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.
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.
