As we trace the winding roads, climb misty hills, and meet the soldiers who call this unforgiving terrain home, we begin to understand the true cost of peace, the quiet dignity of service, and the powerful contrast between performative nationalism and the real courage of standing a post, writes GYANESHWAR DAYAL
As we prepare to leave Machuka in Arunachal Pradesh for the Indo-China border, there is a quiet thrill among us — the anticipation of witnessing firsthand how our borders are guarded, and what it takes to man some of the harshest terrains on Earth, where temperatures in winter can plummet to minus 50 degrees Celsius.
Our motorcade departs early. The road to the Palang border is smooth, winding through the hills in a journey that takes roughly two hours. The landscape is breathtaking. Arunachal Pradesh, after all, boasts the highest forest cover in India — nearly 85 percent of its area is blanketed in lush greenery.
As we ascend, human habitation becomes sparse. Villages dwindle to mere clusters of one or two houses. Along the way, we pass cascading waterfalls, jagged rock formations, and spiritual landmarks — a temple, a monastery, and a Gurudwara — their small prayer flags fluttering in the crisp April breeze. Our driver points to a rock formation said to resemble Lord Hanuman, believed by locals to guard the border. We stop. The resemblance is uncanny. Some of us clasp our hands in awe, others close their eyes in silent prayer. Some simply marvel — it’s more a matter of faith than reason. In such places, we often see what we believe.
The breeze turns colder, the road bumpier. At a check post, our permits are verified, and headcounts taken. We’re reminded to avoid photographing army installations. As we move on, the drizzle begins, but the weather remains pleasant enough to continue.
We halt briefly near a waterfall where an army post — resembling a cottage perched on the hillside — overlooks the path. After a few more vehicle checks, we arrive at the point where we must proceed on foot for the last kilometre. This is the furthest civilians are allowed. Soldiers are scattered across the area, many relaxed, and temporary army quarters dot the landscape.
A flat expanse, roughly the size of a football field, serves as both a helipad and an open-air gym. Today, it’s a cricket pitch where soldiers are engaged in a friendly match, a large cutout of “I Love My India” standing behind them — a popular selfie spot for visitors. We are told this is the closest point to the China border. Yet, there are no visible Chinese posts — only a mountain separating the two sides. The actual border lies less than a kilometre away as the crow flies, but it takes eight days on foot for a patrol party to reach it due to the unforgiving terrain.
Our guide, a young soldier named Dinesh from Haryana, dressed in track pants and a jacket, walks with us, sharing valuable insights. The Indo-Tibetan Border Police (ITBP) and the Indian Army primarily man this area. Though the border has been mostly peaceful, the Galwan clash changed the equation, prompting both nations to increase infrastructure and presence.
Guarding such a remote frontier is no small feat, before confronting any adversary, soldiers must first withstand the brutal elements. I learn that the ground beneath my feet lies buried under six feet of snow in winter, the only colour visible then being white. Today, however, it is a vibrant green, with moss —covered trees and camouflaged posts that blend seamlessly into the landscape, invisible from even 100 meters away. Patrolling is conducted for six months of the year; during the harsh winter — from November to March — neither side sends patrols. When active, patrols consist of 20 or more soldiers and take eight days to complete a round. To mark their presence, they leave behind biscuit wrappers and empty cans — a subtle, silent message acknowledged by the Chinese in kind.
I ask Dinesh if he has ever seen Chinese soldiers up close, and whether they ever exchange words. He smiles: “Not usually. Sometimes from a distance. But we’re not here for pleasantries. We do our job, they do theirs. The tension and vigilance, however, are constant.” On our way back, we pass a riverbank where the remains of a crashed helicopter lie — a tragic reminder of a pilot who lost control two decades ago. The wreckage still rests there, undisturbed. We are now at the foothills of the mountain that separates two powerful nations. Even in an age of fighter jets and missiles, human presence on the ground remains vital.
Life here is grueling. Soldiers are posted for three years at a stretch. Though patrolling stops during the deep winter, the posts remain manned. Troops live in modest cabins, warmed by diesel generators, with minimal mobile connectivity, far from their families. Many hail from southern India — some have never seen snow before. Now, they must wear snow boots and brave temperatures reaching — 40°C in winter. It is a job like any other — but far tougher, far riskier. As I return, breathless from the climb back to base, a thought lingers: How many of our politicians — who so readily cry for war and challenge China or Pakistan — would be willing to send their own children here? Or come themselves? For that matter, how many of us would be willing to take up this ultimate duty of courage and endurance?
It’s easy to indulge in armchair patriotism — to forward nationalistic messages on WhatsApp and challenge enemies from behind our screens. But it is here, at the post, where true patriotism is tested. We must ask ourselves: do we really mean it, or are we simply excusing ourselves by saying “it’s not my job”? Fair enough if it isn’t — but let us not make it harder for those who do. They have families too. They have children waiting. They have mothers — especially today, on Mother’s Day — waiting with pride, and with prayers.
The dispute
China claims approximately 90,000 square kilometers of the state’s territory as part of its “South Tibet” region, a claim India strongly rejects, asserting full sovereignty over the area. Tensions persist through periodic border incursions, diplomatic protests, and military standoffs, such as the one in Tawang in 2022. Despite several rounds of talks, both countries have yet to reach a permanent resolution. The issue remains a sensitive and strategic concern for India, especially as China continues to object to Indian infrastructure development and visits by Indian leaders to the region.
