construction — a possible line on a map which, under a radically different political landscape, might one day become worth examining seriously.

I should therefore make my position perfectly clear.

I hold the view, as does the Government of India, that the entire territory of the former princely State of Jammu and Kashmir is an integral part of India. Gilgit-Baltistan forms part of that larger territorial question and is presently administered by Pakistan.

The hypothetical railway discussed here therefore assumes a future in which the territory has returned to Indian administration.

Until such a circumstance arises, this remains precisely what I say it is:

A vision.
Not a project.
Not a prediction.

And certainly not a proposal for something that can be built tomorrow morning.

The Railway Begins with the Map

Whenever I look at a railway map, I am struck by how deceptive it can be.

A line appears so innocent. One draws it from one point to another and, at first glance, the problem seems solved. But a railway is not a pencil stroke.

It has to climb mountains, cross rivers, negotiate unstable geology, survive snow and landslides, pass through tunnels, cross bridges, maintain gradients, carry enormous loads and remain operational year after year.

In a difficult landscape, the map is merely the beginning of the argument. And the landscape between Central Asia and northern India is about as difficult as one could possibly choose.

Russia already possesses one of the world's great continental railway systems. Central Asia sits immediately to its south.

India possesses an enormous railway network which has been steadily pushing into the Himalayan region.

Between them lies a complicated belt of mountains, valleys, political boundaries and historically important corridors.

Now imagine, purely as a geographical exercise, a railway coming southwards from the Russian and Central Asian network, passing through Afghanistan, approaching the Wakhan region, entering Gilgit-Baltistan, continuing towards the Kashmir Valley and ultimately joining India's railway system.

On a map, it is a fascinating proposition.

On the ground, it would be an engineering monster.

And that distinction matters.

The Wakhan Question

The Wakhan Corridor is one of those geographical features which looks remarkably simple on a conventional map. It is a narrow eastern extension of Afghanistan, lying between Tajikistan to the north and the territories of the former princely State of Jammu and Kashmir to the south, with China at its eastern extremity.

The cartographic appearance can be rather beguiling.

One might be tempted to say:

"There is the corridor. Put the railway through it."

If only engineering were so obliging.

The Wakhan is a formidable environment. Altitude, severe winters, snow accumulation, sparse habitation, limited infrastructure, geological uncertainty and difficult access would make railway construction a first-rate undertaking.

A railway in such country would potentially require extensive tunnelling, substantial bridges, avalanche protection, landslide mitigation, drainage systems, snow-management arrangements, emergency access and year-round maintenance capability.

And there is another difficulty which is easily overlooked.

Construction is only half the battle.

Keeping such a railway operational for fifty or a hundred years is another matter altogether. A tunnel does not cease to exist when the ribbon is cut. A bridge does not maintain itself.

A mountain does not promise to remain still merely because engineers have passed their calculations.

The Wakhan therefore should not be regarded as an easy route.

At best, I would call it a geographical possibility requiring exhaustive geological, environmental, engineering, economic and security studies.

Geography can suggest a railway.

Only engineering can tell us whether the railway can actually exist.

Gilgit-Baltistan: From Barrier to Bridge

This is where the thought experiment becomes particularly interesting to me.

Gilgit-Baltistan occupies an extraordinary geographical position.

The Hindu Kush, Karakoram and western Himalaya converge around this larger region. It lies close to Afghanistan, China and the Kashmir Valley and has historically formed part of the great geographical interface between Central Asia and the Indian subcontinent.

Today, political boundaries divide these spaces.

But mountains do not recognise political boundaries.

Trade routes historically crossed them.

People crossed them.

Ideas crossed them.

Armies crossed them.

And, in the modern age, infrastructure can cross them too — provided politics permits it.

That last qualification is the important one.

If Gilgit-Baltistan were, in some future political settlement, under Indian administration, its geographical significance would change from the standpoint of transport planning.

It would no longer simply be a mountainous region lying at the edge of several political systems. It could potentially become a bridge between them.

That would be a profound change.

And I believe the political consequences would precede the economic consequences.

First politics.
Then infrastructure.
Then commerce.

Not the other way round.

India Is Not Starting from Zero

One of the things which makes this thought experiment particularly intriguing is that India has already constructed part of the southern framework.

The Udhampur–Srinagar–Baramulla Rail Link has brought railway connectivity into the Kashmir Valley, and the Chenab Rail Bridge stands as a remarkable demonstration of what modern Indian railway engineering can accomplish in extraordinarily difficult Himalayan terrain.

Therefore, when I look at Baramulla, I do not see merely a point on a map.

I see an existing railway system.

I see an operational terminus.

And that changes the nature of the question.

A hypothetical future railway from the north would not necessarily have to begin by creating an entirely new railway system across northern India.

Part of the southern network already exists.

There has also been continuing planning for further railway connectivity towards the north-western frontier, including the proposed Baramulla–Uri line.

I stress again that such present-day projects should not be confused with the hypothetical international railway I am discussing.

They are separate matters.

But they demonstrate something important: India has not abandoned the idea of extending modern transport infrastructure into difficult northern terrain.

And Then There Is Leh

Another piece of the larger geographical jigsaw is the proposed Bilaspur–Manali–Leh broad-gauge railway.

I do not suggest that this railway would somehow magically connect with a hypothetical Russia–Central Asia–Wakhan–Gilgit–Kashmir route.

That would be rather too convenient.

Its significance is different.

It represents another direction from which India is contemplating railway connectivity towards the high-altitude northern frontier.

If one day a genuinely extensive northern railway network were ever envisaged, having approaches from more than one direction could offer greater resilience than relying upon a single line.

But again, the Himalayan environment is not a railway engineer's picnic.

High altitude brings its own complications. Extreme cold affects machinery and personnel. Snow can close transport routes for prolonged periods. Steep gradients complicate traction.

Rockfalls and avalanches threaten infrastructure.

Seismic activity and unstable slopes require careful structural design.

In some areas, frozen ground and difficult geology present additional challenges.

A railway through such country would have to be designed around the mountain rather than pretending that the mountain is merely an inconvenience.

What Would Such a Railway Actually Be For?

This is where I think the discussion becomes more interesting than simply asking whether trains could physically travel along the route.

Suppose, for argument's sake, that the political circumstances were transformed.

Suppose the necessary agreements existed. Suppose the engineering problems had been solved.

What would the railway actually accomplish?

The first answer, in my view, would be freight.

Not tourists.
Not prestige.
Freight.

Containers carrying manufactured goods, machinery, minerals, agricultural produce, fertilisers and other valuable commodities could potentially move between Eurasian markets without relying entirely upon maritime routes.

For Russia, such a corridor could provide another southern outlet.

For the Central Asian republics, it could offer a more direct connection with the enormous Indian market.

For India, it could provide another continental connection into Eurasia.

For Afghanistan, assuming long-term political stability, it could transform the country's geographical position from a landlocked difficulty into a potential transit advantage.

And that is the point at which a railway becomes more than a railway.

It becomes a corridor.

A corridor creates terminals.

Terminals create warehouses.

Warehouses create logistics companies.

Logistics create employment.

Reliable freight movement encourages manufacturing and processing.

Roads follow railways.

Telecommunications follow commerce.

Financial services follow trade.

Before long, what began as a line of steel can become an economic geography of its own.

But There Is a Fly in the Ointment

There is, of course, one rather substantial fly in the ointment.

Politics.

A railway crossing several sovereign territories is only as dependable as the political relationships which keep those borders open.

The finest railway engineering in the world cannot alter that simple fact. One may electrify the line, install the most sophisticated signalling, drive tunnels through mountains, throw bridges across deep valleys and employ locomotives capable of hauling immense freight loads through difficult country.

Yet if a border is closed, the trains stop.

That is the hard-headed reality of international infrastructure.

A railway is made of steel, concrete, electricity and machinery. Diplomacy is made of agreements, confidence, reciprocity and patience.

One can measure a railway in kilometres.

One cannot measure political trust quite so conveniently.

And a continental corridor, above all, depends upon continuity. The infrastructure may be permanent, but the political arrangements which sustain it must endure alongside it.

That is why connectivity is ultimately about more than laying tracks.

A railway can be engineered.

What cannot be engineered is the political continuity upon which an international railway depends.

Tracks, tunnels, bridges, signalling and locomotives can all be designed, tested and maintained. But the agreements governing transit, customs, security and operations must endure for the railway to remain a functioning corridor.

That is the real test of a transcontinental railway.

The steel may last for generations.

The political arrangements must last with it.

Why Not Simply Use Ships?

A perfectly reasonable objection arises at this point.

Why go through all this trouble?

Ships can carry enormous quantities of cargo at extraordinarily low cost per tonne.

Maritime trade will remain the backbone of world commerce.

I am not suggesting otherwise.

The purpose of another railway would not be to replace shipping.

It would be to provide redundancy.

That is an important distinction.

Modern trade routes are vulnerable to chokepoints.

The Bosphorus connects the Black Sea with the Mediterranean.

The Strait of Hormuz is the principal maritime gateway between the Persian Gulf and the Gulf of Oman.

The Suez Canal connects the Mediterranean with the Red Sea.

And we have already seen how a single accident can have consequences far beyond the immediate geographical location of the incident.

When the Suez Canal was blocked in 2021, global shipping schedules, freight rates and supply chains were affected.

The lesson is not that ships are unreliable.

The lesson is that concentrated dependence creates vulnerability.

A continental railway cannot carry the volume of a major ocean-going container fleet.

Nor should it attempt to.

It can, however, provide another artery.

And redundancy is not necessarily waste.

In strategic planning, redundancy is insurance.

One hopes never to need it.

But when the day comes that the principal route is unavailable, the alternative suddenly looks like money very well spent.

The Geopolitical Reality

The route I am imagining begins with a simple premise: Gilgit-Baltistan has returned to Indian administration.

From there, the railway would follow the Himalayan–Karakoram passage towards the Wakhan Corridor, with India developing the line through its own territory and working with Afghanistan and Tajikistan for the sections passing through their sovereign territories.

The objective would not be to construct an isolated railway into the mountains.

It would be to reach the existing railway system of Tajikistan and, through it, gain access to the wider Central Asian network.

That immediately brings up a question which is rather less romantic than geopolitics, but every bit as important:

What happens when the rails do not match?

India's railway system is based principally on the 1,676 mm broad gauge. Tajikistan, following the former Soviet railway standard, uses the 1,520 mm gauge.

Consequently, the Indian railway could not simply run straight through onto the existing Tajik network without some form of gauge transition.

But this is an engineering problem, not a geographical dead end.

A break of gauge could permit the transfer of passengers and freight between the two systems. Depending upon traffic volumes, costs and future technical developments, other possibilities could include gauge-changing systems or dual-gauge arrangements.

It is, in fact, a useful reminder that the grandest railway visions eventually come down to very ordinary questions.

How wide are the rails?

How much weight can the track carry?

What locomotive can haul the train?

Where does the freight change trains?

Where are the customs facilities?

Where are the maintenance depots?

These details may lack the glamour of drawing a continental corridor across a map, but they are precisely what turns a geographical idea into a functioning railway.

And once the line reached Tajikistan, the character of the undertaking would change.

India would no longer be building merely towards a frontier.

It would be reaching an existing railway system.

From Tajikistan, the route could connect into the broader Central Asian network and, beyond it, towards Russia and the wider Eurasian railway system.

That is the part of the proposition which interests me most.

The value of the railway would not lie simply in connecting one Indian terminus with another distant terminus.

Its value would lie in opening access to a network.

India would acquire another continental route towards Central Asia.

Central Asian markets would gain a potential land connection with India.

Afghanistan would occupy the position of a transit bridge between two great geographical regions.

Tajikistan would become an important interface between the new southern railway and the existing Central Asian system.

And Russia, farther along that network, would no longer be merely a distant northern power on the map. Its railway system would become part of the same continuous chain of connectivity.

The route would therefore have several distinct stages, each with its own character.

India would provide the railway connection through the Himalayan–Karakoram passage of Gilgit-Baltistan.

Afghanistan would provide the Wakhan passage towards Central Asia.

Tajikistan would provide the connection with the existing Central Asian railway network.

Beyond that point, the railway would enter a system which already extends across a substantial part of the Eurasian landmass.

That, to me, is where the thought experiment becomes considerably more than a railway proposal.

It becomes a question of continental connectivity.

The mountains would remain formidable.

The distances would remain considerable.

The gauge difference would have to be resolved.

The construction costs would be enormous.

But none of these questions changes the fundamental geographical proposition.

The purpose of the line would be to take India's railway system from being a predominantly southern Eurasian network and give it another physical door into the continental railway systems of Central Asia.

And that is a rather different proposition from merely extending a railway into the Himalaya.

A railway which ends at a frontier is a terminus.

A railway which meets another railway is a connection.

But a railway which opens access to an existing continental network becomes something more.

It becomes a gateway.

The Economic Corridor Would Matter More Than the Rails

Once the railway exists, the real story would begin.

A railway is only the spine of a transport system. Around that spine would come freight terminals, warehouses, customs facilities, roads, communications, maintenance yards and the countless ordinary services required to keep goods and people moving.

But I would not expect every village along the route suddenly to become a boom town. That is not how infrastructure works.

What a railway can do is make economic activity possible where it was previously difficult or prohibitively expensive.

A suitably located town could become a freight-handling centre. Another might develop around maintenance or logistics. Agricultural producers could gain access to distant markets. Tourism could become more practical. Industries requiring reliable transport might find reasons to establish themselves closer to the corridor.

The railway, in other words, would be an enabler rather than a magician.

Whether the opportunity translated into genuine prosperity would depend upon what governments, businesses and communities subsequently made of it.

And that distinction matters.

The railway would provide the possibility of connectivity.

It would not provide prosperity automatically.

The Mountain Is Not Empty

There is another point which deserves rather more than a passing mention.

A line drawn across a map can make a mountain region look empty.

It is not.

People live in these valleys. Communities have their own histories, livelihoods and patterns of movement. Watercourses, grazing grounds, forests, wildlife and glacial systems are not minor considerations to be dealt with after the engineers have finished drawing their alignment.

Any railway through the Karakoram, Hindu Kush and western Himalaya would therefore have to be designed around the landscape rather than simply driven through it.

That would mean proper geological investigation, seismic engineering, avalanche protection, watershed management, environmental safeguards and disaster preparedness.

It would also mean listening to the people who actually live there.

I would regard that not as an impediment to development, but as part of development itself.

A railway intended to open a region to the outside world should not leave the people of that region paying the price for the privilege.

The Awkward Question of Cost

And then comes the question which eventually confronts every railway dream:

Who pays for it, and does the traffic justify it?

I would not pretend to know the answer.

Until detailed surveys establish the length of the route, the tunnels required, the bridges, gradients, geology, construction conditions and maintenance requirements, any precise figure would be little more than educated guesswork.

The same applies to revenue.

A railway through some of the most difficult terrain in Asia would have to compete with established maritime routes and other continental corridors. Freight would have to be sufficient to justify the capital expenditure and the continuing cost of maintaining the line.

That is why I would not judge the proposal by the railway alone.

The proper economic question would be whether the corridor as a whole could justify the investment.

If the answer were yes, the railway would become the physical backbone of a much larger enterprise.

If the answer were no, no amount of enthusiasm for the map would alter the arithmetic.

There is an old saying that you cannot make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.

Neither can one make a viable railway out of wishful thinking.

What Would Make It Worth Building?

For me, the strongest case would therefore not be passenger traffic.

It would be the creation of an additional continental freight route.

Its value would lie in giving India another physical connection towards Central Asia, while giving the countries along the route access to another major market.

That value would be difficult to express in a single railway balance sheet.

It would have to be considered in terms of trade, logistics, regional development and the resilience of India's wider transport network.

And there is an important distinction here.

I am not suggesting that such a railway should be built instead of India's maritime trade.

That would be putting the cart before the horse.

The sea will remain the principal highway of international commerce for the foreseeable future.

The point would be to have another road when circumstances make the principal road inconvenient, vulnerable or unavailable.

Redundancy may look expensive when everything is running smoothly.

But when the day comes that the principal route is unavailable, the alternative suddenly looks like money very well spent.

A Door Into Eurasia

This is ultimately where my thought experiment leads.

The railway would begin in India.

It would pass through the Himalayan–Karakoram passage of Gilgit-Baltistan.

It would continue through the Wakhan Corridor in cooperation with Afghanistan.

It would reach Tajikistan and connect with the existing Central Asian railway system.

From there, the tracks would lead into a network extending across the continental interior.

At that point, it would no longer be particularly useful to describe the project simply as an Indian railway.

It would be an Indian contribution to a Eurasian railway network.

That distinction is important.

A railway does not derive its greatest value merely from the distance it covers.

It derives value from where it can take you.

A connection to another railway creates destinations far beyond the end of the original line.

And a connection into an established continental network can turn what appears to be a remote branch into a strategic gateway.

That, to me, is the real attraction of the idea.

Not the novelty of running a train through spectacular mountains.

Not the romance of drawing a line from India to Russia.

But the possibility of giving India another physical route into the Eurasian heartland.

A Vision, Certainly — But Not Mere Fantasy

I have no intention of dressing this up as an imminent project.

It is not one.

There is no approved alignment of the kind I have described, no construction schedule and no financing arrangement.

I began with a real Russian discussion about alternative routes towards the Indian Ocean and then allowed myself to ask a much larger question:

What might become possible if the political geography of this part of Asia were one day fundamentally altered?

That is the boundary of my argument.

Beyond it lies speculation.

But speculation is not necessarily the same thing as fantasy.

A serious thought experiment should ask what would follow if its initial assumptions came to pass.

In this case, the assumptions are straightforward.

A changed political settlement.

Indian administration restored over Gilgit-Baltistan.

Cooperation with Afghanistan and Tajikistan for the portions crossing their sovereign territories.

A technically workable connection with the Tajik railway system.

And sufficient traffic and strategic value to justify the enormous investment.

If those conditions could somehow exist together, then the railway would no longer be an absurdity on a map.

It would become a question for engineers, economists and governments to examine.

Whether they would ultimately recommend building it would be another matter.

And That Is Where I Shall Leave the Train

I began this discussion with a railway.

But I find that the railway itself is not really the heart of the matter.

The deeper question is what happens when geography, engineering and political circumstance finally stop pulling in different directions.

The mountains are already there.

The passes are already there.

The valleys are already there.

The railway network of India is already there.

The Central Asian railway system is already there.

What does not presently exist is the political and physical connection between them.

Perhaps it never will.

Perhaps another route will prove better.

Perhaps the economics will never add up.

Perhaps the mountains will prove too demanding.

But if circumstances were ever to change, the question would be worth asking seriously.

Because a railway does something rather remarkable.

It takes geography that exists only as a possibility and gives it a physical direction.

It turns a frontier into a route.

It turns a route into a corridor.

And, if that corridor reaches another railway system, it can turn a national railway into part of a continental network.

That is the idea which stayed with me.

Not a prediction.

Not a government proposal.

Not a railway timetable.

Just a question about what might become possible when history, geography and engineering happen to meet at the same station.

A Vision on Rails.

About the Author

I am Dhinakar Rajaram, an Indian writer with a longstanding interest in astronomy, science, history, geography, technology and the manner in which physical realities influence human civilisation.

My interest in this subject comes particularly from the meeting point of geography and engineering. A line on a map may look deceptively simple, yet a railway must negotiate mountains, rivers, geology, gradients, tunnels, bridges, climate, security and economics.

In a region such as the Himalaya, Hindu Kush and Karakoram, I find that the map is only the beginning of the argument.

I have approached this essay in the same spirit in which I approach my other writings: separating established fact from interpretation, and interpretation from speculation.

The railway described here belongs firmly to the last of these categories.

A Note on the Nature of This Essay

This essay deliberately distinguishes between contemporary developments and a hypothetical future scenario.

The Russian discussions concerning alternative railway access towards the Indian Ocean are real. The hypothetical railway through the Wakhan Corridor, Gilgit-Baltistan and the Kashmir Valley is my own analytical construction.

I am not presenting it as an announced international project, an approved alignment or a prediction of future government policy.

Its purpose is to examine what might become geographically, technically and economically conceivable under a fundamentally different political settlement.

Copyright

© Dhinakar Rajaram 2026. All rights reserved.

This essay may be shared for non-commercial purposes with attribution to the author and without alteration of its substantive text.

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