It has been 50 years and the echoes still linger.

That night, Prime Minister Indira Gandhi, once hailed as the ‘Iron Lady’, faced the threat of losing her throne after her election was declared invalid for corrupt practices. She did not bow to the Constitution. She bent it. Twisted it. And, finally, murdered it.

With one stroke, she declared a National Emergency under Article 352. Overnight, civil liberties were suspended, Parliament became a rubber stamp, the press was gagged, the police became weapons of vengeance, and the most profound violation of human rights this country has ever known unfolded. A democracy of 600 million people became a jail without bars.

The Emergency was originally presented as a temporary solution to political instability, a measure to ensure national security, and a way to suppress rising dissent. But in truth, it was a ruthless power grab.

The spark was lit when Indira Gandhi’s political rival, Raj Narain, successfully challenged her election victory in the Allahabad High Court on charges of electoral malpractice. On 12 June 1975, the court declared Gandhi’s election null and void and disqualified her from holding any elected office for six years from the date of the judgment.

In a healthy democracy, this should have led to her resignation. Instead, Indira Gandhi chose retaliation.

Just days later, on the night of 25 June 1975, she weaponised the state machinery to impose authoritarian rule. That very night, she ordered the arrest and imprisonment of several leading opposition figures, including Atal Bihari Vajpayee, L. K. Advani, Jayaprakash Narayan, Morarji Desai, Charan Singh and Raj Narain, without any advance notice, and confined them in undisclosed locations.

It wasn’t just her chair she wanted to protect, it was power itself: absolute, unchecked and terrifying. Her government claimed the Emergency was necessary to curb ‘internal disturbances’, but the real disturbance was her own insecurity. The Emergency was not declared to protect India. It was declared to protect Indira Gandhi from India.

The emergency provisions, which were meant to protect the nation in times of extreme distress, were wielded to silence opposition and enforce a one-party rule. But it was not just politicians who were silenced. An entire nation was muzzled under the threat of detention and punishment.

The Silent Scream of the Press

The first casualty of the Emergency was the press. In those days, newspapers were the heartbeat of India’s democracy, a vital space where the people could express their anger, their grief, their aspirations. But under the Emergency, the press became a corpse.

Every newspaper, from the staunchly independent Indian Express to the most pro-government dailies, was censored. Journalists were forced to submit their articles to government scrutiny before they could be printed. The government’s message was clear: if you speak out against us, you will be punished.

One of the most haunting stories is that of Indian Express journalist R. K. Karanjia, whose newspaper’s editorial voice was choked by government orders. For daring to publish the truth, Karanjia faced physical threats. His paper was subjected to government raids and confiscations.

What was once a vibrant press turned into a mere tool for propaganda. The words of the press were no longer their own. They were the words of the government – carefully crafted, sanitised and, wherever necessary, distorted.

The Souls in Jails

But it wasn’t just the media that felt the iron fist of power. The streets of India were filled with the sound of marching boots of police, army, and paramilitary forces, carrying out mass arrests of political opponents, activists, students, and ordinary citizens who dared to challenge the government.

One such victim was my uncle, Shri Harakchand Oswal, then a young student who was barely 18 years old when he was picked up from his home under the Maintenance of Internal Security Act (MISA). He had been a part of a peaceful protest against the Emergency, a protest that called for the restoration of basic freedoms.

He was arrested in the dead of night, blindfolded, and dragged to Yerwada Jail without warning, without explanation and, most importantly, without any court trial. Like thousands of others, he dared to speak up, to write, to organise, to question. For this, Indira tried to silence him.

His dreams were caged with the unbearable uncertainty of not knowing when, or if, he would ever walk free again. Our family underwent societal embarrassment, all for a mistake that was never ours.

Prison walls do not just restrain the body, they slowly suffocate the mind. Days stretched into months with no trial, no charges, no end in sight. Letters from home were censored or withheld, visits were rare, and hope became a distant stranger.

For daring to question, Harakchand lost his freedom. For daring to resist, he almost lost his future. Yet his story is not just his. It is the story of an entire generation that was shackled, bruised, and left to bear the silent scars of a democracy gone rogue.

A Nation Lost in the Dark

The Emergency was not just a political event; it was an emotional trauma that lingered long after the shackles were removed. It fractured the nation’s psyche. People learned to speak in whispers. Dissent became a dangerous game, and those who dared to play it were crushed under the weight of the State’s machinery.

The most chilling moment came when the government, in its determination to control every aspect of life, launched a forced sterilisation campaign. In a grotesque misuse of power, millions of men and women from poor and marginalised communities were forcibly sterilised. These were not acts of public health, but instruments of political control, a chilling reminder of the state’s ability to dictate even the most intimate aspects of people’s lives.

The Hollow Echo of Democracy

The Emergency ended in March 1977, not because Indira Gandhi saw the light, but because she called an election, confident of victory.

The people, long silent, roared back. They voted her out. The Congress Party was swept away by a wave of anger and the Janata Party rose to power. It was the revenge of the trampled soul of India.

But some scars never heal.

The Emergency is not just history. It is prophecy. Even today, the ghosts of the Emergency haunt us. The echo of those days resounds in every instance of authoritarian impulse that rears its head in India. The clampdown on free speech, the silencing of dissent, and the stifling of the press were the very tools that once helped an authoritarian regime keep its grip on power.

Today, as we sit on the precipice of yet another decade, it is vital that we remember the Emergency. For in forgetting, we allow the rot of authoritarianism to take root once more.

As India celebrates its democracy, it is important to remember that democracy is fragile. The Emergency was not an aberration. It was a glimpse into the abyss that lies at the heart of unchecked power.

If we are to safeguard the freedoms that were so dearly won, we must remember the pain, the silence, the suffering that the Emergency inflicted. Only then can we truly honour the gift of democracy that so many fought and died for.

It happened in 1975. It can happen again.

In the dark days of the Emergency, India’s democracy was almost extinguished. We must never allow that darkness to return.

And so, on this 50th anniversary, we must remember not as a ritual, but as a warning. The price of freedom is eternal vigilance. And the night democracy died must never be forgotten.