My Memories of Emergency – The Darkest Period in Independent India’s History
As decades tick on in our lives, some memories, good or
otherwise, stay on top of all others. Being the son of a journalist who was
also closely associated with Indian politics for over 50 years, my most vivid
memories are of developments in Indian politics over the decades. I remember the
outcome of each Lok Sabha (lower house of Indian parliament) election, right from
1977. And then there are memories of the 1990s being overcrowded with Lok Sabha
elections, of coalition governments that lasted and those that didn’t, the
nuclear tests conducted in 1998, and many others. But the most unforgettable of
my memories – also the oldest – are of the Emergency (25-Jun 1975 till 21-Mar
1977) declared in India.
Although there was growing resentment
towards the Indira Gandhi-led Congress government in the mid-seventies, the immediate
trigger for her imposing Emergency was the Allahabad High Court verdict,
declaring her election to the Lok Sabha invalid. The court also disqualified
her from holding public office for six years. Instead of resigning as prime
minister, she chose to declare Emergency, establishing her absolute authority
over the country. Citizens’ fundamental rights – which included freedom of
speech – stood suspended. Newspapers and magazines could only publish what the
government approved. Doordarshan (TV) and All India Radio, already run by the
government, became propaganda instruments of Indira and her government. Over 100,000
people, including my father, K
R Malkani, were arrested under the draconian Maintenance of Internal
Security Act (MISA),
according to which anyone even speaking against the government could be
arrested and held indefinitely without trial, on the pretext of maintaining the
country’s security.
Emergency was declared during our school summer holidays. I
was 8 years old then. As young children, my sister, 10, and I knew I that my
father would fearlessly write against Indira. What follows is all that I have
recollected and documented over time from that period.
The night of 25-Jun 1975
During Delhi’s scorching summer our family used to sleep
outdoors at night. On the night of 25th June, our family was
sleeping in the courtyard at the front of our house. My sister and I slept
through the night, not aware that we had had visitors at an unearthly hour.
I learned from what my mother, Sundari Malkani, told us next
morning that we had police visit us soon after midnight. They did not enter the
courtyard but called out my father’s name from the gate. My parents woke up and
were told that they wanted my father to accompany them to the nearby police
station. When my mother asked them why, their response was that my father knows
the reason. For some support, my mother woke up my brother, who was 17 then.
She wanted to request a neighbour to accompany my father to the police station.
As she opened the backdoor to go to his house, she realised that our house had
been surrounded by the police.
I also learned from my father’s book The Midnight Knock, that
before leaving home, he turned and looked at us children, thinking perhaps this
might be the last time he was seeing us.
I don’t recall my sister or myself crying on hearing the news from my mother. We probably didn’t understand what it meant for our family. I didn't know the meaning of the word arrest, till my mother explained it to me.
I learned, also from The Midnight Knock, that my father had
left a modest balance in his bank account. Meanwhile, on that dark night, my
mother was left with two frightening worries – my father’s safety (under MISA
it was not conveyed why a person was being arrested, where he or she was being
taken, and for how long), and the family’s financial uncertainty. The sole
breadwinner of the family was arrested, but we still had to be fed and educated.
Throughout that dark period, she was very brave. Despite almost no money at
hand, my sister’s and my swimming classes (which had commenced that summer) did
not stop.
All three of us studied in what was the most expensive
school in Delhi in those days. Not that it was easy for my parents to afford
the fees. It was only because Modern School was considered the best school in
Delhi, they had decided to cut expenses wherever they could and give us good
education. My brother had finished his schooling by 1975. Moving my sister and
me to a government school would have reduced monthly expenses but compromised
on the quality of education and exposure we were getting. For our futures’
sake, our school was not changed. I learned several years later that my
mother’s Delhi-based brother was supporting her financially, as were at least
two family friends, one in Mumbai and another outside India.
The car at home was provided by my father’s office. It could
not be sold to get some money for running the house. Nor could it be left
unused month after month. During this time of uncertainty my brave mother learned
how to drive and took up the additional responsibility of driving the family. Unlike
the summer of 1975, when we used to take a bus to National Stadium for swimming
classes, the following summer she used to drive us, and a few other kids from
the neighbourhood for swimming. Despite the financial hardship, she managed to
give us little pleasures of childhood as best as she could. One of those was when
right after swimming, she would at times want to take us for a movie instead of
heading home. I recall once, after swimming we headed to the modest Stadium
Cinema nearby, which was playing the Hindi movie Kalicharan. None of us fancied
watching it! Sholay was the most famous Hindi movie running during that period.
Although we had much time at hand during summer holidays, not to mention, the
luxury of a car to drive us around, she didn’t take us to watch it. Possibly
because of its violence and abusive dialogues.
Another time, when I asked for a cycle, she had tried to get
me a second-hand one. I became very sad on seeing its state. So, she bought me
a new one, although a cheaper brand than the standard Atlas or Hero. I can’t
imagine what other expenses she would have compromised on to buy me a new one.
Visits to various jails
But going for swimming and the occasional movie were among
the sweeter memories from those 21 months. We were also going to jail regularly
to meet my father. I don’t know how and when my mother was informed of his
whereabouts. He was first sent to a jail in Rohtak, Haryana, about 40 miles
from Delhi. My mother’s brother had two cars. Each time we were to visit my
father, my uncle would lend us his driver and one of his cars, while he would
drive himself to his office in his other car.
In the Rohtak jail all the MISA detainees and their visitors
would be made to meet in a large hall. I did not know anyone else there. In the
same crowded hall, my father had pointed out Piloo Mody once, who's
foreign-origin wife used to visit him.
The next "home" for my father was the jail in
Hissar, also in Haryana. It was about 100 miles from Delhi. Our first trip
there took us a long time. We returned home only at about 10:00 PM.
In Hissar, the rules were more stringent for visitors. We
were made to meet my father in a small room in the presence of a few jail
officers (or perhaps sent by the government) who’s job seemed to be to listen
to everything we said to each other. The seating was limited and during one
visit we were short of one chair. Being the youngest there, I sat on my
father’s lap. Quiet and shy by nature, when I wanted to say something to him, I
started talking softly to him. One of the officers objected to this. My mother
responded to him saying that children are innocent (bachchay to masoom hotay
hain). But he still wasn’t OK with me saying something he couldn’t hear. I
don't think I completed my sentence at all after that.
The next home for my father was Delhi’s Tihar Jail. I don’t
remember much of it at all. On either side of the huge door of the jail were
the words “Hate the sin, not the sinner”. I think it was here once that as we
waited to enter the jail, a large group of prisoners were being taken away in a
bus. They were chanting in unison, “Shanti van say aayee aavaz, aaja beti mere
paas” (a voice is calling from shanti van – Nehru’s cremation ground – come to
me, my daughter). My mother found it amusing.
For the jail visits, my mother would cook or bake something that
all of us would eat together, also giving my father a break from jail food.
The jails allowed only two adult visitors, besides children.
My brother was 17 at the time of the arrest but the authorities still counted
him as an adult. So, when any other adult relative wanted to visit my father
along with us, my brother would have to stay home.
The bored spy in the neighbourhood
My mother was sure our phone was being tapped. She also
spotted someone standing some distance from our house and watching our place
all day. Presumably, this person was asked to keep a watch on who visited us.
Every journalist with a spine was already in jail, as were Opposition leaders
and tens of thousands of Opposition parties’ workers. So, this person clearly
wouldn’t have anything interesting to report. Possibly bored with the lack of
action, he once asked a neighbour’s male domestic help to keep an eye on our
place while he took a break. The domestic help informed the lady of the house
of this conversation. The good neighbour promptly came and told my mother about
it, confirming her suspicion.
Balancing school and visits to jail
Meeting times in jail were late in the afternoon. So, my
sister and I had to leave for the jail during school hours. Initially we both
were in junior school at Humayun Road, but after 5th standard
she moved to senior school at Barakhambha Road. My uncle’s driver used to first
come to my school to fetch me, then to my sister’s school and then to our place
for my mother and any other family member. Up till 5th standard we
were not allowed to wear watches in school. So, I had no idea of the time or
when I was supposed to wait outside school for the driver. The driver would
reach school and go about hunting for me on the campus. And he would find me
only by luck, because I was never looking for him! My sister, by contrast, was
responsible and would be waiting outside the school when the driver and I would
get there.
Once during a parent teacher meeting, my sister's teacher
told my mother that she was taken aback when my sister sought permission to
visit our jailed father. She said she had initially wondered what crime he had
committed! But on hearing the reality, there was a general feeling of thoughtfulness
among all staff members towards us and respect for my father.
Only one experience during this period was different. My
Hindi teacher, Mrs Sahai, a well-known terror, once asked the class to write an
essay on Indira as our homework. On seeing the assignment, my mother was
furious and asked me not to write it. The next day I received a white card from
the teacher – a severe punishment in my school, and the only time I ever
received one. I started crying in the class but she still wanted me to write
the essay. Under pressure, I did manage to write a page – far shorter than a
conventional essay. On getting home I narrated the happenings in school to my
mother. As I was leaving the room, her good friend from the neighbourhood dropped
in to meet her. As she told her friend about what had happened, my mother started
crying. It was also the only time I saw her cry during those 21 months.
We will never know if the topic of the essay was the
teacher's choice or mandated by the government. It may not have been the
latter, given that my sister did not get the same assignment. If this was the
teacher’s own choice, I can’t imagine what purpose it served for anyone,
including her. Secondly, given how my family was impacted by Indira’s
Emergency, it was ridiculous of her to punish me for not completing that assignment.
A few days later, she tried to control the damage. She said to me that a
teacher is the children's mother in school. The thought that passed my mind was
- should the mother in school do something that makes the real mother cry? Of
course, I didn't dare ask her that.
My father - immersed in books (and the occasional comic) even in jail
My father was a voracious reader and used to spend most of
his waking hours at home, reading. His favourite book was ‘Choose Live’, a
dialogue between two scholars, Toynbee and Ikeda. A few times during our
growing up years, he had cited the saying – A fool lends a book, and a bigger
fool returns it!
Being in jail gave him the luxury-of-sorts, of spending time
exactly as he pleased. I can imagine a lot of the time spent in open
discussions about the government, something the latter could do nothing to
stop, given that the “offenders” were already in jail. He also used to play
badminton (we had given him one of the racquets at home), and read a lot.
One of my Pune-based cousins owned a bookshop called Modern Book Stall. My father used to give my mother names of books he wanted to read, which were sent to my cousin. When he was able to send us the books, we would take them to my father.
During one of our visits, he had finished reading all the books
he had in jail, and we had no new one to give him. I generously offered him my
Tintin comic, which I’d brought for reading in the car. He accepted the offer.
He had the habit of marking interesting sections in the margins of books he
read. While I don’t remember if he found anything in ‘Prisoners of the Sun’ worth
marking, but he wrote down a few words on the last page, which he wanted to
explain me the meanings of. The first among those was Inca.
I don't know how much of the story he understood, given that
he hadn't read the preceding comic, 'Seven Crystal Balls'. But then, neither
had I.
The meeting with Indira, that did not happen
One person who used to visit our house during the Emergency
was someone called Bhikshu Chaman Lal. I have no recollection of who he was or what
he looked like. Some years after Emergency my father narrated one incident
related to him. On one of his visits to our place, he told my mother that he
was going to meet Indira and tried to convince her to accompany him, saying
that she did not need to say anything during the meeting. My mother was unsure if
this was right. At that time her brother happened to drop in at our place. On
hearing of this suspicious-sounding invitation, he advised my mother to decline
it. While narrating this to us, my father said it was a very wise move, since the
visit could have been projected by media as a meeting in which my mother apologised
for my father's stand against Indira – something he would never have done.
Mega rallies against the government
Once, a large rally was organised on a Sunday evening,
possibly by some Opposition leaders who were released early. My mother drove to
the rally taking a few interested people with her. I remember her telling us that
it was a very well-attended one. While the rally was on, a helicopter hovered
over the venue, possibly to assess how big the anti-government/Emergency movement
was. A second rally was organised for the following Sunday.
Through the seventies doordarshan was a drab affair, with
the TV switched on only infrequently. But every TV-owning household would watch
the Sunday evening movie, however boring it may have been. Before the second
rally, it was announced unexpectedly that the relatively new movie, Bobby, was
going to be telecast on the evening of the second rally, instead of a much
older movie, Waqt (from what I remember). It seemed a desperate attempt by the
government to prevent people from attending the rally. But it worked! On
returning home my mother mentioned that the crowd this time was much smaller
than in the first one.
Indira’s growing unpopularity
As the oppression continued, resentment against Indira grew.
While people did not dare talk against her outside of private conversations
with trusted people, I remember an incident that demonstrated popular
resentment. Along the road leading to Minto Bridge in Delhi, a very long hoarding
had been put up. It had Indira painted in the centre, with a very large number
of small, faceless figures behind her across the hoarding, implying she was
leading the country’s masses. I used to see it every day as my school bus
passed from the nearby outer circle of Connaught Place. One day my mother
learned that someone had smeared tar on Indira’s face on that
hoarding. The next day for sure, I saw the spectacle from my school bus. Before
long the tar was scraped off and her face painted back on the hoarding. Whoever
the "tartist" was, it was incredibly brave of them to do so, knowing
any person could well have spotted them and got them arrested.
And then there was this joke I heard in school. I narrated
it to my mother who had a good laugh over it. It went that Rajiv (then a pilot)
was flying Indira and Sanjay in a plane. As they flew over a village, looking
down at it, Indira commented that if she threw a ten rupee note down from the
plane, it’ll make the villagers very happy. Sanjay bettered her proposal by
saying that if he threw a 100 rupee note down, that will make
the villagers happy. Rajiv responded by saying “If I throw both of you down from
here, that will make the villagers the happiest!”
As time passed, some prominent Opposition members were
released. Shri LK Advani and Shri AB Vajpayee were among them. After his
release one Opposition leader had gone to meet Indira. He asked her about Nana
Deshmukh’s and my father’s release. She said my father would be released soon,
but did not commit on Nanaji’s release. However, from what I recall, Nanaji was
released soon after, while my father continued to be in jail. We will never
know for sure why he was among the last to be released, given the hardship we –
his family – were enduring. One can only assume it was driven by personal
hatred.
Election Day - March 1977
Ultimately, elections were announced. My mother was very
active on election day. She drove several elderly people in the neighbourhood
to the polling booth and back. As the day progressed, she also went to some
neighbours' homes reminding them to go and vote. She had a very close friend
two houses away from ours, whose husband was an unwavering Congress voter. As
my mother was visiting other houses in the neighbourhood, she asked my sister
and me to go and remind her friend to vote. Innocent of the reason for her not
going there herself (I suppose she was hurt at them not committing to vote for
Janata Party), we both went to their place. The friend's husband looked
slightly surprised on hearing our message, possibly thinking it was nice of my
mother to remind them despite his political preference.
My father’s release after election results were out
Election results were announced over a few days. For us
kids, it was a novel and delightful experience that Hindi movies were being
telecast for a few days in a row. The unfolding election results – whatever
little we understood of it – would have added to the delight.
From what I recall, my father was released only after
the government’s defeat was announced. My mother and a few neighbours went
to Rohtak to bring him back home. Possibly, my uncle’s car and driver
were not available that evening. I think one neighbour had volunteered to drive
our car. A very large number of people visited us that night to meet him.
Next morning I mentioned to other kids at my school bus stop
that my father too had been released. At last, it had happened!
A quarter century after Emergency was lifted, when my father
used to live in Pondicherry, a close friend of the Nehru-Gandhi family visited
him. During their chat my father asked him what had made Indira finally lift
the Emergency. This person’s insight was that major democracies in the world
had strongly objected to the imposition of Emergency in India. He also
mentioned that the jailing of Gayatri Devi of the royal family of Jaipur had particularly
offended the British royal family. At one point, Indira succumbed to
international pressure.
Emergency – not forgetting the dark history
Majority of India’s population today was born after the Emergency.
They know little, if at all, about that period. However, it has famously been
said that those that who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.
While one can safely assume that no political party today
will impose the kind and extent of oppression the Emergency did. But since the
Emergency, and indeed, even in the decades preceding
it, curbs have been imposed or attempted to be imposed. A particularly perverse
attempt was the Defamation
Bill of 1988 – introduced by the same party that imposed Emergency. The
decade of Congress-led United Progressive Alliance wasn’t particularly
supportive of freedom
of speech. On the other hand, similar accusations
have been hurled by the Congress against the Narendra Modi-led union
government. Deeper understanding of the Emergency will give us context to
understand the present better. So, that dark chapter of history must be
discussed and written about extensively for the benefit of future generations.
The present government has ensured greater visibility of
this period by declaring 25-June as Samvidhan
Hatya Divas (Day of murder of the constitution). We are fortunate that over
the decades, several books – from late seventies to a few years ago – have been
written on the Emergency. Notable among these are BN Tandon’s PMO Diary, Coomi
Kapoor’s The Emergency, A Surya Prakash’s The Emergency, my father’s The
Midnight Knock, Janardan Thakur’s All the Prime Minister’s Men and Shri LK
Advani’s My Country, My life. Interestingly, except the last (which has a
chapter on Emergency), each of these was published when Congress was not in power
in New Delhi.
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