Reliving prison nights during Emergency days

The evening after Emergency was declared, a small band of socialists secretly met at a tented coffee house, now gone, in Connaught Place’s Central Park. The purpose was to chart out future political action. Rajkumar Jain , then 29 years old and an ardent follower of the charismatic socialist leader Ram Manohar Lohia , was part of that select group.

A day earlier, on June 25, 1975, Jain had served as a volunteer in the stormy rally at the Ramlila ground, where Jayaprakash Narayan, spearheading the anti-govt movement, had famously asked the gathering, “Jail chaloge ?” Nearly everyone had affirmed. “I had raised both my hands,” recalls Jain, now a retired professor of Hindi from Delhi University’s Ramjas College. Nearing 80, he remains full of beans and talks eagerly and vividly of those days as one would of a heady romance.

‘I Got My Bones Broken Several Times’

The socialists’ plan to carry out work underground, as decided in the Connaught Place meeting, wasn’t easy to abide by. Police were swift to apprehend those opposed to the govt. They had already knocked at Jain’s Chandni Chowk home without success.

Jain’s family was religious by disposition and traders by profession. Unsurprisingly, they were against his involvement in politics. But, as a teen, their scion had been seduced by Lohia’s idea of democratic socialism.

In the 1960s, Jain recalls, the Gandhi Park opposite Old Delhi railway station was a desi version of London’s Hyde Park; a space for freewheeling conversation on politics, where partymen of three different ideologies — Jan Sangh, the original avatar of BJP; Congress; and Socialists would debate affairs of the day.

Jain was impressed by Lohia’s progressive position on women’s rights, his chutzpah to contest against PM Nehru for Phulpur LS seat in 1962. He also liked the socialist idea of wealth distribution: “ Kamane wala khayega/ Lootne wala jayega/ Naya zamana aayega (The earner will eat/ The looter will go/ A new era will be ushered in)”, and anti-caste stance: “Dr Lohia ka armaan/ Brahman-Bhangi ek samaan (Dr Lohia’s wish/ Brahman and Bhangi are the same)”.

In 1966, Jain joined Delhi University as a student and Samyukta Socialist Party (SSP) as a worker. That year, he also became the student union’s vicepresident. The socialists would demonstrate against price-rise, police high-handedness, unemployment and for rights of vendors, daily wagers and workers. “I got my bones broken several times. Going to jail was a regular affair,” he says nonchalantly.

‘You Haven’t Been Brought In Under IPC 107… But Under Misa’

Prison beckoned again when Jain was nabbed by cops on the DU campus, days after Emergency was imposed. “Someone must have informed the police,” he recalls. He was to spend the next 19 months in confinement.

During his past trips to Tihar, the political activist had become familiar with the authorities. Now, everything had changed. The jailer was in a different mood, abusing detainees as they lined up. “I wished him, but he shouted, ‘Shut up. You haven’t been brought in under IPC 107 or 151, but under Misa’.”


Among other things, Misa (Maintenance of Internal Security Act, 1971) empowered govt to put anyone in indefinite preventive detention. During Emergency, the dreaded act was implemented with abandon. Many years later, RJD neta Lalu Prasad named his daughter Misa.

Jain countered, “I don’t care about Misa. Our fight is with Indira Gandhi, not you.” The jailer didn’t take kindly to his manner. “He probably felt that letting the response pass would encourage insubordination. Political prisoners were put in Ward No. 2. But Ravinder Manchanda — a fellow socialist who later became officer on special duty to PM Chandrashekhar — and I were sent to Ward No. 16, which was meant for B-class criminals.”

“Interestingly, we also met Charan Singh, who had been Uttar Pradesh CM, in a solitary cell. “I reminded him that he had once said that jails were not picnic spots, while sending demonstrators to prison. He replied, ‘Bhai, I had meant it only for gundas (thugs). I said, ‘Indira-ji ki nazar mein, hum dono gundey hain , (In Indira-ji’s view, we both are thugs.’ He laughed. Over the years, I got to know him more and found him to be a pro-poor and honest politician.”

Prominent detainees at Tihar included Madan Lal Khurana and Arun Jaitley. Many months later, George Fernandes, embroiled in the Baroda Dynamite case, also joined them. “We would raise slogans, ‘George Fernandes zindabad’, to boost his morale and make him know that other socialists were also in jail,” says Jain.

He recalled Jan Sangh-RSS workers naming their barrack “Swarg Ashram”. “We were bachelors and named our barrack ‘Sandh (Bull)’ ashram,” laughs Jain. “There was also a ‘Do Number Ka Barrack’ which had Ananda Margis, Naxalites and Jamaatis, among others.”

“With other political groups, we socialists had milan (agreement) on some issues, and takrao (divergence) on others,” he reminisces.

‘Detainees Used An Open Latrine Without Cover’

For the first three months, Jain neither had any contact with the outside world, nor any idea as to what was happening beyond the prison walls. The detainees had no access to newspapers or radio. “After three months, we were allowed to meet relatives once a fortnight,” he says.

Going to court or hospital was an outing of sorts. The occasion was used to meet people, relatives and get news of the world. “But there was an overall atmosphere of terror. Acquaintances were scared to meet us,” Jain says.

Searing summers were tough, and harsh winters spent with two blankets. Food was prepared by undertrials. Dal, roti, chawal and sabji — twice a day, with tea in the morning — was passable. But absence of hygiene was a problem. The aluminium utensils were dipped in water, seldom washed. “Sometimes, the plate would have residues of the previous meal,” he remembers, still vexed by the memory. And there was zero privacy. Detainees used an open latrine without cover. “You were visible to everyone around,” he says.

Letters, in and out, were always censored. But one of them brought good news. Jain, a postgraduate in history and Hindi, was on probation as a lecturer when arrested. “I received my confirmation letter in jail,” he says.

Spending time wasn’t difficult, Jain says. He was used to prison, though not for such a long duration. “I would exercise, do yoga, attend group meetings, chat with other political prisoners. There was a study circle too. I read Gandhiji’s Hind Swaraj, Nehru’s Discovery of India, Lohia’s works, even Gone with the Wind,” Jain recollects.

“Sometimes, to raise optimism levels, we would shout slogans such as ‘ Dum hai kitna daman mein tere, dekh liya aur dekhenge/ Jagah hai kitna jail mein tere, dekh liya aur dekhenge . (We have seen your oppression/ We will see how many more you can fill in jail)’. Unlike some cadres of other parties, we were never desperate to leave jail. We felt alive,” he says.

‘Emergency Was Over. But People Were Still Afraid’

More than a year had elapsed when authorities shifted the “troublemakers” to Haryana’s Hissar jail. Socialist leader Raj Narain and later Jan Sangh’s V K Malhotra, earlier in Ambala jail, were also there. “The state was then ruled by Bansi Lal and conditions were stricter,” Jain recalls. He also remembers his washed clothes being taken away by others because they all looked the same. “To ensure this did not happen, I chopped the sleeves of my kurta,” he says.

The socialist also has one pleasant memory of the jail: “Occasionally, we would receive a basket of malta (sweet orange) from Devi Lal’s farmhouse.”

Jain has no dramatic memory of the day of his release. But he has a clearer recollection of his first post-prison public meeting in Janakpuri, south-west Delhi. “Emergency was over. But people were still afraid to come close to the dais. But after a while they came closer and listened intently,” he remembers.

In 1977, Jain was elected to Delhi Metropolitan Council from Chandni Chowk on a ticket by Janata Party, into which Socialist Party had merged. He taught Hindi in Ramjas till 2011 and now spends time re-reading Lohia at his roomy apartment in east Delhi’s Surajmal Vihar.

He remains single and devoted to democratic socialism. “I still believe in Gandhi, Lohia and Madhu Limaye. But politics has changed now,” he says, pointing towards the television set, “and so has the media.”

Films censorship during Emergency

Aandhi | The film, cleared in Jan 1975 by the Board of Film Censors, went through difficult times. The common belief was that its heroine had a similarity to the then Prime Minister. In July, the ministry of information and broadcasting suspended the screening of the film for two months. That period expired on Sept 9. On Oct 1, its producer (J Om Prakash) was issued notice to show cause why the film should not be banned. The show cause notice was later found to have been issued under a wrong section. This notice was issued on (then Union information and broadcasting minister) V C Shukla’s orders on the grounds that the film sought to bring the system of election by adult franchise into disrepute. Subsequently, the producer met the then minister as well as other senior officers and stated that he would suffer a loss of Rs 40 lakh if the film was banned, and offered to restructure the story. The then minister approved this idea on Jan 30, 1976, and the revised version was ultimately cleared on March 24, 1976.



Andolan | The Hindi film was granted a clear ‘U’ certificate by the central board on film censors on May 27, 1975. It was also classifiedby the board as predominantly educational, as it dealt with the 1942 movement. However, before the film could be released, it was recalled by central govt and, on Nov 14, 1976, orders were issued on the producers imposing several drastic cuts — all these related to incidents of revolutionary activity, as it was thought that those scenes would incite commission of offences leading to disturbances of public order. (From White Paper on Misuse of Mass Media During the Internal Emergency, brought out by Govt of India in Aug 1977)