Chapter 120: No Apologies
Date: 28 May 1973
Location: Vigyan Bhawan, New Delhi
Event: Press Conference on the Israel Defence Sale
Vigyan Bhawan, New Delhi
28 May 1973 — 09:30 Hours
The international press corps had been gathering since dawn.
By 9:30 AM, Vigyan Bhawan's main auditorium was packed beyond capacity. Eight hundred seats filled. Another two hundred journalists were standing along the walls, in the aisles, clustered near the doors. Television cameras from BBC, CBC, ABC, NBC, ARD, NHK lined the entire back wall, their operators jockeying for position, equipment creating a low electrical hum that filled the space beneath the vaulted ceiling like the sound of something about to happen.
The Arab press had arrived in force. Correspondents from Al-Ahram, Al-Akhbar, Al-Thawra, and Al-Jumhuriya — every major Arab newspaper that maintained a South Asia bureau had sent their most experienced journalists. They sat together in a block on the left side of the auditorium, a visible statement of unified purpose, notebooks open, faces set in the expressions of men who had come expecting a fight and intended to provide one if the room didn't offer one on its own.
Pakistani journalists occupied the rows directly behind them. Pervez Siddiqui from the Pakistan Times, Tariq Farooqui representing Dawn, a cluster of stringers from regional Pakistani papers — all present, all preparing for what they clearly expected to be a confrontation. Farooqui had been in Delhi for three years, covering the subcontinent and had never once seen anything like this. He had covered the Simla Agreement. He had covered the POW negotiations. He had never covered a press conference that the entire Arab world was watching simultaneously.
The Western press scattered throughout the centre and right sections: David Binder from The New York Times, examining his notes with the practised calm of a man who had covered too many crises to be excited by any single one. Marcel Niedergang from Le Monde, conferring quietly with his photographer about camera angles. Jonathan Steele from The Guardian, looking sceptical in the particular way of British correspondents who have formed conclusions before arriving and intend to have them confirmed. Reporters from Der Spiegel, Corriere della Sera, Asahi Shimbun, dozens more — every major international publication that covered South Asian affairs or defence matters had a representative in the room.
The Soviet press contingent sat near the back: TASS, Pravda, Izvestia. Their body language suggested they were here to observe more than to question, but their presence carried weight. Moscow was watching, and it wanted to know what India would say, how it would say it, and what the room's reaction would be.
At 9:45 AM, the Indian press arrived — reporters from The Hindu, Hindustan Times, The Statesman, and The Times of India. They moved through the crowd with the easy familiarity of journalists on home territory, taking positions they had clearly scouted earlier, greeting colleagues across the room with nods and small gestures that carried the comfortable shorthand of people who cover the same building every day and have learned each other's professional habits.
The room buzzed with a dozen languages simultaneously. Arabic, Urdu, English, French, German, Russian, Japanese — overlapping conversations creating a din of speculation about what was about to happen.
"She'll walk it back," an Egyptian journalist was saying to his colleague in Arabic. "Has to. Can't maintain relationships with Arab states while arming Israel. Economically, politically — it's impossible. She'll announce some modifications. Some clarification of the scope. Something that lets everyone say the relationship was preserved."
"She won't walk it back," a British correspondent replied from the row behind, in English that the Egyptian journalist clearly understood. "You don't announce a press conference with twelve hours' notice to apologise. You announce that quickly to get ahead of the story and control the narrative. She's here to say something, not to unsay something."
"Then what's she here to do?" the Egyptian asked.
"Double down," the British journalist said. "Tell everyone to deal with it."
"That would be political suicide."
"Would it? With whom? The Non-Aligned Movement is a fiction. Half the members are Soviet clients, the other half American clients, all pretending to be independent. India actually is independent. Maybe they're about to demonstrate what that looks like in practice."
Farooqui turned from the row ahead. "If she defends this sale, Pakistan will —"
"Pakistan will what?" the British correspondent interrupted. His tone was not unkind, exactly, but it was blunt. "Start another war? You lost the last one. Badly. By every measure that can be applied to military outcomes — territory lost, aircraft destroyed, exchange ratios, strategic objectives achieved — Pakistan lost."
Farooqui's jaw tightened. He turned back to face the front without replying. He had been a journalist long enough to know that arguing with other journalists in the press gallery before the press conference was bad professional form, and he was not going to spend his energy on that before the main event.
Before he could compose himself fully, the doors at the front of the auditorium opened.
The room fell silent instantly — the specific silence of several hundred people simultaneously deciding that what was happening in front of them was more important than what they had been saying to each other.
At precisely 10:00 AM, three people entered from the side door.
Prime Minister Indira Gandhi walked in first.
She wore a simple cotton sari — white with a thin green border that caught the light from the television cameras and reflected it in a way that was quietly striking without being theatrical. No jewellery beyond her watch. No unnecessary ornament. Her hair was pulled back simply, her face composed in the particular neutral expression she wore when she had made a decision and was now simply here to announce it to whoever needed to hear it.
She moved to the centre seat at the long table and sat with the economy of motion that suggested she had done this a thousand times before and knew exactly how long each element would take. Her hands settled flat on the table surface, composed and still.
Behind her: Atal Bihari Vajpayee.
Senior Member of Parliament from the opposition Jana Sangh party, wearing a crisp white kurta-pyjama that had been ironed precisely. He carried a folder — legal size, thick with papers — and his face showed the serious expression of someone who understood that today's statements would be parsed by historians before the week was out.
Vajpayee's presence was itself a message, and everyone in the room read it immediately. This wasn't the Congress Party defending a Congress government decision. This was the government and opposition presenting a unified national position. In Indian politics, that unity was rare enough to be notable, significant enough to change the political mathematics of everything about to be said. If Vajpayee — who disagreed with Gandhi on nearly every domestic question — was sitting at that table, then this was not a partisan calculation. This was a national position.
And behind Vajpayee: Karan Shergill.
Twenty-three years old, wearing a dark suit that was well-tailored but not ostentatious — the kind of suit that suggested competence and seriousness without advertising either. He carried nothing. No briefcase, no folder, no papers. His hands were empty, and his face was calm in a way that suggested he was not anxious about what was about to happen. Not performing calm — actually calm, in the way of someone who has already decided what he is going to say and is simply waiting for the moment to say it.
The three of them sat simultaneously — an orchestrated movement that had clearly been prepared.
For perhaps five seconds, nobody in the room moved.
Then the cameras started — a sound like rain on a tin roof, hundreds of shutters opening and closing, capturing the image of three people at a table who were about to say something that mattered and who seemed entirely aware of that fact without being destabilised by it.
Indira Gandhi leaned forward to her microphone. She didn't wait for the photographers to finish. She didn't offer pleasantries or welcoming remarks. She started speaking.
"Good morning. This press conference will proceed in three parts. Mr Vajpayee will address the diplomatic and historical context of India's defence relationship with Israel. Mr Shergill will address questions about India's defence industry and manufacturing capability. I will address India's foreign policy framework and how this sale serves our national interests."
Her voice was measured, clear, carrying to the back of the auditorium without any strain. The microphone amplified it to the cameras, but the voice itself would have carried without assistance.
"After all three opening statements, we will take questions. I anticipate this will require substantial time. We have allocated three hours for this press conference. We will use all three hours if necessary."
She folded her hands on the table in front of her.
"Seven days ago, India concluded a comprehensive defence cooperation agreement with the State of Israel. The primary component of this agreement was the sale of forty-eight S-27 Pinaka fighter aircraft. The agreement was negotiated over six months, finalised in April of this year, and announced publicly on May 21st."
She paused, letting that timeline establish itself in the room.
"The announcement has generated substantial international commentary. Some of that commentary has been analytical. Some have been critical. Some have been formally condemnatory. Several Arab governments have issued official statements ranging from diplomatic protest to accusations of betrayal. The government of Pakistan has declassified portions of a military intelligence report and made explicit claims about the S-27's combat use during the 1971 war. The government of Iraq has broadcast the names of Pakistani pilots killed during that conflict and suggested that this constitutes some form of moral offence for which India should answer."
The room was absolutely still.
"I am here today to provide that answer. And I want to be very clear at the outset about what this answer is and is not. It is not an apology. It is not a justification wrapped in diplomatic language designed to allow multiple interpretations. It is not an attempt to minimise the significance of what India has done or to suggest that we did not fully understand the implications when we made this decision."
Her voice took on a slight edge — not anger, but steel underneath the composure.
"It is a statement of fact about India's foreign policy, India's industrial capability, and India's determination to conduct both according to our own assessment of our national interests rather than according to the preferences of other nations."
She let that settle.
India designed, developed, and manufactured the S-27 Pinaka as a sovereign act of industrial and military capability. Development began in 1970. We did this over a period of three years of intensive engineering work, investing substantial capital, mobilising our technical universities, building manufacturing infrastructure, and solving extraordinarily complex engineering problems — problems that the leading aerospace companies in the world had not yet solved. We did this indigenously — without licensing foreign designs, without copying foreign technologies, without depending on foreign expertise to solve problems we determined we could solve ourselves."
She paused again.
"We then sold this aircraft to the State of Israel as a sovereign act of foreign policy. We did this knowing it would generate criticism. We did this knowing it would complicate certain diplomatic relationships. We did this knowing that Arab nations would object and that Pakistan would amplify those objections. We did all of this with full awareness of the regional implications, the geopolitical consequences, and the domestic political considerations involved."
Her voice remained level but carried absolute conviction.
"Both decisions — the decision to build this capability and the decision to sell it to Israel — were made in India's national interest. Both decisions were made with complete awareness of their implications. Both decisions were made by a government that is accountable to the Indian people and to no one else. And both decisions stand."
The silence in the room had depth to it now.
"I have been asked repeatedly over the past week whether this sale undermines India's commitment to non-alignment. I will address that question directly, and I will address it in a way that leaves no ambiguity about India's position."
She looked directly at the Arab press section.
"Non-alignment has never meant — never, at any point in its history — that India refrains from relationships that certain other non-aligned nations find inconvenient. Non-alignment means that India does not subordinate our foreign policy to the interests of Cold War superpowers. It does not mean that India subordinates our foreign policy to anyone else either. It does not mean that India's diplomatic relationships are subject to veto by other developing nations, other Asian nations, other non-aligned nations, or any regional bloc that claims moral authority over our decisions."
Her voice took on additional weight.
"If selling defensive military equipment to a sovereign nation with which we maintain diplomatic relations — a nation that has not attacked India, has not threatened India, has not engaged in hostilities against India — if that somehow violates non-alignment, then non-alignment has been redefined by people who do not speak for India and do not represent India's understanding of what that term means. And I state here, clearly and without equivocation: India rejects that redefinition entirely."
She sat back slightly, her posture relaxing fractionally while her expression remained serious.
"Mr. Vajpayee will now provide the diplomatic and historical context for this decision. Mr. Shergill will then address questions about India's defence industrial capability. Following their statements, we will take questions from the international press. I ask that questions be directed to the appropriate person and that you identify yourself and your publication before speaking."
She gestured to Vajpayee.
"Mr. Vajpayee."
Atal Bihari Vajpayee leaned forward to his microphone with the deliberate care of someone who had spent decades in parliamentary debate and understood that every word would be examined, dissected, and quoted in capitals from Cairo to Washington before the day was out.
His voice carried the measured, almost poetic cadence that had made him one of India's most effective speakers — calm, precise, with underlying steel that became apparent only when you listened to what he was actually saying rather than how he was saying it. The cadence was familiar to anyone who had watched Parliament. The content was going to be different from anything Parliament had heard.
"Thank you, Prime Minister," he began. "I speak today not as a member of the opposition Jana Sangh party, though that is my affiliation and I am proud of it. I speak as an Indian who believes that our foreign policy must serve our national interest regardless of which party forms the government. Prime Minister Gandhi invited me to participate in this press conference because some matters transcend party politics. India's sovereignty is one of them. India's right to conduct foreign policy according to our own judgment is another. And India's refusal to seek permission from other nations for decisions that affect only us — that is perhaps the most fundamental of all."
He opened the folder in front of him but did not look at it. The gesture was theatrical but effective — communicating that everything he was about to say was documented, verified, ready to be substantiated if challenged.
"Over the past week, several specific claims have been made about the S-27 sale to Israel. These claims have appeared in Arab press, in Pakistani government statements, in editorials across multiple countries, and in diplomatic communications that have been leaked — sometimes deliberately — to journalists in the hope that the leaking itself would create pressure. I am going to address these claims directly, in order, with specificity, so that there is no ambiguity about the Indian government's position."
He turned a page he still was not reading.
"The first claim is that India conducted covert weapons testing on Pakistani forces without disclosure, using the 1971 war as an opportunity to evaluate combat performance of an experimental aircraft at the cost of Pakistani lives. This claim was made explicitly by Baghdad Radio on May 23rd. It has been repeated in various forms by Damascus Radio, by Pakistani government spokespersons, and by several commentators in the international press who apparently accepted the premise without examining whether it was factually accurate."
He looked up, his eyes moving across the Arab press section, then to the Pakistani journalists, then to the Western correspondents who had written those commentaries.
"Let me establish the factual record," Vajpayee said, his voice taking on the tone of a lawyer presenting evidence to a court from which there is no appeal. "The S-27 Pinaka development program commenced in 1970. The aircraft entered operational service with the Indian Air Force in October 1971 — two months before the December war with Pakistan. That is three years of intensive development followed by full operational certification. It was deployed to frontline squadrons. It underwent operational integration with existing air defence networks. Indian pilots were trained on the platform through a complete conversion syllabus. Maintenance crews were certified at every required level. Logistics chains were established and validated. By December 1971, when Pakistan initiated hostilities by bombing Indian airfields on the night of December 3rd, the S-27 was not an experimental aircraft. It was a fully operational combat system that had been certified for exactly the operations it was about to conduct."
He paused to let that sit.
"During the December 1971 war, the S-27 was deployed in combat operations in defence of Indian airspace and in support of Indian military operations against Pakistani military targets. These are the normal, expected, entirely conventional functions of a combat aircraft during wartime. Pakistan's air force attacked Indian positions. India's air force defended Indian positions and counterattacked Pakistani positions in return. This is called war. It is what happens when one nation attacks another."
His voice remained level, almost conversational, but the words carried weight that the conversational tone could not conceal.
"Pakistan's complaint is not actually that India used aircraft in combat. Every nation uses aircraft in combat during wars. Pakistan certainly used their aircraft in combat — they bombed Indian cities, they strafed Indian military positions, they attempted to gain air superiority over Indian territory. Pakistan's complaint is not about the use of military aircraft. Pakistan's complaint is about the outcome."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Pakistan's complaint is that India's aircraft were superior to what Pakistan had expected to face. Pakistan's complaint is that Pakistani pilots died in significant numbers when they engaged Indian aircraft. Pakistan's complaint is that the exchange ratio was extraordinarily one-sided. Pakistan's complaint, when you strip away the rhetorical framing, is that they lost. Badly. Decisively. In a manner that revealed the gap between Pakistan's military capability and India's military capability to be far larger than Pakistan had assumed when they decided to initiate hostilities."
He sat back.
"This is called losing a war. It is not a war crime. It is not a betrayal. It is not a moral offense that India owes anyone an accounting for. It is the predictable consequence of starting a military conflict with a nation that possesses superior technology, superior training, and superior strategic planning."
Several Pakistani journalists started to raise their hands. Vajpayee continued without acknowledging them.
"Pakistan invaded Indian airspace in December 1971. Pakistani aircraft bombed Indian military installations and civilian infrastructure. Pakistani forces were engaged in active military operations against Indian territory and Indian forces. India responded with the equipment available to us, equipment we had built ourselves, equipment that performed exactly as designed. If Pakistan is upset that our equipment was better than theirs, if Pakistan is upset that our pilots were better trained, if Pakistan is upset that our strategic planning was more effective — then Pakistan should have considered those possibilities before starting a war."
He turned a page.
"The specific claim — the claim that has been repeated most frequently, amplified most loudly, given the most rhetorical weight — is that Pakistani pilots were used as test subjects for Indian weapons development. That we deliberately deployed an experimental system in combat to evaluate its performance under operational conditions at the cost of Pakistani lives. That Pakistani pilots died not in legitimate combat operations but as unwilling participants in India's research and development program."
His voice took on an edge of measured contempt.
"This claim is inflammatory. It is dishonest. And it is factually false."
He picked up a document from the folder and held it so the room could see, though its contents were not readable at distance.
"The S-27 was not experimental when it entered combat. Development commenced in 1970. The program completed three years of design work before the prototype flew, and nearly a full year of test flights before the aircraft was declared operational. It had been flown in over eight hundred test flights by Indian Air Force test pilots and Shergill Aerospace test pilots before it was placed in frontline service. It had been evaluated across the complete performance envelope — low-speed handling, high-speed performance, combat maneuvering, weapons integration, all-weather operations, carrier-approach profiles, everything that would be encountered in operational service. It had been tested to the point where every system, every component, every performance characteristic was understood, documented, and certified before a single frontline pilot flew it."
He set the document down.
"This was not an experimental aircraft being rushed into combat to see whether it worked. This was a fully operational weapons system being deployed in defence of Indian sovereignty against an aggressor nation that had chosen to attack us. If it also happened to be a significantly better aircraft than what Pakistan was flying — if its performance characteristics were at a level that Pakistani pilots had not encountered before and could not match — that is not India's moral failing. That is the natural consequence of three years of serious engineering applied to a difficult problem."
He looked directly at the Iraqi correspondent who had been most vocal in repeating this claim.
"If Pakistani pilots died in large numbers during engagements with the S-27, that is because the S-27 was designed to kill enemy aircraft and Pakistan's aircraft were the enemy. India does not apologize for this. We would do it again. And if Pakistan initiates another conflict with India — if Pakistani leadership makes the same catastrophic miscalculation a third time — those Pakistani pilots will face the S-27 again, or whatever has replaced it by then, and the results will be the same. Because the gap in industrial capability, in engineering sophistication, in research investment — that gap does not close by wishing it closed or by filing diplomatic protests."
Several Pakistani journalists were beginning to raise their voices. Vajpayee raised his slightly to continue over them, without losing his measured tone.
"India does not apologize for winning a war we did not start. India does not apologize for using superior technology to achieve victory. India does not apologize for the fact that our defence industry developed weapons systems that outperformed what Pakistan possessed. These are not moral failings. These are accomplishments of the Indian state and the Indian people."
He let the room settle before moving forward.
"The second major claim that has been made is that India's sale to Israel represents a betrayal — that word has been used repeatedly by Arab governments, by Pakistani officials, by commentators who apparently believe that 'betrayal' is a meaningful description of a situation in which India did something that other nations found inconvenient. Let me address this with the specificity it requires."
He looked at the Arab press section with an expression that carried no hostility but absolute firmness.
"India has maintained diplomatic relations with Israel since 1950. That is twenty-three years of formal diplomatic relationship — embassies, trade, cultural exchange, official contact at multiple levels of government. This is not new. This is not secret. It has never been concealed from Arab states or from anyone else. Israel is a member of the United Nations. India maintains diplomatic relations with every UN member state where such relations serve our interests. Israel is one of those states."
He paused.
"If this somehow surprises Arab governments, if this somehow arrives as shocking news that India and Israel have maintained normal diplomatic relations for more than two decades, then Arab governments have not been paying adequate attention to publicly available information. We cannot be held responsible for other nations' failures of observation."
His voice took on a slightly sharper quality.
"India also has diplomatic relations with every Arab state represented in this room. We purchase petroleum from Arab nations in substantial quantities — quantities that are essential to our economy and that we value commercially. We engage in extensive trade beyond petroleum. We have cultural and educational exchanges. We have voted with Arab nations in the United Nations on numerous occasions when our interests and assessments aligned. We maintain friendly, constructive, mutually beneficial relationships with Arab governments. We intend to continue doing so."
He leaned forward.
"But India is not an Arab nation. India is not a member of the Arab League. India's foreign policy is not determined by Arab preferences or Arab political requirements. And India has never made any commitment to any Arab government that we would condition our defence sales on Arab approval or that we would treat Arab political sensitivities as a veto over our sovereign decisions."
He let that sit for a moment.
"The suggestion that selling defensive military equipment to Israel represents a betrayal of some commitment India made to the Arab world assumes the existence of a commitment that does not exist. Show me the document. Show me the agreement. Show me the statement by any Indian Prime Minister, any Foreign Minister, any official of any Indian government, that we would never engage in defence cooperation with Israel. It does not exist. Because India never made that commitment. And if we never made that commitment, we cannot have betrayed it."
A Lebanese journalist started to interrupt. Vajpayee held up one hand — a small gesture, entirely commanding.
"I will address questions after I complete the statement."
The journalist sat back.
"As for the Non-Aligned Movement," Vajpayee continued, "I want to speak about this with particular care because the Non-Aligned Movement represents a framework that India helped create. Prime Minister Nehru was one of its principal architects. The Bandung Conference, the Belgrade Summit — these were foundational moments in post-colonial international relations, and India was central to making them happen. I acknowledge this history. I honour it."
His voice took on a note of something precise and firm.
"Non-alignment was India's contribution to the developing world. It was a framework for navigating the Cold War without surrendering sovereignty to either superpower bloc. It was a declaration of real independence — not just the formal independence of no longer being colonies, but the practical independence of making our own decisions based on our own assessment of our own interests. That is what non-alignment means. That is what it has always meant."
He paused.
"India has just exercised exactly that independence. We assessed that selling the S-27 to Israel served our national interests. We made that decision without seeking Washington's approval, without seeking Moscow's approval, without seeking Cairo's approval or Damascus's approval or Islamabad's approval. We made a sovereign decision based on our sovereign assessment of our national interests."
His voice hardened in a way that was subtle but unmistakable.
"If non-alignment is now being redefined to mean 'India does whatever Arab states prefer' — if that is what non-alignment means in 1973 — then that is not non-alignment. That is alignment with Arab states. That is subordinating India's policy to a regional bloc's preferences. That is the precise thing non-alignment was supposed to prevent."
He looked at the cameras directly.
"India rejects that definition. Completely. Unequivocally. Without reservation."
He closed the folder with a deliberate motion.
"The third claim is perhaps the most emotionally charged, and therefore requires the most careful response. The claim is that the deaths of Pakistani pilots during the 1971 war — their names have been read on Baghdad Radio, which I find interesting, because Baghdad Radio did not express similar concern for the Pakistani civilian pilots who died in the 1947 or 1965 wars — create some form of moral obligation for India to refrain from selling the S-27 internationally. That these deaths were somehow different from other combat deaths. That they carry a moral weight that should constrain India's current foreign policy."
His voice softened slightly, taking on a more considered tone.
"I want to acknowledge that these were real deaths. Real men. Real families who received real notifications. War is terrible. Death in combat is tragic in the specific way of deaths that are caused by human decisions rather than by chance or illness. I do not minimize that."
He paused.
"But I also want to establish the context that has been systematically absent from the commentary."
He picked up another document.
"Those pilots died in a war that Pakistan started. They died while Pakistan was engaged in military operations in East Pakistan — operations that resulted in hundreds of thousands of civilian deaths, mass displacement, systematic atrocities against Bengali civilians and Hindu minorities that have been documented by international observers including journalists present in this room. When India intervened militarily, we did so because a humanitarian catastrophe was occurring on our border and producing a refugee crisis that was overwhelming our eastern states."
He looked up.
"Pakistan responded to India's intervention by attacking Indian airspace. By bombing Indian cities. By attempting to destroy Indian military installations. By initiating offensive air operations designed to cripple India's ability to conduct military operations in East Pakistan."
His voice remained level.
"Those pilots died defending Pakistan's ability to continue operations that the international community has since widely recognized as atrocities. They died as military personnel engaged in warfare against a nation that was defending itself and intervening to protect a civilian population. India did not kill those men because we were testing a weapon. India killed those men because they were attacking us, and because stopping those attacks required the application of superior force, and because we possessed that superior force and chose to use it."
He looked at the room steadily.
"If Iraq believes this creates a moral obligation — if Iraq believes India should feel guilt for winning a defensive war using superior technology — then perhaps Iraq should examine its own arms purchasing history. Iraq is currently negotiating arms purchases from the Soviet Union. Those purchases include aircraft, tanks, artillery — weapons that will kill people if Iraq goes to war again. Does Iraq plan to apologize in advance to the families of everyone those weapons kill? Or is this moral standard being applied exclusively to India?"
The Iraqi correspondent started to object audibly. Vajpayee spoke over him.
"I will be more direct. India does not apologize for winning a war we did not start. India does not apologize for superior technology. India does not apologize for building weapons that work. India does not apologize for selling those weapons to nations that we judge to be responsible buyers. And India will not accept lectures about morality from governments that have themselves started wars, supported armed groups in other nations, used military force against their own populations, or engaged in the same arms sales they now criticize India for conducting."
He sat back.
"That is the Indian government's position. That is the position of the party I represent. And I believe, based on conversations I have had with colleagues across the political spectrum, that is the position of Indian democracy writ large."
He gestured to Karan.
"Mr. Shergill will now address questions about India's defence industrial capability."
Karan Shergill leaned forward to his microphone.
He took a sip of water first — not because his throat was dry, but because the pause created space. Let the room settle from the intensity of Vajpayee's statement. Let the silence that followed a strong argument do its work before something different arrived.
When he spoke, his voice carried a different quality than Vajpayee's. Younger, but not uncertain. Direct in a way that suggested he had no patience for circumlocution and no intention of performing patience he did not feel. There was something almost disconcerting about it — the composed directness of someone who has already decided what he is going to say, has examined it from every angle, has found it satisfactory, and is now simply delivering it.
"Good morning. My name is Karan Shergill. I am twenty-three years old. I own and operate Shergill Aerospace, which designed and manufactured the S-27 Pinaka. I also own steel mills that produced the materials used in that aircraft's airframe. I own the semiconductor facility that manufactured the avionics electronics. I own the machine tool companies that built the precision equipment used to machine the components. I mention these things not to establish credentials but because much of the criticism this week has been based on the assumption that I don't fully understand what I've built, how it was built, or why I built it."
He settled back in his chair with a casualness that was clearly deliberate but did not feel performed.
"I'm here to answer questions about India's defence industry, about manufacturing capability, about why we're selling to Israel. But I'm going to start by addressing something that has been implicit in much of the commentary over the past week — something that nobody has quite said directly but that underlies almost every critical article I've read."
He looked around the room.
"Many of you are shocked that India can manufacture advanced military equipment. Not just surprised — genuinely shocked, in the way you would be shocked by something you had decided was impossible and then discovered was not. That shock reveals more about your assumptions than it reveals about India's capabilities. You assumed India couldn't do this. You were wrong. I'd like you to sit with that for a moment before we continue."
He let the moment sit.
"For decades, the narrative about developing nations in the defence market has been clear and consistent. Developing nations buy weapons. Developed nations make weapons. There is a hierarchy. There is an order. Customers and suppliers. And that order is supposed to be stable — comfortable for the nations at the top of it, tolerable for the nations at the bottom, and not subject to challenge from below."
His voice took on an edge.
"We ignored that narrative. We began development of the S-27 in 1970. We took years to build it properly, to test it thoroughly, to certify every system before we put pilots in it. We deployed it. We proved it in the most demanding test any aircraft faces — actual combat against an adversary trying to kill our pilots. And now we're selling it. And everyone in this room is trying to figure out what that means for the order they were comfortable with."
A British journalist from The Guardian called out without being recognised: "Mr. Shergill, isn't there something morally troubling about selling a weapon that killed dozens of men just eighteen months ago?"
Karan looked at him for a long moment, his expression suggesting he was deciding how much patience to allocate to this particular framing.
"Let me ask you a question in return," he said. "When Britain sells fighter aircraft to Saudi Arabia — which Britain does, regularly, has done for years, is doing right now — does The Guardian demand moral accounting for everyone those aircraft kill? When British-made aircraft are used in Yemen, when they drop British-made bombs on targets that result in civilian casualties, does The Guardian run front-page editorials demanding that British Aerospace apologize? Does it call on the British government to hold a press conference explaining why it sold weapons that were then used to kill people?"
The journalist started to answer. Karan kept talking.
"When America sells F-4 Phantoms to Israel — which America has done since 1968, continuous sales, substantial contracts — does anyone in the American press demand that McDonnell Douglas express remorse for Egyptian pilots those Phantoms shot down? When France sells Mirage fighters to Pakistan — yes, France sells to Pakistan, France sold to Pakistan the aircraft that Pakistan used to bomb Indian cities in December 1971 — does anyone ask Dassault to explain the moral implications of those sales?"
He paused.
"The answer is no. None of that happens. Because everyone in this room understands that the purpose of a fighter aircraft is to kill enemy aircraft and destroy enemy military targets. That is the designed function. That is what these machines are built to do. The S-27 performs that function extremely well. That is not a moral failing. That is successful engineering meeting its design specification."
Farooqui, the Pakistani journalist from Dawn, stood up without being called upon. His voice was controlled but the control was visible effort. "Mr. Shergill, those were Pakistani pilots. They had families. Does that mean nothing to you?"
"Pakistan started a war," Karan replied, his voice cutting through the room. "Pakistan lost that war. Pakistan lost because they brought inferior equipment to a conflict they initiated against a nation that had spent three years building something they did not know existed. That is not India's moral failing. That is the consequence of Pakistan's strategic choices. Those pilots flew in service of a military operation that was itself in service of keeping East Pakistan under control through methods that international observers documented as atrocities."
Farooqui's fists were clenched on his notepad. "You speak of atrocities when your aircraft—"
"My aircraft did exactly what it was built to do in defence of India," Karan said. "In defence of Indian airspace that Pakistan attacked. Against Pakistani aircraft that were bombing Indian cities. I do not apologize for that. I will not apologize for that. And I want to be very clear about something, because it seems to need saying plainly in this room." He looked at Farooqui directly. "Pakistan has now, in the week since the announcement, made Pakistan the victim in this story. Pakistan has positioned its pilots as victims of Indian experimentation. Pakistan has positioned itself as the aggrieved party who is owed an explanation from India. Pakistan started a war that killed hundreds of thousands of people in East Pakistan. Pakistan started a war that killed Indian soldiers and bombed Indian civilians. Pakistan lost that war. And now Pakistan is telling the international press that India owes them an apology for winning it."
The room stirred. Several journalists were writing rapidly.
A New York Times correspondent spoke up: "Mr. Shergill, Arab states argue that this sale specifically undermines regional stability in the Middle East. How do you respond to that concern?"
"Regional stability," Karan repeated, as if tasting the phrase to examine whether it contained actual meaning. "Let me tell you what I observe about regional stability in the neighbourhood India actually occupies."
He leaned forward.
"India borders Pakistan. Pakistan has started three wars with India since 1947. In 1947, Pakistan invaded Kashmir within months of independence. In 1965, Pakistan initiated Operation Gibraltar and Operation Grand Slam. In 1971, Pakistan conducted military operations in East Pakistan that killed hundreds of thousands of civilians, generated ten million refugees, and when India intervened to stop a genocide occurring on our border, Pakistan responded by bombing our cities. That is Pakistan's contribution to the regional stability of South Asia."
He shifted.
"India borders China. China invaded Indian territory in 1962. China occupies territory India claims. China maintains border disputes with virtually every neighbour it has. That is China's contribution to regional stability in Asia."
He looked back at the correspondent.
"So when Arab states talk about India undermining regional stability in the Middle East — which is a region India does not border, a region India is not party to the conflicts of, a region whose stability or instability does not directly threaten Indian territory — I have a genuine question. Why is India's arms sale the threat to stability and not the repeated attempts by Arab states to destroy Israel entirely? Israel's neighbours have stated explicitly, repeatedly, as a formal policy position, that they intend to eliminate Israel as a state. How is selling defensive equipment to the target of those elimination attempts a threat to stability? The stability problem is the elimination attempts."
He paused.
"India is selling defensive military equipment to a sovereign nation under existential threat. If Arab states want Israel to have less military capability, there is a straightforward way to achieve that: stop attempting to destroy it. The arms sales follow the threat. Eliminate the threat, the arms sales become unnecessary."
A German journalist from Der Spiegel stood: "Mr. Shergill, don't you bear some responsibility for how these weapons are used once they leave your control? Don't manufacturers have an obligation to consider the consequences of providing advanced military capability to nations engaged in ongoing conflict?"
Karan looked at him with an expression that suggested he found this question particularly revealing about the assumptions behind it.
"Do German manufacturers bear responsibility for how their products are used?" he asked. "Germany sells submarines to Israel — submarines that can launch cruise missiles, submarines that provide strategic deterrent capability. Does Der Spiegel run stories demanding that German shipbuilders account for the moral implications of each vessel they deliver? Germany sells Leopard tanks to dozens of countries. When those tanks are used in combat, does anyone summon the Krauss-Maffei board to explain their ethical framework?"
The German journalist looked uncomfortable.
"I'll answer my own question," Karan said. "No. You don't run those stories. Not because German manufacturers are obviously innocent and I am obviously guilty. But because everyone in this room understands, on some level, that manufactured goods are used by the people who buy them. The manufacturer's responsibility is ensuring the product works as specified and fulfilling contractual obligations. What the customer does with the product — that is the customer's responsibility. That is what sovereign nations do. They make decisions."
He paused.
"India holds to exactly that standard. We build weapons. We build them well. We sell them to customers who can pay for them and whom we assess to be responsible buyers. What those customers do with those weapons is their sovereign decision. That is the same standard every arms-exporting nation in this room applies to itself. India is not asking to be held to a different standard. We're asking not to be held to a standard that nobody else accepts for themselves."
A French journalist stood: "Mr. Shergill, France has been a significant defence supplier to Israel. Mirage fighters, electronic systems, and considerable cooperation before the 1967 embargo ended that relationship. Are you concerned about competing with established exporters? Are you worried about how France will react to losing market share in a relationship we cultivated for years?"
Karan actually smiled at that one — the first genuine smile since he had sat down, and it reached his eyes.
"Yes. I'm competing with you. That is exactly what I'm doing. France sells Mirages. America sells F-4s and F-15s. The Soviet Union sells MiGs. Britain sells Jaguars. Everyone with genuine aerospace capability sells to whoever meets their criteria. India now sells the S-27." He spread his hands. "If Dassault is concerned about competition — and based on what I've read about Marcel Dassault's reaction to the Israeli evaluation report, I think they're concerned — then the answer is to build better aircraft. That's how markets work. That's how capability advances. Competition is not something to be protected against. Competition is how the field improves."
The room stirred — half shocked at the bluntness, half amused by the confidence.
"Here is the reality that everyone in this room needs to understand," Karan said, his voice taking on additional force. "For twenty-five years, developing nations have had exactly two choices when they needed advanced military equipment. Buy American or buy Soviet. Both options came with extensive conditions attached. Political alignment requirements. Use restrictions. Permanent dependence on foreign suppliers for maintenance, spare parts, upgrades. Requirements to host foreign advisors. In some cases, requirements to adopt foreign policy positions that served the supplier's interests more than the buyer's. The equipment came with a relationship, and the relationship was not always equal."
He looked around the room.
He leaned back.
"If I disrupts the comfortable duopoly that Western and Soviet manufacturers have enjoyed for the past quarter century — good. Disruption of comfortable monopolies is how markets become better for buyers. Competition improves products and lowers prices. That is better for everyone except the people who were benefiting from the absence of competition. Those people are welcome to their discomfort."
An American journalist from ABC News spoke up: "Mr. Shergill, there are reports that the Pentagon is concerned about India's aerospace capabilities. That American intelligence services failed to detect the development of the S-27 until it appeared in combat in 1971. How do you respond to what appears to be significant American concern about India's emergence as a defence manufacturer?"
Karan's expression managed to be simultaneously respectful and amused.
"The Pentagon is concerned because they did not know India could build fourth-generation fighter aircraft until we started selling them internationally. That is, with respect, an intelligence failure. If American intelligence services spent years assessing India as a developing nation incapable of advanced aerospace development — if they missed three years of development work beginning in 1970, the prototype program, the test flight program, the operational deployment in October 1971, and the combat use in December of the same year — then they should probably reconsider their assessment methodologies. Not just for India. For any nation that they have categorised as incapable of serious industrial development."
He paused.
"As for American reaction: America does not control India's defence industry. America does not control India's foreign policy. America does not determine who India sells to or what India builds. If America is concerned about Indian capabilities, if American manufacturers are worried about competition in the international arms market, then America is welcome to compete. The F-15 is apparently in development. Build it. Make it better than the S-27. Offer it at competitive terms. That is how you respond to competition. You compete."
He looked directly at the camera rather than the journalist.
"But America does not get to object to India participating in the same market America has dominated for decades while simultaneously selling weapons to every nation that could pay for them and meet the political conditions. America does not get to complain that India is selling weapons after spending twenty-five years selling weapons to the entire non-Communist world and much of the Communist world as well. The door to this market was open before India arrived. It is still open. We walked through it. We are staying."
Farooqui raised his hand again and was recognised. This time his voice was quieter, more controlled, and the control was genuine rather than performed — he had used the interval to settle himself into professional mode. "Mr. Shergill, I want to ask something specific. The exchange ratio that has been reported is forty-three Pakistani aircraft against zero S-27s. Can you confirm that number? And if you can, does that ratio not suggest that what happened in December 1971 was not a war between comparable forces but a massacre of pilots who did not know what they were facing?"
The room went very still.
Karan looked at Farooqui for a long moment. The question was the best one that had been asked, and they both knew it.
"The exchange ratio is accurate," he said. "Zero S-27s were lost to Pakistani air-to-air fire during the 1971 conflict. Forty-three Pakistani aircraft were confirmed destroyed in engagements involving S-27s, among total losses across the air campaign." He paused. "And yes. That ratio reflects a significant capability gap between what Pakistan was flying and what India was flying. Your implicit point — that Pakistani pilots did not fully understand what they were engaging — is probably accurate. They had encounter reports, they had some intelligence about an unknown Indian aircraft type. But they did not know the full capability profile. In that sense, the engagements were not symmetric."
He did not look away from Farooqui.
"But here is what I want you to consider. Pakistan's leadership knew India had been investing heavily in aerospace development. Pakistan's leadership chose to initiate military operations in December 1971 without fully understanding what India had in its inventory. That is a failure of Pakistani intelligence and Pakistani strategic planning. The responsibility for sending pilots into engagements with inadequate intelligence about enemy capabilities sits with the leadership that ordered those operations — not with the engineers who built the capabilities those pilots encountered."
He paused.
"I understand that this answer does not give you what you came here for. But it is the honest answer, and I think you deserve the honest answer more than you deserve a comfortable one."
Farooqui wrote for a moment, then looked up. "And the families of those pilots? What would you say to them?"
"I would say," Karan replied, his voice quieter but not softer, "that their sons and husbands and fathers died in service of Pakistan, doing what their government ordered them to do, and that their courage in the cockpit was real regardless of the outcome of the engagements. I would say that their deaths were the consequence of decisions made at levels above them — decisions about when to go to war and on what terms. I would say that what their government is now doing — placing their names on Baghdad Radio as props in a diplomatic argument, as if Iraq's concern for Pakistani pilots is anything other than opportunistic — is a disservice to the actual sacrifice those men made." He looked at Farooqui steadily. "And I would say that I am sorry they are dead. I am not sorry that India's aircraft outperformed Pakistan's. But I am sorry they are dead. Those two things can both be true."
The room was quiet for a moment that felt longer than it was.
Then a Jordanian journalist asked something different in tone from what had come before: "Mr Shergill, you've spoken extensively about India's right to sell to whomever you choose and about competition in the international arms market. But the Palestinian question — the displacement of people from their homes, the ongoing occupation — isn't there something in that specific context that gives you pause? Not about Israel's right to defend itself, but about what this aircraft will be used for beyond air defence?"
Karan considered that one carefully.
"That is a genuinely different question from what I've mostly been asked today," he said. "And it deserves a different kind of answer."
He paused, gathering his thoughts without the appearance of stalling.
"India's position on the Palestinian question is this: we support Palestinian self-determination. We have said so at the United Nations. We have voted accordingly on specific resolutions. We oppose illegal settlements in the occupied territories. We believe the Palestinian people have legitimate political rights that have not been adequately recognized. Those are India's positions, and they are not changing because of this arms sale."
He looked at the Jordanian journalist directly.
"The S-27 is an air superiority fighter. Its primary function is to engage enemy aircraft and to defend airspace. It is not a ground-attack platform in its primary configuration. I sold Israel an air superiority aircraft, not a bomber. Does that solve the entire question you're asking? No. Aircraft can be adapted. Roles can change. I cannot guarantee what Israel does with every aircraft in its inventory over the next thirty years. No arms manufacturer can guarantee that."
He paused.
"But here is the context I hold in my head when I think about this: Israel's neighbours have stated, as formal policy, that they intend to destroy Israel entirely. Not modify its borders. Not pressure for policy changes. Destroy it as a state. In that context, selling Israel the capability to maintain air superiority over its own territory is not selling the means of occupation. It is selling the means of continued existence. Those are different things."
He looked at the cameras.
"India can hold all of these positions simultaneously: support Palestinian self-determination, oppose illegal settlements, recognize the legitimacy of Palestinian grievances, and also recognize that Israel has a right not to be destroyed by its neighbours. These positions are not contradictory. The complexity of the situation does not require us to choose one camp entirely and abandon all nuance. India is choosing to sit in that complexity rather than resolve it artificially."
He sat back.
"Whether that satisfies everyone — no. It doesn't satisfy everyone. I am aware of that."
At approximately 1:15 PM, Indira Gandhi leaned forward to her microphone.
The questions had continued for over an hour after Karan's statement — directed at Vajpayee, at Karan, at the table generally. The room had been loud at times, controlled at others. There had been moments of genuine exchange and moments of pure rhetorical combat. The Pakistani and Arab press had been persistent in their challenges. The Western press had been analytical, sometimes sceptical, occasionally genuinely curious. The Indian press had asked pointed questions about domestic implications — about what this sale meant for India's relationships in Asia, for the economy, for the political coalition at home.
Through all of it, Indira Gandhi had sat at her microphone without speaking. She had listened. She had watched. She had made occasional notes on the small pad in front of her. She had shown no visible reaction to anything said in the room — not to Karan's confrontational directness, not to the shouted objections from the Pakistani gallery, not to Vajpayee's systematic dismantling of the betrayal argument.
Now she leaned forward, and the room went quiet almost instantly — the specific quiet of people who have been watching someone listen for a long time and have become curious about what they are going to say.
"I have one thing to add to what Mr. Vajpayee and Mr. Shergill have said," she began. "One thing, and then I will take questions."
She looked around the room — not theatrically, but with the deliberate attention of someone who wants to make sure they are actually seen by the people they are about to address.
"India's emergence as a defence manufacturing nation is not an accident. It is not a surprise development. It is the result of decisions made by successive Indian governments — including governments I led and governments that preceded mine — to invest in education, in technical institutions, in research, in industrial capability. The IITs, the DRDO, the HAL, the enterprises that form the backbone of Indian industrial capacity — these were built over decades with the explicit intention of giving India capabilities that would allow us to act as a sovereign nation rather than as a dependent one."
Her voice was entirely level.
"India has been poor. India has been underdeveloped by colonial design — the systematic extraction of resources and suppression of Indian industrial development over two centuries of British rule left us with challenges that we have been addressing since independence. We are not fully through those challenges. Our economy has significant remaining development needs. Our population's material conditions require further improvement. None of that is disputed."
She paused.
"But India's poverty was never the whole story. And the assumption — the assumption that has been revealed by the shock in this room and in capitals around the world over the past week — the assumption that poverty means incapacity, that a developing economy cannot also develop sophisticated capabilities, that the condition of being a customer means you must always remain a customer — that assumption was always false. We have simply now provided the evidence that makes it impossible to maintain."
She looked at the Arab press section.
"Several Arab governments have suggested that India has chosen Israel over the Arab world. I want to address this directly. India has not chosen Israel over anyone. India has concluded a defence agreement with Israel that serves our national interests — commercially, strategically, in terms of the relationships it enables and the precedent it sets for India's position in the international defence market. This is a commercial and strategic transaction. It is not a declaration of civilizational loyalty."
Her voice remained entirely even.
She looked at the Pakistani journalists.
"Pakistan has framed this sale as a threat. As evidence that India intends hostility. As proof that India is building a military-industrial capacity aimed at Pakistan's destruction. I want to respond to this directly and honestly."
She paused.
"India is building a military-industrial capacity aimed at India's security. That security requires that India not be vulnerable to military coercion from any quarter — from any neighbour, any regional power, any superpower. India's defence industrial development is a response to India's strategic environment, which includes a border with Pakistan that has been the site of three wars, a border with China that has been the site of one invasion and continues to be contested, and a broader international environment in which military capability remains the ultimate guarantor of sovereignty."
Her voice took on a precise edge.
"If Pakistan finds India's growing military capability threatening — if the prospect of a larger capability gap between what India can build and what Pakistan can build causes Pakistan anxiety — then Pakistan should consider what has produced that gap. India has invested in research, in education, in industrial capacity, in engineering. Those investments have produced capability. Pakistan has invested in other things. Pakistan has made choices. Those choices have produced different outcomes. India is not responsible for the consequences of Pakistan's choices."
She folded her hands.
"I want to say one more thing about the 1971 war and about the specific accusations that have been made about India's conduct."
The room was very still.
"India intervened in East Pakistan because a genocide was occurring. Because ten million human beings had fled across our border, overwhelming our infrastructure and our capacity. Because the international community, including the nations now criticising India's arms sale, was doing precisely nothing to stop what was happening. We intervened. We achieved the military objectives of our intervention in thirteen days. We withdrew. Bangladesh became a sovereign state. The refugee crisis ended."
She paused.
"India does not apologize for that intervention. India does not apologize for the military capability that allowed us to conduct that intervention effectively and quickly. We do not apologize for the technology that allowed our pilots to maintain air superiority over the theatre of operations, which saved Indian lives and shortened the conflict. We do not apologize for winning. We do not apologize for building the tools that made winning possible."
She looked at the cameras.
"And India does not apologize for selling those tools to nations that need them, can pay for them, and will use them responsibly. The S-27 sale to Israel is not the end of India's defence export program. It is the beginning. India will sell to other nations. India will build more capable systems. India will continue to compete in the international defence market on the merits of what we can build."
Her voice was quiet but final.
"The world has been waiting for India to ask permission before doing these things. India is here today to inform the world that we will not be asking. This was always true. It is simply more visible now."
She sat back.
"Questions."
The questions came in waves — organised chaos, the product of hundreds of journalists deciding simultaneously that they had the most important question in the room.
A BBC correspondent was recognised first: "Prime Minister, the Soviet Union has issued a formal diplomatic protest about this sale. They have called it destabilising and summoned the Indian ambassador in Moscow. How does India respond to Soviet pressure on this matter?"
"The Soviet Union has expressed its view through appropriate diplomatic channels," Gandhi replied. "India has noted that view. India's position remains unchanged. We maintain a productive and important relationship with the Soviet Union across many domains, and that relationship is not threatened by this sale. The Soviets are intelligent people. They understand the difference between a policy disagreement and a rupture of a relationship. We will continue our conversations with Moscow."
"But doesn't this jeopardise Soviet arms supplies to India? India depends on Soviet equipment for significant portions of your military inventory."
"India has been working for some years to reduce dependence on any single supplier," Gandhi said. "That is one of the purposes of domestic defence industrial development. The more India can build for itself, the less India is vulnerable to supply interruption or political pressure from any supplier, including the Soviet Union. This sale is itself evidence of that progress."
An Al-Ahram journalist was recognised: "Prime Minister, Egypt has been India's friend in the Non-Aligned Movement for decades. President Nasser and Prime Minister Nehru built something meaningful together. You are betraying that legacy."
Gandhi's expression did not change. "India respects the legacy of Bandung and of the relationship between Prime Minister Nehru and President Nasser. That legacy stands. It is not undermined by a commercial transaction. India and Egypt will continue our relationship. What Egypt cannot do — what no nation can do — is invoke that legacy as a claim on India's foreign policy decisions. A friendship is not a lever."
"But you are arming our enemy—"
"India is selling defensive aircraft to a sovereign state that is legally entitled to purchase defensive aircraft," Gandhi said calmly. "Egypt is not at war with Israel today. Egypt and Israel are at peace under the 1970 ceasefire. If Egypt chooses to return to war, and if those decisions lead Egypt into conflict with Israeli aircraft that include the S-27, that will be the consequence of decisions made in Cairo, not of a transaction concluded in New Delhi."
The Egyptian journalist looked like he had more to say but a Syrian correspondent was already standing.
"Prime Minister Gandhi, Syria demands—"
"Syria does not demand things of India," Gandhi said. The words were quiet and entirely final. "Syria may make requests. Syria may express views. Syria may communicate diplomatic positions through appropriate channels. Syria does not demand things of India's government. Please reframe your question."
The Syrian journalist looked startled. A murmur ran through the Arab press section.
"Syria requests," he said, recovering, "that India reconsider this sale in light of the impact on Arab security."
"India has considered Arab security. India has weighed it against India's commercial interests, India's strategic interests, India's relationship with Israel, and India's assessment of what this sale contributes to regional stability broadly defined. India's conclusion is that the sale proceeds. Syria is welcome to that information as India's considered position."
David Binder from The New York Times was recognised: "Prime Minister, there are reports that India is in discussions with several other nations about S-27 sales. Can you confirm who India is speaking with and whether deals are imminent?"
"India does not disclose ongoing negotiations," Gandhi said. "What I can confirm is that several nations have expressed interest following the Israeli announcement. We will evaluate those expressions of interest based on our criteria and conclude agreements when appropriate. Mr. Shergill can speak to the commercial aspects of those conversations."
"Mr. Shergill," Binder shifted, "can you give us any sense of the pipeline?"
Karan leaned forward. "I can tell you that the phone has not stopped. I can tell you that the Israeli evaluation report — which is an extraordinarily credible endorsement from an extraordinarily demanding customer — has functioned exactly as we hoped it would. And I can tell you that some of the nations calling are not nations that anyone in this room would have predicted would be calling India about fourth-generation fighters."
He left that there, clearly intentionally.
"Can you name them?" Binder pressed.
"No," Karan said, and smiled.
A TASS correspondent spoke with measured formality: "Mr. Shergill, the Soviet Union has been India's most significant defence partner for many years. Does India consider the Soviet Union a competitor in the arms market? And how does Shergill Aerospace relate to Soviet defence technology — was any Soviet technology incorporated in the S-27's development?"
"To answer your second question first," Karan said, "no. The S-27 does not incorporate Soviet technology or Soviet design elements. It does not incorporate American, British, French, or any other foreign technology. It is an indigenous design developed entirely by Indian engineers using Indian materials and Indian manufacturing. The tailless delta configuration is aerodynamically distinct from Soviet design philosophy. The quadruplex fly-by-wire system represents a control architecture that, as I understand it, has not yet been deployed in any Soviet production aircraft. The radar system was designed and built in India. The engine was developed in India."
He paused.
"To answer your first question: yes. The Soviet Union is now a competitor of Shergill Aerospace in the international defence market. So is America. So is France. So is Britain. So is Sweden. So is any nation that manufactures serious military aircraft. We are in this market. We intend to remain in this market. Recognising who our competitors are is necessary for building things that are better than what they offer."
The TASS correspondent made careful notes.
A Der Spiegel journalist followed up from his earlier exchange: "Mr. Shergill, you said earlier that manufacturers are not responsible for what customers do with their products. But surely there are limits to that. Surely you would not sell to any buyer regardless of how they might use the aircraft."
"Correct," Karan said. "We have criteria. We assess buyers. Israel meets our criteria. The criteria include: ability to pay, which Israel satisfies; operational competence, which is demonstrated; maintenance infrastructure, which Israel clearly possesses "
"But how do you draw that line—"
"By looking at the situation honestly," Karan said. "Israel did not attack Egypt in 1967. Egypt mobilised its forces, closed the Strait of Tiran, ordered out the UN peacekeepers, and announced its intention to destroy Israel. Israel struck first. Those are the facts. Whether the first strike was justified is a question that reasonable people argue. But the sequence of events is not ambiguous. Similarly, in 1948. Similarly in the War of Attrition. The pattern of conflict in the region does not suggest Israel is the primary aggressor."
An Egyptian journalist was now on his feet, voice rising: "You are repeating Israeli propaganda—"
"I am describing events that occurred," Karan said flatly. "If Egypt's position is that Egypt did not close the Strait of Tiran in 1967, that is historically false. The closure happened. It was an act of war under international law. These are not propaganda. They are facts."
The room was loud for a moment. Gandhi let it settle without intervening.
A Japanese correspondent spoke when it was quiet enough to be heard: "Mr. Shergill, Japan is interested in advanced aerospace technology. Is India open to discussions with Japan about defence cooperation at the industrial level?"
Karan looked at him with what appeared to be genuine interest. "India is open to serious conversations with serious partners. That's all I'll say on that. Japan is obviously a serious partner."
A Lebanese journalist came back to the central conflict: "Prime Minister Gandhi, Lebanon has Palestinian refugee camps. Lebanon is affected daily by the consequences of the Israeli occupation. When India sells weapons to Israel, when those weapons are used against Palestinians or against Lebanese territory — what does India say to Lebanese civilians?"
Gandhi looked at him steadily.
"India says that we are genuinely sorry for the suffering of Palestinian civilians and for the instability that has affected Lebanon. India says that we support a political resolution to the Palestinian question that gives Palestinians the self-determination they deserve. India says that we believe Israel has the right to exist as a state and the right to defend itself, and that those two positions are not contradictory with supporting Palestinian rights."
She paused.
"And India says that we are a sovereign nation that makes foreign policy decisions based on our assessment of our interests and our principles. We do not ask Lebanon for permission. We do not ask anyone for permission. We are accountable to the Indian people and we believe the Indian people understand that being a sovereign nation means making difficult decisions and standing by them."
The Lebanese journalist tried to follow up. Gandhi had already moved her attention to another hand.
An Indian journalist from The Hindu asked something that cut through the international debate: "Prime Minister, domestically there are those who argue that India has now entered a new kind of Cold War — that we have chosen sides by selling to Israel, and that this will have consequences for our relationships in Asia and Africa among non-aligned nations. How do you respond to that?"
Gandhi leaned forward slightly.
"Non-alignment was never neutrality. Non-alignment was the assertion that India would make decisions based on India's interests and India's principles rather than based on bloc membership or superpower direction. This sale is the most complete expression of non-alignment India has ever executed. We have made a decision that America would have supported, that the Soviet Union opposed, that some Arab states strongly oppose, that some Western nations view with anxiety about competition, that some developing nations view with surprise. We made it anyway. We made it because it serves India's interests. That is non-alignment."
She paused.
"The nations that will be uncomfortable with this decision are nations that benefited from India's dependence. Nations that sold us weapons and could therefore condition what we did with them. Nations that provided us aid and could therefore attach political conditions to that aid. Nations that assumed our poverty meant they could influence our foreign policy at low cost. Those are the nations that are uncomfortable. And their discomfort is confirmation that we are doing something right."
She looked at the entire room.
"India is not asking the world to like this decision. We are informing the world that we have made it and that we will continue making decisions of this kind as India's capabilities grow. The world can adjust its assessments of India accordingly."
Farooqui raised his hand one final time and was recognised. His voice was professional and quiet now, entirely controlled. He had made the shift from advocate to journalist for the last question.
"Mr. Shergill," he said, "you are twenty-three years old. You have built something that has changed the international defence market. You have made decisions that will affect regional politics for decades. Do you ever worry that you've moved faster than wisdom allows? That building a capability and immediately entering the market with it, without taking more time to understand the full consequences, is that not itself a kind of recklessness?"
The room went quiet in a different way than before. It was a genuine question. Everyone recognised it.
Karan looked at him for a moment.
"Yes," he said. "I think about it."
The admission surprised the room more than anything else he had said.
"I think about it because the question is legitimate. I am twenty-three. I have built something serious, and I have done things with it that have real consequences for real people in parts of the world I have never visited. I hold that with some weight. I won't pretend otherwise."
He paused.
"But here is what I've concluded when I think about it. The alternative to moving fast was moving slow. Moving slow in Indian aerospace development, historically, has meant not moving at all. It has meant committees and approvals and foreign permission and dependence on external suppliers who can cut off supply or attach conditions whenever it becomes politically convenient for them. Moving slow in the world I was operating in, I was not cautious. It was a different kind of recklessness — the recklessness of letting the capability gap between India and its adversaries grow while we waited for someone to permit us to close it."
He looked at Farooqui steadily.
"I built quickly. I built carefully — three years of development, eight hundred test flights, full operational certification before a frontline pilot sat in it. Speed and care are not mutually exclusive. And yes, I moved into the international market quickly after the Israeli interest became clear, because waiting would have allowed others to define what India's capabilities meant before we had the chance to define it ourselves."
He paused.
"Do I worry I've moved faster than wisdom allows? Sometimes. But then I think about the alternative — about India remaining a customer, about our pilots flying aircraft that other nations decided to sell us at prices and on conditions that other nations determined, about our foreign policy being constrained by supply relationships we didn't control — and I find that I worry about the alternative more."
He looked at the Pakistani journalist.
"I'm sorry those pilots are dead. I am not sorry I built what killed them, because what killed them was doing exactly what it was built to do in defence of India. Both things are true. I'm learning to hold both of them at the same time."
There was a pause. It was not entirely comfortable. It was not meant to be.
Indira Gandhi looked at the room one final time.
"This concludes the press conference. India's position has been stated clearly. We will follow up on specific factual questions through the appropriate ministry channels. Thank you for your attendance."
She stood. Vajpayee stood. Karan stood.
The three of them walked out the way they had come in — through the side door, in the same order, with the same economy of motion.
For a moment after they left, the room did not move.
Then everyone started talking at once, in twelve languages, simultaneously, and the sound filled Vigyan Bhawan from the floor to the ceiling and spilt out into the Delhi morning.
Farooqui stayed in his seat for ten minutes after the room cleared.
Around him, colleagues packed notebooks and disassembled equipment and filed toward the exits and the waiting drivers and the telegraph offices and the embassy lines through which this story would travel to Karachi and Islamabad and Rawalpindi within the hour. He let them go. He sat with his notebook open on his knee, looking at the words he had written, deciding what they meant.
He had come to Delhi expecting a retreat. Expecting the diplomatic softening that press conferences of this kind were usually convened to provide — the carefully worded walk-back dressed in the language of context and nuance and ongoing dialogue. He had come expecting to write a story about Indian ambivalence and international pressure and the limits of what small nations could sustain against the combined weight of Arab displeasure.
He was not writing that story.
He was writing a story about something he had not expected to see, which was a government and an industrialist and a politician from three different political positions saying the same thing in three different registers, and the thing they were saying was: we are not asking.
He wrote in Urdu, in his own shorthand, the words that he would translate and expand and file in two hours and that would appear in Dawn the next morning under a headline he had not yet composed:
India has decided something today that goes beyond the sale of an aircraft. India has decided, and has said so publicly and without apology, that India is no longer in the business of seeking the approval of other nations for its own decisions. They said it to the Americans and the Soviets and the Arabs and to us, to Pakistan, which they addressed with a specific and personal bluntness that I felt physically sitting in that room.
The young man — Shergill — said he was sorry the pilots were dead. He said it in a way that sounded true. He also said he was not sorry he built the aircraft that killed them. He said that also in a way that sounded true. And somehow both things were true simultaneously, and sitting with both of them at once was the most uncomfortable I have been in a press room in three years of covering this region.
What do we write home about today? We write that India has arrived. Not arrived in the way of a guest at a party — arrived in the way of someone who has decided it is their party now. The aircraft is real. The industry is real. The confidence in that room was real in a way that is not the confidence of someone performing with confidence, but of someone who has done something difficult and knows they have done it and is not embarrassed about knowing.
We can be angry about it. We are angry about it. That anger is legitimate, and I will write it, and it should be written.
But we should also be honest, which is harder.
He closed the notebook.
Outside, Delhi was loud in the way of a large city on a clear morning, indifferent to the press conference that had just ended inside its conference halls, indifferent to the diplomatic cables that were already being drafted in a dozen embassies, indifferent to the fact that something had shifted today in the way nations spoke to each other and what they felt entitled to say.
Farooqui put his notebook in his bag and went out to find his driver.
He had a story to file. It was not the story he had come to write.
It was, he suspected, a better one.
End of Chapter 120
Editorial Note: The press conference of 28 May 1973 was covered by over four hundred journalists representing publications in thirty-one countries. It generated more diplomatic cable traffic in twenty-four hours than any Indian government event since the 1971 armistice. The transcript was officially released by the Indian Ministry of External Affairs on 30 May 1973. Karan Shergill's remark — "I'm learning to hold both of them at the same time" — was quoted in editorials across eleven countries in the week following.