Lt. Col. (Now Major General) Sunil Kumar Razdan belonged to the elite 7th Parachute Battalion and was posted as the 2IC of 6 Rashtriya Rifles in Jammu and Kashmir. His reputation preceded him—known for his iron will, tactical brilliance, and unwavering dedication to the mission, he had already carved a name for himself in counter-insurgency operations. But what would unfold on his birthday, during the third day of his Navratri fast, would define his legacy forever.
The call for help came in the form of a desperate father—a man whose 14-year-old daughter, Rehana, along with thirteen other women, had been abducted by nine heavily armed Lashkar-e-Taiba militants. Their hideout was in Damal Kunzipur, a remote hamlet surrounded by treacherous mountains, an area infested with insurgents. Lt. Col. Razdan did not hesitate. Gathering a team of twenty seasoned soldiers, he embarked on a grueling fifteen-hour trek, covering nearly forty kilometers of rugged terrain, driven by an unyielding sense of duty and the desperate urgency of the situation.
As dusk settled over the mountains, the soldiers, exhausted and famished, paused near the outskirts of Naugam. The smell of steaming khichdi filled the air as they hastily cooked a meal, their first in hours. Razdan, a Kashmiri Pandit fluent in three dialects of Kashmiri, used his linguistic skills to gather intelligence from the locals. The militants, he learned, were holed up in a dilapidated four-story house with a boundary wall, a kilometer and a half away, near a mountain spring. The clock was ticking.
By 10:30 PM, the soldiers approached their target with surgical precision. The challenge was not just the militants inside but also the alert village dogs that could give away their approach. Thinking ahead, Razdan’s men distracted the dogs by tossing them raw meat, ensuring complete silence. The house loomed ahead, its darkened windows holding secrets of terror within. The team split into two groups—six men would infiltrate the house while the rest formed a tight perimeter around it.
In the dim glow of an oil lamp, Razdan and his men entered the house. Thirteen terrified women huddled together in one room, their eyes wide with fear. In the kitchen, an older woman was making omelets. Upon seeing Razdan, she screamed, mistaking him for another tormentor. He swiftly reassured her in Kashmiri, "We are the Army. We are here to save you." With the front door now open, he instructed the women to flee, but their clinking anklets betrayed their movement.
The militants heard them.
Two gunmen rushed down the stairs. Razdan was ready. His rifle roared to life, cutting them down before they could react. A third militant appeared from the shadows, and Razdan’s AK-47 spat fire again, sending the insurgent sprawling to the ground. With three militants down, he believed the path was clear. He took a step forward, only to be met with a deafening burst of gunfire.
A hidden militant, still alive, emptied ten bullets into his stomach at point-blank range.
Agony exploded through his body as bullets tore through his abdomen, piercing his intestines and spine. He collapsed, his vision blurring with pain, yet his survival instincts kicked in. With sheer willpower, he raised his weapon and fired a final shot, ensuring his attacker never rose again. But now, a more pressing battle began—the fight for his own life.
Blood soaked his uniform, pooling around him. Knowing he had to act fast, he unraveled his patka, the cloth wrapped around his head, and tied it tightly around his stomach, holding his intestines in place. Crawling inch by inch, he dragged himself out of the house, clutching four enemy rifles as trophies of war, leaving a crimson trail behind him.
From behind a shack of firewood, he watched as his men engaged in a fierce firefight. The sound of gunfire echoed in the valley as the remaining militants were neutralized one by one. The mission was a success—all nine militants lay dead, and all fourteen women were rescued. Only then did Razdan finally allow himself to be carried to safety.
A helicopter airlifted him to the Srinagar General Hospital, where surgeons removed nine feet of his small intestine. His condition was critical, and he was soon transferred to Delhi for advanced care. Yet even as he battled for his life, his thoughts remained with the people he had saved. The villagers of Naugam did not forget him either. Overwhelmed with gratitude, they followed his recovery closely, even traveling to Pune to visit him at the Military Hospital in Khadki. They presented his wife with Rs. 10,000—an offering of their deepest appreciation, a small token for a debt they could never fully repay.
For his extraordinary valor and selfless sacrifice, Lt. Col. Sunil Kumar Razdan was awarded the Kirti Chakra, India’s second-highest peacetime gallantry award.
Back in Delhi, a Kashmiri shawl seller stood outside Razdan’s home, waiting patiently. When Razdan emerged, the man’s eyes widened with recognition. "You are the hero of Naugam," he said with reverence, holding out a finely woven shawl. When Razdan reached for his wallet, the seller shook his head. "This is my gratitude. No price can be put on what you did for our daughters."
Years later, even after retirement, Maj. Gen. Razdan continued his service to the nation, this time in a different capacity. Along with his coursemates, he dedicated himself to social work, identifying the children of widowed army wives and sponsoring their education. His body bore the scars of war, but his heart remained indomitable.
A soldier’s duty does not end with the battlefield.
Once a soldier, always a soldier.
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