Chandigarh bookends the MiG-21 story in India. It was here that the Indian Air Force inducted its first supersonic fighter, and it is here that the type is drawing its final curtain. Between those two points lies a remarkable relationship—unlikely at first glance, but perfectly logical in hindsight.
In the years immediately after Independence, the IAF followed a “type-based” philosophy, grouping similar aircraft at one station to make the best use of equipment, manpower, and technical knowledge. Pune had a Tempest wing, Kalaikunda hosted the Mystère, and Ambala became home to the Hunter. Over time, this neat structure began to fray as operational needs grew, but it was still intact when the MiG-21 came up for induction.
The plan, at first, was simple: keep India’s first supersonic fighter away from curious eyes. Before the initial nucleus of pilots left for the Soviet Union, AOC-in-C AVM Pinto told the designated CO, (then) Wg Cdr Dilbagh Singh, that Adampur would be home—quiet, out of the way and perfect for something as sensitive as the MiG-21. Adampur had come up in 1950 as part of Plan Shikar and was still lightly developed; squadrons typically staged through it for a year or two. With only No. 41 Squadron (transport) there in 1962, it seemed an unlikely place for an enemy to look for India’s newest fighter.
Then the plan changed—twice. While the team was abroad, Air HQ decided the MiG-21 would be based at Hindan (also spelt Hindon). It was a brand-new airfield still under construction, and someone liked the symmetry: a brand-new aircraft on a brand-new station, as had been done with the Mystères at Kalaikunda in 1957. But Hindan would take time to come alive—and at that stage it was not even clear if it would be an IAF base, given plans to offload Palam’s civil traffic there. A stop-gap was needed.
Chandigarh became that stop-gap. The base already operated Soviet types—An-12s, Il-14s, and Mi-4s—so the Soviet-trained technicians and support ecosystem were in place to absorb the MiG-21 quickly. The irony was hard to miss: for all the talk of secrecy, the Punjab capital’s civil traffic, including Indian Airlines, often parked almost alongside the new fighter. The posting order stated that six months would pass until Hindan was ready. Six became twelve, then eighteen; Dilbagh Singh finally completed a full two-year tenure at Chandigarh.
Build-up was deliberately modest. Soviet-trained technical staff arrived; additional personnel from various trades trickled in; and the ad-hoc authorisation was just six aircraft to start with. A larger, permanent establishment would be argued for only after experience has been accumulated. Those “temporary” years did more than fill a gap—they seeded the procedures, confidence and culture that defined the MiG-21 era.
The aircraft arrived in completely knocked-down (CKD) condition and were reassembled on site by a handful of Russian technicians braving the torrid Indian summer at Bombay. A MiG-21 simulator—the first of its kind in Indian service—was installed at Chandigarh as well. Although it was not used as extensively as the Soviets recommended, it marked another milestone in Indian aviation.
Even so, the start was humble. No. 28 Squadron, the IAF’s inaugural MiG-21 unit, began life at Chandigarh in a small hangar, with three tents pitched outside the ATC: one served as the Flight Office, another as the DSS, the third as the Orderly Room. Inside the ATC, a single room doubled as a flying kit store and changing area. For months, every sortie was flown in pressure suits, which made that cramped space indispensable.
Coexistence with the transports demanded give-and-take. An-12 crews, returning after exhausting forward-area missions, sometimes had to hold in circuit while a pair of MiGs asked to rejoin. That it worked at all is a tribute to Group Captain Ghadiok, the base commander, and to the goodwill of the transport squadrons, who welcomed the new arrivals with hospitality rather than resentment.
The new squadron also had to build its bureaucracy from scratch. There were no policy letters, no files or filing system, no technical orders or instructions at the outset. On top of that came the reality that Soviet design and engineering philosophies differed markedly from the Western types the IAF was used to. The learning curve was steep, but the challenge was met.
When the 1965 War began, fate completed the circle: No. 28 Squadron moved to Adampur for operations (with a detachment at Pathankot). A couple of months later, it permanently relocated to Adampur to assume frontline duties. Chandigarh, though, retained its place at the heart of the MiG programme. In April 1966, No. 45 Squadron was established there with a unique task: converting pilots to the MiG-21. The first batches numbered five to eight; by the twelfth course, the intake had grown to 12–15 at a time. Between 1966 and 1973, more than 200 pilots converted to the MiG-21 at Chandigarh.
This hub-and-spoke model made Chandigarh the national centre of gravity of the MiG-21 era. Other squadrons cycled through in quick succession: No. 4 Squadron in October 1966 (Toofani → MiG-21, until April 1968), No. 47 Squadron (Toofani → MiG-21FL, until February 1969) and No. 8 Squadron (Mystère → MiG-21, until January 1971).
By 1973, the IAF began inducting the Type-96 (MiG-21M/MF). No. 108 and No. 7 Squadrons converted; 7 Squadron returned to Chandigarh and, barring a short stint at Pathankot, remained there until the end of 1984 before moving to the Mirage-2000. Chandigarh did not lose its MiG-21 presence: 37 Squadron and 51 Squadron followed for brief periods, and then 21 Squadron, which kept a long vigil from 1988 to 2002.
Across these decades, transport squadrons shared the base with MiG-21 units—neither planned nor common elsewhere. From the makeshift tents outside the ATC to nearly four decades of uninterrupted supersonic presence, Chandigarh was more than just a base. It was the cradle, and ultimately the custodian, of the MiG-21 in India. What began as an “unlikely” home became the place that defined the type’s service—and now, fittingly, it is where that extraordinary journey closes.
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