Emergency in the newsroom

Nothing energises a news room as much as a cataclysmic event. The Emergency clamped on the country late on the night of June 25-26, 1975, merited such a description. Jayaprakash Narayan, universally known by his initials JP, the messiah of several mass movements that had come together, and leaders of Opposition parties were arrested during the night.

The political atmosphere had been thick with rumours of various kinds as events were moving towards a climax after Justice Jagmohan Sinha of the Allahabad high court delivered his judgment on June 12, 1975, holding Indira Gandhi guilty of a technical electoral offence barring her from voting in the Lok Sabha while giving her permission to appeal to the Supreme Court.

JP had called for a “total revolution” in the country and at a mass gathering in Delhi somewhat unwisely asked police and armed forces personnel not to follow “illegal” orders, a vague admonition lending itself to varying interpretations. In political offices bets were placed on who would replace Indira temporarily, with Swaran Singh, a constant fixture in her Cabinets, high on the list of probables, and Jagjivan Ram, the veteran Scheduled Caste leader, waiting to see the prize fall into his lap. No one thought of the possibility of what Indira did: impose a nationwide Emergency for the first time in Independent India’s history.

As editor of the Statesman in Delhi my tasks were cut out. I was informed about the Emergency and the arrest of Opposition leaders at six on the morning of June 27. It was a question of getting essential editorial staff to the office, liaising with reporters and the printing press and liaising with the newspaper’s editor, N.J. Nanporia, in Kolkata. The objective was to get a supplement out on the street as soon as possible. It was all hands on the deck. The atmosphere in the newsroom was electric.

We had the supplement nearly ready, featuring the lead story proclaiming “Emergency due to internal threat/Conspiracy to end democracy alleged/Special powers for preventive steps”. The second lead said “J.P. among others held under MISA/Pre-dawn swoop on Opposition leaders”, and below a picture of Indira Gandhi the third lead said, “People’s rights violated, says Raj Narain”.

And then came the cruel blow of the imposition of total press censorship. We had to submit the special edition of the paper priced at 10 paise to the censors. It was returned with black crosses on two of these reports, with the word “alleged” excised from the lead story. With a heavy heart, we had to discard the supplement. Love’s labour had been lost.

For newspapers which wanted to stand up and be counted, it was like going through countless hoops. V.C. Shukla, who was given the information ministry charge by replacing Inder Kumar Gujral, called editors to a meeting to lay down the law. Blank spaces to denote dissent were not allowed nor was the Statesman’s proclamation on the front page in the next edition, “This edition of the Statesman has been censored”, permissible.

Shukla, belonging as he did to a famous political family of Madhya Pradesh, was enjoying his role as the media czar in an era of dictatorship. In January the next year, he called me for a one-on-one meeting. He berated me for highlighting foreign stories on the newspaper’s front page by demoting predictable Indian reports of a pliant Parliament endorsing the government’s legislation. He was annoyed when I told him that placing stories was not in the ambit of the censorship rules. He ended up giving me a veiled warning.

A roadside cigarette seller had meanwhile set up shop outside my rambling colonial era house on Ratendone Road, later christened after the famous artist as Amrita Shergill Marg. The spooks, his supposed customers, could be made out from a mile with their crew-cut heads. At a chance meeting at the Mexican embassy party in August 1976, I ran into Mohammed Yunus, the family retainer of the Nehru-Gandhi family, interceding with him to let off a fellow journalist, Kuldip Nayar, jailed under Emergency laws. His answer was vitriolic.

There were compensations during the dark days of the Emergency. Since our staff’s knowledge of English was far superior to that of most censors, we could use nuances to make our points. And the Statesman’s wonderful tradition of the light third editorial stood us in good stead. One of my abiding Emergency memories is of D.K. Barooah, promoted to the Congress presidency and author of the famous phrase “Indira is India and India is Indira”. This jovial overweight Congressman had been transformed overnight into a cocky man who met me once during the Emergency only to berate me for having criticised him in the pre-Emergency era.

What lessons can those of us belonging to the profession of journalism learn from the days of the Emergency? There is, of course, the famous justified verdict of the Bharatiya Janata Party leader L.K. Advani, “You were asked to bend and you crawled”. Like politicians, many members of the press fraternity proved to be weather cocks, swaying with the wind of opportunism.

Perhaps the most abiding lesson of the Emergency is that freedom of the press comes at a price. Perhaps journalists should not elevate themselves to a special status, a privilege they seek because of the nature of their vocation. There have been brave journalists in India as elsewhere in the world who have paid for their professionalism with their lives. But for too many, it is just a profession and they will make compromises to prosper.

I recall the only and last meeting I had with Indira Gandhi during the Emergency. She told me that she had received foreign guests who were full of praise for the good the Emergency had done to the country. My answer, that it was expected of polite guests to praise the hostess’ pet project, did not go down well. I was never to receive the privilege of meeting her again.