As a part of Bharat Raksha Parv, Jagran is doing an exclusive series for honouring brave soldiers by sharing their untold stories that will inspire millions.
(Penned by Lt. General Shokin Chauhan, PVSM, AVSM, YSM, SM, VSM, PhD in account of Bharat Raksha Parv)
Before the First Blow Fell
For years, China flexed its muscles across the Indo-Pacific building islands in the South China Sea, challenging boundaries in the Himalayas and rewriting maps without informing. While the world debated, they built roads. While diplomats discussed peace, they poured concrete, moved troops, and called it infrastructure.
Their belief was simple India talks, but doesn’t act. That when pressure mounts, we step back. That our silence is softness. Our patience is weakness. That no one will risk real resistance in the icy altitudes where treaties hang lighter than the air.
But history doesn’t remember blueprints. It remembers the men who drew a line not on paper, but on rock, snow and blood.
And in June 2020, deep in the brutal, breathless heights of Galwan Valley, one such man stood unarmed, but not unshielded. For behind him stood the honour of India.
“He stood unarmed, but not unshielded, for behind him stood the honour of India”
Nestled amid the arid plains and humming life of Suryapet, Colonel B. Santosh Babu's origins were as humble as they were quietly impressive. The stories that thread through his hometown do not dwell on dramatic outbursts or dramatic victories in the games of boyhood; rather, people remember a child who radiated a steely composure, the kind that does not clamor for attention but draws people close in times of need. His friends often turned to him for guidance when the world seemed overwhelming, and even as a boy, there flickered behind his gaze the clear light of purpose that would someday guide him into the uniform of the Indian Army. In the years following India’s independence, as border disputes and unresolved histories loomed large over the subcontinent, the allure and importance of national service only grew, for Santosh, there was never any question of what path he would follow. The rhythm of early morning runs, meticulous preparation for every examination, and a sense of discipline cultivated under the
By 2004, that vision became his reality as he earned his commission and joined the 16 Bihar Regiment, a unit whose traditions reflected the storied, often tumultuous, arc of India’s border guardianship. In the intervening years, as India continued to navigate the complexities of its boundaries, especially along the high Himalayan frontiers of Ladakh and Arunachal, Santosh Babu established himself not as a man of grandstanding rhetoric but as a leader whose actions and demeanor calmed fears and inspired confidence. The landscape of military command in these regions demanded not only strategic insight but also a deep empathy for the hardships endured by the men he led—a quality he possessed in abundance.
It was this understanding and steadfastness that anchored him in the Galwan Valley by June 2020, a site defined by more than just topographical extremes or the beauty of its icy river snaking through stone. To grasp fully why Galwan’s soil was so fiercely guarded, why a standoff here could ignite passions across two nations, is to look deeper into the valley’s geostrategic heartbeat. Lying at the confluence of ancient trade arteries connecting the Indian subcontinent to Xinjiang and Tibet, the Galwan Valley has long played a pivotal role in defining the shifting frontiers of Central Asia. In the nineteenth century, as the empires of Britain, China, and Russia competed for dominance in the region—a period known to historians as the “Great Game”—the ambiguity of territorial lines gave rise to a legacy of unresolved claims. Yet for modern India, the valley’s significance escalated after the 1962 Sino-Indian conflict, when it became both a literal and symbolic touchstone in the long and fraught process of markin
The valley’s strategic value was determined not just by its dramatic terrain but by its role as a natural corridor granting access to the vital Shyok River and its proximity to the Darbuk–Shyok–Daulat Beg Oldi road. This all-weather supply line forms the backbone of India’s effort to protect its northernmost airfield and remote posts at Daulat Beg Oldi, just a short distance from the Karakoram Pass. Whoever dominates the commanding heights around the Galwan Valley can observe and, if necessary, hinder the movement of troops and materiel to this critical zone; it is here, between wind-whipped cliffs and glacial streams, that maps are not simply drawn but defended by blood and resolve. For both India and China, each outpost or newly built track is not merely a tactical advantage—it is a marker of intent and control, a visible demonstration to the world of unyielding presence in the face of uncertainty.
By the dawning of the fateful days in June 2020, this intensified competition had transformed the Galwan Valley into a cauldron of mistrust. Senior officers like Colonel Santosh Babu found themselves at the center of not only a military contest but a delicate diplomatic dance that required them to enforce disengagement agreements while projecting strength at every step. The tension in the valley was not merely a local confrontation; it was a confluence of decades of border diplomacy, infrastructural leaps in the form of newly built roads, and the shared memory of 1962 that cast a long shadow over the men stationed there.
On the evening of June 15, as the sun dipped behind the jagged peaks and the Galwan River ran swift and cold, Colonel Santosh Babu led his men forward to ensure that a mutual agreement with the Chinese, requiring the removal of an unauthorized outpost, would be honored in both letter and spirit. Bound by a long-established protocol prohibiting the carriage of firearms during face-to-face boundary patrols, he and his troops advanced armed only with the authority of their leadership and the conviction of their cause. The moment he found Chinese structures still standing, he responded not with anger but with uncompromised resolve, moving forward to confront the situation directly, his very posture declaring the ground not just as territory to be measured on a map but as the living embodiment of national dignity.
What followed was sudden and ferocious. The discussion deteriorated into an eruption of stones and improvised weapons wielded under the thin air and bitter cold. Amid the chaos, Colonel Babu’s voice rose—firm, unswerving—urging, “Bihar Regiment, aage badho!” Even as he suffered grievous wounds, he pressed on, not for personal glory or out of reflex, but because the weight of sovereignty and the honor of his regiment demanded nothing less. Through his courage, the men under his command drew strength and defiance, and the legend of that night was born—not in the tally of wounds inflicted or received, but in the refusal to be driven back or diminished, no matter how great the odds.
The news reverberated swiftly back to Suryapet and across the nation; in his home, grief was tempered by pride, as Colonel Babu’s family—his wife Santoshi and their young children—stood before the cameras with the same quiet dignity that had defined his life. His daughter’s solemn salute to her father’s photograph became, for millions, a symbol of sacrifice that does not end in loss, but in the continuity of hope and patriotism.
The honour bestowed upon Colonel Babu—the Maha Vir Chakra—was recognition from a grateful country, yet the words inscribed on the citation barely captured the measure of his leadership. His regiment found inspiration not in speeches, but in the memory of how he led from the front, standing resolute even when surrounded and wounded. In one of his own diary entries, later shared among his fellow officers, he distilled the essence of his philosophy: “Leadership in these times isn’t about who speaks louder. It’s about who walks further, stays calmer, and faces the enemy with purpose. I tell my boys—if we stay true to our calling, history will take care of the rest.”
Today, in the towns and training grounds of Telangana, in school assemblies and quiet battalion meetings across the country, the legacy of Colonel Santosh Babu lives as a standard for others to follow. There are new roads and statues in his name, but perhaps his truest memorial is found in the way the nation now looks upon Galwan Valley—with a deeper understanding that history and geography, strategy and sacrifice, are inseparable. For in that narrow corridor of stone and river, where world powers still vie for the upper hand, the courage of one man and his regiment became a sentinel for Indian sovereignty, a reminder that sometimes, the defense of a nation’s borders depends not on weapons alone, but on the unbreakable spirit of those entrusted to stand their ground.
As long as the winds move across Galwan’s icy expanse, carrying the echoes of footsteps that would not retreat, the name of Colonel Santosh Babu will stand as a watchword for the leadership, perseverance, and sacrifice that the defense of India’s most contested horizons demands.
The Day India Rewrote Its Silence
In the shadow of those icy cliffs, on a night without bullets, India found its voice — not in anger, but in clarity.
The Galwan incident was more than a military standoff; it was a moment of national self-definition. For decades, India was seen as the nation of restraint — soft-spoken, diplomatic, choosing de-escalation even when provoked. The world respected our democracy, our culture, our economy. But they questioned our will — our red lines.
That changed in Galwan.
When Colonel Santosh Babu and his men stood their ground — without firearms, but with unshakable resolve — it shook assumptions, not just across the border, but across the world. It showed that India’s patience was a choice, not a weakness. That peace was our priority, but not at the cost of principle. And that our silence, when broken, carries the full weight of a sovereign nation willing to defend every inch of its dignity.
Internally, it stirred something deeper. It reminded citizens that while we debate and disagree within, at the border, we are one. That freedom isn’t maintained by comfort, but by courage. That the men in olive green don’t just fight wars — they hold the line between chaos and civilisation.
Internationally, it changed the conversation. Strategic analysts, global powers, even those who once doubted — began to see India not just as a regional player, but as a determined force that would not be pushed around. Our diplomatic posture grew firmer. Our infrastructure race in border zones accelerated. And most importantly, the message was clear: the new India speaks softly, but stands tall.
So yes — Galwan hurt. It broke hearts.
But it also lit a flame.
A reminder to the world that we are not passive inheritors of our freedom — we are its fierce protectors. And in the silent snow of a lonely valley, a new chapter was written in India’s story — one of pride, purpose, and presence.