India After Gandhi (87 page)

Some freedom-loving journalists resisted, but their newspapers’ owners were mostly compliant, fearing the government might shut down their presses or seize their properties. They feared the stick, but were happy to bit eat the carrot. This took the shape of government announcements paid for by the Directorate of Audio-Visual Publicity (DAVP). While ‘liberally granting advertisements to so-called “friendly” periodicals’, the DAVP withdrew their favours from those deemed critical of the government. More than one news paper, and editor, and owner, was happy to change its tune in response to the inducements on offer.
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Among the major newspapers that willingly complied with the new regulations were the
Hindu
, the
Times of India
and, especially, the
Hindustan Times
. The editor of the last-named newspaper, the hugely respected B. G. Verghese, was sacked by its owner, the industrialist K. K. Birla, merely to please Mrs Gandhi. (Birla was a devoted acolyte of the prime minister-after the Allahabad High Court judgement of 12 June, he had taken a delegation of 500 businessmen to plead with her to stay on in office.
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)Among the newspapers that struggled nobly to maintain their independence were the
Indian Express
and the
Statesman.
Both refused to toe the government line, resisting threats and blandishments alike. When their power was cut they got the courts to restore it. When their own stories were censored, they chose to leave white spaces rather than fill them with propaganda material. And they artfully reproduced, without comment, reports on the Indian situation in the foreign press, under such neutral headings as ‘News Digest’ or ‘What our Contemporaries Say’.
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The mass-circulation newspapers were hardest hit, but the government did not spare the high-quality and slow-selling journals of opinion either. Two esteemed Delhi journals, the weekly
Mainstream
and the
monthly
Seminar
, closed rather than submit to the censor’s scrutiny. The Bombay weekly
Himmat
fought the censor doggedly, but finally shut down when asked to pay aprohibitively high deposit as a guarantee of good behaviour, the fine imposed for apiece that quoted, among other people, the Mahatma. Literary magazines also closed down, finding the curbs on their independence impossible to live with.

In some ways the government feared the little magazines even more. Their owners could not be bought; so they had to be coerced or bankrupted instead. Among the chosen targets was
Opinion
, a four-page newsletter brought out in Bombay by the former ICS officer A. D. Gorwala. A man of legendary integrity, Gorwala focused on attacks on the individual by the agencies of the state. He had also fought a long battle against corruption. A year into the emergency,
Opinion
was ordered to shut down, but Gorwala was able to print one last issue in which he observed that

the current Indira regime, founded on June26, 1975, was born through lies, nurtured by lies, and flourishes by lies. The essential ingredient of its being is the lie. Consequently, to have a truth-loving, straight-thinking journal examine it week after week and point out its falsehoods becomes intolerable to it.
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The day after the emergency was declared, a British reporter found the streets of Delhi to be ‘uncannily normal’. The city’s ‘jingling flotilla’ of cyclists setoff for work in the morning. ‘No angry crowds gathered. Shops and factories opened as usual. Beggars begged. The sleek racehorses of the rich had their daily exercise...’
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As the veteran journalist Inder Malhotra wrote, ‘in its initial months at least, the Emergency restored to India a kind of calm it had not known for years’.
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This calm was in sharp contrast to the strife-filled decade that preceded it; one reason why the emergency was widely welcomed by the middle class. The crime rate had come down and the trains ran on time. A good monsoon in 1975 meant that prices also fell. A visiting American journalist was told by an official in Delhi that it was only foreigners who cared for such things as the freedom of expression. ‘We are tired of being the workshop of failed democracy,’ said the official.
‘The time has come to exchange some of our vaunted individual rights for some economic development.’

The journalist found that the business community were especially pleased with the emergency. A Delhi hotel owner told him that life now was ‘just wonderful. We used to have terrible problems with the unions. Now when they give us any troubles, the government just put them in jail.’ In Bombay, the journalist met J. R. D. Tata, arguably India’s most respected industrialist. Tata too felt that ‘things had gone too far. You can’t imagine what we’ve been through here – strikes, boycotts, demonstrations. Why, there were days I couldn’t walk out of my office into the street. The parliamentary system is not suited to our needs.’
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One fact is conclusive proof of the quiescence of the middle class – that hardly any officials resigned in protest against the emergency. Back in the days of British rule, Gandhi’s call to ‘non-cooperate’ with the rulers led to thousands of resignations of teachers, lawyers, judges, even ICS officers. Now, the abrogation of democracy was protested by only a handful of people in state employment. These included Fali Nariman, who resigned as additional solicitor general, M. L. Dantwala, who declined to continue as an adviser to the Reserve Bank, and Bagaram Tulpule, who left his high position in a public-sector undertaking.

There was, however, some resistance offered in the Indian Parliament. On 23 July the House met to ratify the emergency. The Congress commanded a comfortable majority; and 34 MPs were in jail. Those opposition MPs at liberty to attend made speeches of protest before walking out. The CPM member A. K. Gopalan said the arrests had reduced Parliament to a ‘farce and an object of contempt’. A Jana Sangh MP accused Mrs Gandhi of betraying the mother land for ‘the sake of personal ends’.
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The opposition MPs later boycotted the House (or were jailed), but an independent member who continued to attend was P. G. Mavalankar of Ahmedabad, apolitical scientist by vocation and the son of the first Speaker of the Lok Sabha. His lineage made it difficult for the government to arrest him. So he stayed and, when given the chance, quoted the Holy Trinity of Indian nationalism, Tagore, Gandhi and Nehru – quoted them on the merits and virtues of liberty and freedom. Their views were contrasted with the ‘draconian’ MISA, used to further ‘the political purpose of a vindictive government’, an act which was ‘the most obnoxious piece of legislation ever enacted in the recent history of India’.
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There was also resistance in the streets. On 14 November 1975 – the
birthday of Jawaharlal Nehru – a body styling itself the Lok Sangharsh Samiti (People’s Struggle Committee) began a
satyagraha
in Bombay. Every day a group of protesters would stand at a busy intersection and shout slogans such as ‘Down with Dictatorship’ and ‘JP Zindabad’. Within a month 1,359 people had been arrested – including 146 women. The protests spread to other states, where bus stands, railway stations and government offices became the theatre of slogan shouting and the courting of arrest. One report claimed that in the first three months of the
satyagraha
as many as 80,000 people had been put behind bars.
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On 15 August 1976 (Independence Day) another
satyagraha
commenced in Ahmedabad. It was led by Manibhen Patel, daughter of India’s first home minister, Vallabhbhai Patel. Raising slogans such as ‘Remove Emergency’ and ‘Release Political Prisoners’, the fifty marchers proceeded on the road to Dandi, the same route that Gandhi had taken to break the colonial salt laws forty-six years previously. Manibhen Patel was arrested a mile down the road, but the next day a judge ordered her release. She continued the march to the sea, accompanied by a handful of policemen in plain clothes.
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One of those arrested in the Bombay
satyagraha
was the distinguished Marathi writer Durga Bhagwat. Other members of her fraternity protested in ways more congenial to their profession. A group of Kannada writers circulated, in samizdat form, poems satirizing the emergency and its prime mover. Consider these stanzas from G. S. Shivarudrappa’s poem ‘In this Country’:

In this country

Hero worship, family pride

Should all go.

But

Concessions to my family deity

Should stay untouched.

In this country

Everybody should shut their mouth

And remain quiet.

But

They better keep their ears open

For my words.
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Other writers expressed their dissent in other ways. Bengali essayist Annada Sankar Ray announced that he would ‘stop writing altogether in
A fit of non-cooperative pique’. He refused to ‘put pen to paper so long as the state of emergency continues’. The cartoonist K. Shankar Pillai, who had once sarcastically compared the loquacious Nehru to the Niagara Falls (and been cheered by his victim for it), now closed down his magazine before the state did so. ‘Dictatorships cannot afford laughter’, he remarked mournfully. ‘In all the years of Hitler, there never was a good comedy, not a good cartoon, not a parody, or a spoof.’ The Hindi novelist Phanishwaranath Renu returned the Padma Shri bestowed upon him by the government of India, the act recalling Tagore’s disavowal of his knighthood after the Jallianwala Bagh massacre. And the Kannada polymath Shivarama Karanth gave back an even higher honour, the Padma Bhushan. Back in the 1920s he had entered the freedom movement under the inspiration of Gandhi; now, after fifty years of striving to uphold its values, Karanth felt ‘impelled to protest against such indignities done to the people of India’.
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Finally, there was resistance that was carried on underground. The key figure here was George Fernandes, the firebrand socialist who had led the railway strike of 1974. When the emergency was declared Fernandes was in the Orissa town of Gopalpur-on-Sea. He lay low for a few weeks, in which time he had grown a beard and come to disguise himself as a Sikh. Then he travelled from town to town, meeting comrades and planning the sabotage of state installations. Dynamite was collected and stored, and young men trained in the act of blowing up bridges and railway tracks. From his ever-shifting hiding place, Fernandes sent out letters attacking ‘the dictator’, ‘that woman’, and the ‘Nehru dynasty’, and urging the people to rise against the regime.

No dynamite was actually detonated, yet the government of India was visibly angry that it could not capture Fernandes. His brother Lawrence was picked up from his home in Bangalore and brutally beaten and tortured. His friend, the actress Snehalata Reddy, was also imprisoned. Placed in a damp cell and denied proper food, her asthma was seriously aggravated; released on parole, she died a few weeks later. George Fernandes’s wife and child fled the country, fearing persecution if they stayed behind. Fernandes himself was finally arrested in Calcutta on 10 June 1976, nearly a year into the emergency.
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In the summer of 1976 one of the few opponents of the regime still at large was the nonagenarian J. B. Kripalani. He complained that he had been left out while all his friends were given the privilege of imprisonment. Then he recalled a Sindhi proverb: ‘When a witch goes
through a street destroying everything, she leaves one house untouched.’
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On 2 October 1975, Gandhi’s birthday, he led a prayer meeting at the Mahatma’s memorial in New Delhi – speeches were made and several people arrested, but not him. It was not so much his age as his sheer stature which kept him at large. Not Shivarama Karanth, not Morarji Desai, not even JP, had patriotic credentials as good as Kripalani’s. He had joined the Mahatma in the Champaran
satyagraha
of 1917; several years before Jawaharlal Nehru did. He had been president of the Congress when freedom came three decades later. Later, three different states had sent him as their representative to the Indian Parliament. In sum, his CV was such that even the prime minister would have been embarrassed to arrest him on account of activities deemed a threat to the ‘unity and stability’ of the country.

In April 1976 Kripalani dared the government to print the names of those it had put in jail. Then he fell seriously ill. He was taken to hospital, where all manner of tubes and wires were put into him. When a friend came visiting he had a fresh complaint: ‘I have no Constitution – all that is left are Amendments’.
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The emergency revived the debate as to whether India could, should, or ever would be reliably democratic. In October 1975 a reporter from
Time
visited the country, and was much impressed by what he saw. He thought that press freedom and the like were ‘of no great interest to the majority of India’s 600 million people’, who were ‘more concerned’ with the rate of inflation (down 31 per cent in the past year). ‘The Prime Minister’, he wrote, ‘has won widespread support for seizing a rare opportunity to ram through a score of social reforms. These days India is engrossed in a frenzied campaign to encourage discipline, punctuality, cleanliness, courtesy.’
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