Retiring MiG-21, retaining its lessons

WHEN India inducted the MiG-21 in 1963, it marked more than just the arrival of a new fighter jet. It was the nation’s entry into the supersonic era. The Soviet-designed aircraft, capable of flying at twice the speed of sound, transformed the Indian Air Force (IAF) almost overnight. India was the first country outside the Soviet Union to operate the MiG-21, and Hindustan Aeronautics Limited soon began license-production. In one stroke, the IAF leapfrogged from subsonic to supersonic, a bold move for a country still building its industrial base.

Its arrival was not only technological but also geopolitical. At a time when the West was reluctant to transfer high-end military technology, the Soviet Union’s decision to trust India with the MiG-21 cemented a strategic partnership that endures to this day. The aircraft became both a machine of war and a symbol of non-alignment tilted toward Moscow, giving India a sense of security in a dangerous neighborhood.

The MiG-21 earned its reputation quickly. During the 1971 war with Pakistan, Indian MiG-21s scored aerial victories against Pakistani F-104 Starfighters and other jets. These dogfights cemented its image as a reliable war machine, giving India an edge in a conflict that reshaped the subcontinent. MiG-21s also flew countless sorties in support of ground forces, establishing the IAF as a decisive arm in joint operations. In that war, and in the decades that followed, the delta-wing silhouette became synonymous with India’s aerial shield.

Over the years, the aircraft’s sheer numbers told their own story. MiG-21s were inducted by the hundreds, with sources citing between 874 and 1,200 aircraft of different variants entering IAF service. For a generation of pilots, the MiG-21 was not just a fighter but a rite of passage. To qualify on the jet was to prove oneself capable of mastering a machine that was fast, unforgiving, and exhilarating. Veterans often describe it as a “teacher aircraft” that demanded precision; those who survived it became sharper aviators because of it.

Even in the 2000s, upgraded MiG-21 Bison variants remained frontline assets, equipped with modern radar and beyond-visual-range missiles. During the 2019 Balakot crisis, one such Bison flown by Wing Commander Abhinandan Varthaman engaged a Pakistani F-16. India maintains the MiG-21 shot it down; Pakistan denies the claim, and independent verification remains contested. What is not in doubt is that a MiG-21, designed in the 1950s, was still flying combat patrols in 2019 — a telling symbol of both resilience and overstretch.

But if the MiG-21 symbolized modernity in the 1960s, it later came to represent loss. Over its six-decade service, hundreds of crashes were recorded, killing more than 170 pilots and dozens of civilians, according to official and media reports. The aircraft’s unforgiving flight characteristics, coupled with aging airframes and inadequate infrastructure, made flying it perilous. The MiG-21 was branded with grim nicknames: the “Flying Coffin” and the “Widow Maker.” For the public, every crash was not just a military accident but a national tragedy — a reminder of the human cost of keeping outdated jets in the sky.

Other countries that once flew MiG-21s retired them long ago or relegated them to museums and heritage flights. India, however, kept them in service well into the 21st century, largely because indigenous replacements like the Tejas Light Combat Aircraft were delayed and foreign procurements got bogged down in political and bureaucratic deadlock. Caught in the middle, the MiG-21 soldiered on, upgraded repeatedly but still fundamentally an airframe from another age. Each extension of its life was an admission of failure to modernize on time.

To call the MiG-21 only a hero is to erase the grief it brought; to dismiss it as only a coffin is to forget the victories it delivered. Its true legacy is both. It defended India’s skies when it mattered most and trained generations of pilots, yet it also highlighted the risks of stretching platforms too long. Veterans describe the MiG-21 as demanding but rewarding — one that punished mistakes but rewarded skill. For families who lost loved ones, however, it remains a painful symbol of institutional inertia. This duality is what makes the MiG-21 story uniquely Indian: pride and pain, resilience and tragedy.

Beyond the military, the MiG-21 has also left a cultural footprint. Its delta wings have thundered over Republic Day parades in Delhi, its pilots have been celebrated in folklore and film, and its roar has become part of India’s soundscape in both war and peace. Generations of Indians have grown up craning their necks at air shows, catching a glimpse of the jet that once embodied national strength. Its story belongs not just to the Air Force but to the national imagination.

By 2025, the MiG-21 will finally leave IAF service. Its farewell is overdue, but it should not be bitter. The aircraft gave India time: time to mature as an air power, time to train aviators, and time to develop new platforms. The tragedy lies not in the MiG-21 itself, but in the fact that India squandered much of that time by delaying modernization. As the IAF transitions to Rafales, Su-30MKIs, and indigenous Tejas jets, the lesson is clear: technology has a shelf life, and indecision carries a cost. Pilot safety is not an afterthought but a cornerstone of national security.

The MiG-21 deserves a salute — not as a flawless hero, but as a faithful soldier. It fought wars, deterred adversaries, and stood watch in crises. It also extracted a heavy price in blood, reminding us that clinging to outdated platforms undermines readiness and risks lives. In the end, the MiG-21 is both a symbol of India’s aviation rise and a cautionary marker for its defense planning. As its final squadrons retire, we must bid farewell with both gratitude and resolve: never again should a machine outlive its era at the cost of so many lives.