Democracy’s Dark Legacy

Rishikesh Kumar*

“…I spoke to Mr. Gokhale, the Law Minister…, requesting him to convey to you that, with great regret, I had decided to withdraw from the appeal in view of the development in the morning. I would have normally called upon you personally and explained the position, but in the circumstances of yesterday, it did not seem feasible…I do hope you got the message before it was released to the press...”

The author was Nani A Palkhivala—one of India’s most respected legal minds, who had defended Indira Gandhi in her election case before Justice Krishna Iyer. The recipient was none other than the Prime Minister. And the reason was the sudden, stunning declaration of the Emergency in June 1975.

When Nani Palkhivala returned Mrs Gandhi’s brief in protest, it carried a message louder than words: lawyers are not only defenders of clients, they are custodians of the law itself. The Emergency proved how fragile liberty becomes when power intoxicates the state—rights were crushed, dissent criminalised, and even the Supreme Court bent in the Habeas Corpus case. Yet, there were flickers of resistance. In Indira Nehru Gandhi v. Raj Narain, a divided Court struck down the 39th Amendment that sought to place the Prime Minister above judicial scrutiny. The majority—Justices Khanna, Mathew, and Chandrachud— affirmed that the “basic structure” of the Constitution could not be sacrificed to political expediency. That judgment, modest in its reach but profound in its principle, marked both the lowest ebb and the quiet turning point from which the judiciary would, after 1977, reclaim its voice through a new era of activism.

On the night of June 25, 1975, the Constitution was smothered. A single court judgment in Allahabad shook the Prime Minister’s chair, and by midnight a proclamation of Emergency had been signed. What followed was not just a political decision but a civilisational pause: leaders were arrested before dawn, the press was muzzled, and the hum of democracy was replaced by the silence of fear.

This year, we complete fifty years since that midnight. The government has decided to mark the date as ‘Constitutional Murder Day’. It is a phrase heavy with irony, because while it memorialises the death of liberty then, it also forces us to ask: have the organs of our Republic today truly become stronger—or have they merely learned subtler ways to desist?

Because the present, too, carries its own disquiet. The Leader of Opposition stands before cameras, accusing the Election Commission of “vote chori”, pointing to rolls filled with doubtful names. The Commission responds not with transparency but with indignation, demanding an apology instead of offering clarity—wielding Article 324 as though it were armour for its pride rather than a mandate of trust.

So here we stand, fifty years later, circling around the same triangle of institutions—the Election Commission, the Judiciary, the Executive. The terms may have changed: “vote chori” instead of “malpractice”, “privacy” instead of “press censorship”, deletions from rolls instead of arrests at midnight. But the unease feels familiar, the script oddly rehearsed.

And that is why 2025 matters. Not just as the 50th anniversary to mourn, but as a mirror to hold up. To go back to that midnight of 1975, to revisit how these very institutions bent, broke, or stood silent. Because only then can we ask, with honesty: are we moving towards the Amrit Kaal of democracy—or are we, fifty years later, still shadowed by that same darkness?

The Making of the Emergency

Nation-building, at its heart, is a collective and deliberative effort. That is why our Constitution gave us a Parliament to debate, a federal structure to balance power, and a three-tier Panchayati Raj system to promote people’s participation at the village level. India was meant to be a republic of shared values, not a monarchy of the elected ruling party leader. Yet by the mid-1970s, the lines had begun to blur. The slogan “India is Indira, and Indira is India” was not just a catchy phrase—it was a mindset. Congress president Dev Kant Barooah pronounced it in the Rajya Sabha, while others like SS Roy argued that if the Congress disintegrated, India itself would collapse. Dissent was not seen as constructive disagreement but as a conspiracy against the rulers of the day.

When the Allahabad High Court delivered its verdict against the Prime Minister, finding her guilty of electoral malpractices and barring her from contesting another election for six years, this cult of personality roared into the streets. Effigies of Justice Jagmohan Lal Sinha, the High Court Judge, were burnt. Placards mocked him as a “CIA Agent”. Crowds chanted slogans justifying her actions and denouncing the judgment. It was no longer about the court verdict—it was about whether a leader could stand above the very institutions that held the Republic together.

An Assault on Democracy

Which brings us to the question: what does an Emergency actually mean, and why does it remain one of the darkest chapters in our democracy?

At its core, it was not just a proclamation on paper—it was an assault on democracy itself. Free speech was throttled, newspapers were censored, and voices of dissent were thrown into jail without trial. Ordinary citizens woke up one day to find that even the right to question had been suspended. And then came the darker chapters: mass detentions, curfews, even forced sterilisations in the name of a misguided family planning programme. It was not just politics under siege—it was everyday life, stripped of its freedoms.

To understand that era, don’t picture dusty black-and-white photographs in your history book—picture your own life, right now. Imagine you wake up tomorrow and your Twitter feed (or X, as it’s now called) has vanished. Your WhatsApp groups are gone, Instagram refuses to load, and the news channels play only what the government allows. Now add to that a notice that your name has disappeared from the voter list, without reason, without remedy. And just when you complain, there’s a knock on the door—not from a delivery guy, but from the police, because you dared to post a meme.

That was the Emergency of 1975. It wasn’t just a blackout of information; it was a blackout of rights, of dignity, of the very air that democracy breathes.

It all began with Raj Narain’s petition that shook the foundations of Indian democracy. He accused Indira Gandhi of winning not through votes, but through unfair advantage.

Emergency was not just a proclamation on paper—it was an assault on democracy itself. Free speech was throttled, newspapers were censored, and voices of dissent were thrown into jail without trial.

The accusations were many:

Misuse of state machinery— district officials, police, and even the Home Secretary of Uttar Pradesh arranged rostrums, barricades, and loudspeakers for her rallies.

Use of a serving government officer Yashpal Kapur, then an Officer on Special Duty in the PM’s Secretariat, delivered campaign speeches before his resignation was formally accepted and later became her election agent.

Misuse of the Armed Forces Air Force planes and helicopters were allegedly deployed for her campaign tours.

Distribution of inducements— quilts, blankets, dhotis, and liquor were allegedly handed out to woo voters.

Appeal to religion her new party symbol, the ‘cow and calf’, was claimed to be a religious appeal for votes.

Free transport of voters vehicles were allegedly hired to carry voters to polling stations without charge.

Exceeding election expenditure limits she was accused of spending over the `35,000 ceiling prescribed by law.

What the court held:

Most charges collapsed for lack of proof. The court rejected the claims about inducements, the religious symbol, the misuse of the Armed Forces, and free voter transport. Even on expenses, though Gandhi’s spending was understated, the total expenditure stayed within limits. But two violations proved fatal:

Yashpal Kapur, still a government officer, had actively campaigned for her, and state machinery—officials and police—were misused to her advantage. On these grounds, Justice Jagmohan Lal Sinha declared her election void on June 12, 1975, and barred her from contesting for six years.

The Script of Silence

The story of the Emergency began on a summer night of June 25, 1975, when Prime Minister Indira Gandhi and her advisor Siddhartha Shankar Ray arrived at Rashtrapati Bhavan with a document that would alter India’s democratic destiny. President Fakhruddin Ali Ahmed signed without resistance. The constitutional tool was Article 352, which allowed Emergency if India’s security was threatened by “war, external aggression, or internal disturbance”. It was drafted as a safeguard against extraordinary threats, but that night it was reimagined as a weapon against political dissent. Ray cleverly argued that since a war-related Emergency already existed from 1971, another “internal” Emergency could be declared— though the Constitution made no such distinction. This single twist converted a clause meant to protect democracy into the very instrument that suspended it.¹

By dawn, fundamental rights—freedom of speech, assembly, liberty, and the right to judicial remedy— were put on hold. Thousands of opposition leaders were arrested before sunrise, electricity to newspaper offices was cut, and a new regime began—one that looked constitutional in form but was authoritarian in essence.

To the public, however, this was presented as nothing less than a rescue mission. The next morning, Indira Gandhi addressed the nation on All India Radio, claiming a vast conspiracy was threatening democracy itself. “In the name of democracy, it has been sought to negate the very functioning of democracy,” she said. Thus was born the doctrine of “disciplined democracy”. Freedom was portrayed as chaos, protest as conspiracy, dissent as disloyalty. Supporters rallied to this language: spiritual leader Vinoba Bhave blessed the Emergency as an anushasan parva—an “era of discipline”. Loyalists like Congress MP NKP Salve praised danda democracy—a democracy that wielded the stick. For Indira Gandhi, the Emergency was not the suspension of democracy but its purification.

But behind these soothing words stood the hard machinery of repression. Two laws, the Maintenance of Internal Security Act (MISA) and the Defence of India Rules (DIR), became blunt instruments to stifle dissent. More than 110,000 people were arrested—among them opposition stalwarts like Jayaprakash Narayan, Morarji Desai, Atal Bihari Vajpayee, LK Advani, and numerous students, journalists, and activists. The grounds for detention were often absurd: some were jailed for “spreading disaffection”, others for being “hardcore teachers”. Courts were stripped of power to intervene, and ADM Jabalpur v. Shivkant Shukla (the infamous “Habeas Corpus case”) confirmed that even the right to life could be suspended during Emergency. It was a chilling moment—when the judiciary, the supposed guardian of liberty, bowed before the executive. While the press censorship during the emergency was widely recognised, less acknowledged was the Judiciary’s own internal censorship through procedural devices: selective listing, control over case flow, suppression of judgements and the registry’s selective discretion. Control over procedural machinery did more harm than formal constitutional amendments. The legal history of the Emergency teaches us that a Constitution is only as strong as the courage of its institutions. In 1975-77, the Supreme Court did not simply bend under political pressure, it surrendered to it; and with that surrender, nations learned that liberty can be so fragile.

Parliament- once the beating heart of India’s democracy, became during the Emergency, little more than a stage play—its script written elsewhere, its actors bound by fear or loyalty. Half the opposition sat in prison cells, the rest in a chamber stripped of questions, debates, and dissent. Those who dared speak— Mavalankar, Sezhiyan, Mohan Dharia—spoke into a void, their words censored, their protests reduced to footnotes in the record² . Ministers admitted they were under “mouth arrest”, allowed only to echo their master’s voice. Laws that reshaped the Constitution, fortified MISA, and silenced the press were passed in hours, often without a single voice raised in opposition. Abroad, leaders boasted that democracy was “more living and throbbing than ever”, even as the Speaker called those muted sessions “absolutely normal.” In truth, Parliament had become what one member called a “muted museum”—a place where silence was mistaken for consent, and legality for legitimacy.

In 1976, the 42nd Amendment attempted to seal this arrangement permanently: granting Parliament unlimited power to amend the Constitution, binding the President entirely to Cabinet advice, and putting laws beyond judicial review. Indira Gandhi openly rejected the Supreme Court’s “basic structure doctrine”, declaring that Parliament’s right to amend was “unfettered, unqualified, and unbridgeable”³ . In effect, the majority’s will was equated with the rule of law—erasing the very checks and balances that define constitutional democracy. It is worth asking, even today, whether the logic of majoritarianism sometimes tempts leaders to see constitutional limits as obstacles rather than safeguards.

Over time, power became not only centralised but also personalised. Indira Gandhi’s son, Sanjay Gandhi, though unelected, rose as a second centre of authority. His Five-Point Programme—family planning, urban beautification, dowry abolition, tree plantation, and literacy—soon reduced itself to two brutal obsessions: forced sterilisation and mass demolitions. Millions of poor men were sterilised under coercion; thousands of slum-dwellers saw their homes bulldozed, particularly in Delhi’s Turkman Gate. State leaders competed with one another to carry out Sanjay’s directives—not laws but whims. What began as Indira Gandhi’s “constitutional dictatorship” mutated into Sanjay’s sultanism—a form of personalised rule revolving around a dynastic heir4 . If democracy weakens, does it not always risk sliding into such personalised, unchecked forms of power?

While the press censorship during the emergency was widely recognised, less acknowledged was the Judiciary’s own internal censorship through procedural devices: selective listing, control over case flow, suppression of judgements and the registry’s selective discretion.

The economy was another paradox. Indira Gandhi announced a Twenty-Point Programme of highsounding and pro-poor reforms; yet in reality, the Emergency saw a tightening alliance between the state and big business. Strikes were banned, unions silenced, and wages frozen. Industrialists, who once feared her socialist rhetoric, quietly supported her authoritarianism because it guaranteed stability. This marriage of populist slogans and corporate comfort betrayed the promise of the Emergency as an engine of social justice. Even today, the uneasy coexistence of populist politics and corporate interest raises questions: whose welfare does the state truly serve when it speaks in the name of the people?

Resistance, though heroic in moments, was scattered. Jayaprakash Narayan’s ‘JP’ movement, which had brought together socialists, student unions, and even the RSS before the Emergency, was decapitated with his arrest. Underground efforts—by leaders like George Fernandes—struggled to survive surveillance and mass arrests. The judiciary offered little resistance, and the press largely capitulated. For the most part, Indian democracy’s institutions bent to the weight of authoritarianism. Here lies a sobering lesson: institutions matter most not in normal times, but in moments of stress—and their silence can prove as dangerous as active repression.

And yet, by 1977, Indira Gandhi surprised everyone by calling elections. Why would an all-powerful ruler risk the ballot? Historians suggest several reasons: international pressure, her desire for legitimacy, disquiet at Sanjay’s excesses, and most of all, her confidence that she could not be defeated. But the voters thought otherwise. The Congress was routed; the Janata Party came to power; and for the first time since Independence, the “system of Congress dominance” collapsed.

In hindsight, the Emergency was not an aberration but a concentration of tendencies already present: the centralisation of power in the Prime Minister’s Office, the use of colonial-era laws like preventive detention, the weakness of institutions before executive authority, and the seduction of populism. What made 1975–77 different was their intensification. The Constitution was not discarded—it was hollowed out. Democracy was not abolished—it was redefined as discipline.

That is why the Emergency remains a warning. It shows how legality can become the mask of authoritarianism, how words like “discipline” and “unity” can be used to silence liberty, and how institutions, if weakened, can collapse at the very moment they are needed most. And as we look around today, we may ask—softly, cautiously—are we guarding democracy only in its rituals, or also in its spirit? Do our institutions stand tall when tested, or do they bow in the name of expediency? The answers will decide whether the Emergency remains a dark chapter of the past, or a recurring shadow in the future.

Can the Emergency Be Declared Again?

The Emergency of 1975 was a turning point not only because it exposed the fragility of India’s institutions, but also because it forced the nation to reform its constitutional safeguards. And so the question naturally arises: can it happen again?

The answer is YES—but never in the same way. The Constitution still allows for an Emergency under Article 352, but after the painful lessons of 1975, the grounds have been narrowed and the protections strengthened. Most importantly, the vague phrase “internal disturbance”, which Indira Gandhi’s government used to silence political dissent, was replaced with the more precise “armed rebellion” by the 44th Constitutional Amendment Act of 1978. No longer can mass protests or opposition movements be dressed up as a threat to national security.

Equally vital are the safeguards placed on fundamental rights. During 1975–77, Articles 20 and 21—the rights to life, liberty, and protection against arbitrary conviction—were effectively suspended, leaving citizens at the mercy of the state. The 44th Amendment made it clear: these two rights can never be suspended, even in the gravest emergency. In other words, the very core of human dignity is now placed beyond the reach of authoritarian hands.

The role of the President was also tightened. In 1975, Fakhruddin Ali Ahmed signed the proclamation on the Prime Minister’s mere advice. Today, the President must act only on the written recommendation of the entire Cabinet. They may even ask the Cabinet to reconsider, though once reaffirmed, they must accept the advice. Similarly, the Parliament now has the explicit power to review and revoke an Emergency at any time, ensuring that no proclamation can survive without legislative legitimacy. And, if an Emergency were ever declared on unconstitutional or extra-legal grounds, the courts now have the authority to examine its legality—a lesson carved from the shadows of the ADM Jabalpur judgment.

Other safeguards lie not in law but in society itself. A vigilant press, a vocal civil society, and an electorate far more conscious of its freedoms make it almost impossible for a government to impose authoritarian rule without resistance. Technology and the free flow of information mean that censorship today would face obstacles unimaginable in 1975. The public sphere is stronger, and any attempt to silence it would invite backlash both at home and abroad.

And yet, constitutions are only as strong as the people who defend them. The true guardians of liberty are not laws alone, but citizens who refuse to be silenced. Even in 1975, when darkness seemed complete, there were courageous men and women who spoke out, wrote secretly, went underground, or endured imprisonment to keep the flame of freedom alive. Figures like Justice HR Khanna, who stood alone in the Supreme Court to defend the non-suspendable right to life, remind us that even a solitary voice can echo for generations. The quiet dignity of judges like Justice Jagmohan Lal Sinha, who disqualified a sitting Prime Minister despite immense pressure, proves that the moral compass of individuals can steady the nation itself.

So yes, an Emergency can still be proclaimed—but not on the same shaky grounds of “internal disturbance”, not with the same ease of silencing life and liberty, and certainly not without constitutional, judicial, and public checks. The Emergency of 1975–77 was India’s darkest hour, but it also became its greatest teacher. The safeguards written after it, and the memory of those who resisted it, are living reminders that vigilance is the price of freedom.

If the past tells us how fragile democracy can be, the present tells us that it can also be resilient. And that is perhaps the truest legacy of the Emergency: that never again will India surrender its voice so easily, for history has already shown us the cost of silence.

The Emergency as a Mindset

If the years 1975-77 taught us anything, it is that democracy can be subverted not only by making such a proclamation, but by acting as if one exists without naming it. Mrs. Gandhi justified her Emergency in the name of saving democracy; today, the danger is subtler, cloaked not in a proclamation but in practices that erode liberty one law, one judgment, one silence at a time.

An Emergency can still be proclaimed—but not on the same shaky grounds of “internal disturbance”, not with the same ease of silencing life and liberty, and certainly not without constitutional, judicial, and public checks.

Consider the courts. The principle of “bail, not jail” was a proud cornerstone of Indian jurisprudence. Yet, across the country, men and women charged under UAPA and other stringent laws remain imprisoned for years without trial, their bail pleas repeatedly denied, even when conviction rates for such offences remain abysmally low.

Consider the Election Commission, hailed as the guardian of free and fair polls. Instead of probing allegations of malpractice with independence, it sometimes appears to dismiss opposition claims outright, even dictating the oaths candidates must take. The irony is sharp: an institution meant to be impartial risks becoming partisan.

Consider too, the shrinking of the citizen’s right to know. The RTI Act, which once opened the state to public scrutiny, now finds itself clipped by new layers of secrecy. The Digital Personal Data Protection Act 2023, especially Section 44, shields more information from disclosure, eroding the very transparency that strengthens democracy. When the right to privacy is invoked to silence the right to information, the citizen is left both exposed and blind.

And what of executive overreach? Bulldozers have replaced courtrooms in parts of Uttar Pradesh, as homes are demolished on mere allegations, while extra-judicial killings are celebrated in public squares. Justice, once a deliberative process, risks becoming a spectacle of force. Meanwhile, custodial deaths and torture persist, and institutions like the NHRC, Lokayukt, and CVC—meant to protect the vulnerable— often turn complainants into the accused, asking them to prove the crime done against them.

The story repeats in other forms: land handed over to industrial giants at token sums in states that rank lowest in poverty and health indices; sudden changes in electoral rolls that demand documents the poor may not have; institutions weakened by perpetual vacancies or amendments that sap their strength. Each act may seem small, but together they sketch a troubling picture of a democracy being disciplined not by proclamation, but by attrition.

Mrs Gandhi often justified the Emergency by saying that she had to save democracy from chaos. Today too, constitutional shortcuts and strongman tactics are justified in the name of democracy, stability, and development. But the lesson of the Emergency is clear: democracy is not saved by silencing dissent, it is destroyed by it.

The Emergency has evolved from a clause in the Constitution into a mindset—a belief that the state’s will is supreme, that rights can be trimmed for efficiency, that institutions exist to serve power rather than restrain it. Against this mindset, only one safeguard remains: our collective fidelity to the rule of law.

References

• Jaffrelot, C., & Anil, P. (2021). India’s first dictatorship: The Emergency, 1975 -1977. Oxford University Press.
• Henderson, M. (1977). Experiment with Untruth: India Under Emergency.
• Jaffrelot, Christophe, and Pratinav Anil. India’s first dictatorship: the emergency, 1975-1977. Oxford University Press, 2021.
• Ibid.

---

NEXT »

Muzzling of the Indian Press >>