Half a Century Later: Remembering the Moment the Emergency Began to Crack

It has been five decades since the Emergency was declared in India on the night of June 25, 1975. For many, especially the youth of today, the Emergency exists in the realm of textbooks and documentaries—a blurry echo from a distant past. But for those who lived through it, particularly journalists, it remains a defining chapter in Indian democracy. I was a young reporter then, still learning the ropes, unaware that I was about to witness—and survive—one of the most chilling periods of press suppression in independent India.

The Night That Changed Everything

It began like any other monsoon night in Delhi. Humid, still, uneventful. But that night, radio broadcasts crackled with a different energy. Early the next morning, the headlines were chilling. Prime Minister Indira Gandhi had advised the President to declare a state of Emergency under Article 352 of the Constitution. The reason: internal disturbances.

We didn’t know what that meant. But as journalists, we soon found out the hard way. Our offices, particularly in the English and Hindi press, were among the first to be visited. By the time we reached the newsroom, the censor officers were already at their desks. Every story, every headline, every editorial had to pass through their eyes—and their scissors.

Silence in the Newsroom

Newsrooms that had once buzzed with opinion and dissent fell quiet. The pages of the next day’s paper were eerily clean—no critiques, no investigations, no probing questions. It was like watching a well-oiled machine grind to a halt. Editorial meetings were no longer about content but about avoidance—what not to say, what not to provoke, what not to risk.

For someone who had joined journalism with dreams of speaking truth to power, it felt like a betrayal. Yet, the fear was real. Editors were being jailed. Owners were being threatened. Journalists went missing or were quietly removed from their positions. Some resigned. Others complied, begrudgingly. Many simply fell silent.

We were told censorship was necessary for national security. That the country needed discipline. That dissent was dangerous. But what it really was, we knew deep inside, was fear—raw, suffocating, and systematic.

The Chilling Effect

For a reporter, the Emergency was not just about what you could print—it was about what you could even whisper. There was surveillance everywhere—on phones, in offices, even in our homes. Once, after covering a minor protest in a college campus, I returned to find a plainclothes officer casually sipping tea with my landlord. That was their way of letting us know—we see you.

The impact was internal too. We began to self-censor. We questioned every note we scribbled in our reporters’ notebooks. We avoided quoting opposition leaders. We skipped inconvenient data points. We started framing questions in softer tones. Even satire—a once-beloved refuge for journalists—vanished overnight.

Stories That Never Got Told

I still remember the story of a slum demolition in Turkman Gate, a Delhi locality with a vibrant working-class population. It was brutal—homes razed, people beaten, lives uprooted. But the coverage never made it past the censor’s desk. When we tried to file the report, we were told to “focus on development, not dissent.”

So, we reported on family planning camps. On road widening schemes. On speeches praising the “discipline” of the Emergency. Our pens, once instruments of accountability, had become tools of propaganda. The ink didn’t dry; it choked.

Small Acts of Resistance

Yet, even in that climate of fear, there were sparks. A few brave publications defied the ban, inserting blank spaces in place of censored editorials—silent but powerful protests. Some foreign journalists tried to smuggle stories out. Underground newsletters began circulating, sometimes hand-written, carrying the truth to those who still dared to read it.

We used code words, met sources in hushed tones, passed messages on paper scraps. Every fact verified twice, every word chosen with care. Reporting became less about bold exposés and more about reading between the lines. But it was journalism, still. And it survived.

When Fear Began to Fade

As the months dragged on, a change began to stir. It was faint at first—a letter from a dismissed professor, a pamphlet dropped in a college corridor, a hushed conversation at a railway station. People began to ask questions, softly at first, then more loudly. Why was the press still silent? Why were leaders still in jail? Why were slums being cleared in the name of order?

And then came the elections. In January 1977, Indira Gandhi surprised the nation by announcing general elections. It was a test—and a crack in the fortress. We reported it cautiously, not knowing how free the process would really be. But when the results were declared in March 1977, and the Congress was decisively voted out, something shifted.

In the newsroom, we didn’t cheer aloud—but eyes met, and smiles flickered. Fear began to give way. It was as if we were breathing again for the first time in two years. That morning, we filed stories without censorship officers leaning over our shoulders. Headlines returned to their rightful tone—sharp, curious, questioning.

Lessons That Endure

Looking back, what remains is not just the memory of fear, but the lesson in resilience. The Emergency taught us that freedom—of speech, of press, of conscience—is fragile. It is not granted once and for all; it must be defended every day. It showed us how easily democratic institutions can be subverted, how quickly truth can be buried under slogans, how dangerously silence can spread.

But it also taught us the power of quiet resistance. Of journalists who held the line, even when the ink was censored. Of readers who noticed what wasn’t printed. Of voters who remembered, and responded.

The Change in the Air

Now, fifty years later, much has changed. Technology has transformed how news is delivered, social media has redefined journalism, and press freedoms remain a complex, contested space. Yet, that old whisper still lingers—a warning, and a hope.

Because on the morning when the Emergency finally ended, there really was a change in the air. It rustled through the newsroom as we wrote without fear. It hummed in the presses as they printed uncensored pages. It flowed in every conversation where silence had once reigned.