I write this as one of those children who lived through the Emergency. I was just seven years old in 1975, and now, as we mark the 50th anniversary of that dark chapter, the memories still haunt me. I vividly remember that day in June when my father, Sardar Bhupinder Singh Mann—a Bhartiya Kisan Union (BKU) activist and respected farm leader—was taken away by the police. It felt as though the sky had collapsed. My innocent world in our quiet farm was suddenly consumed by fear. His arrest impacted me deeply, both emotionally and psychologically. He was one among thousands of farmers who were swept up in the government’s brutal crackdown.
As a young boy, I didn’t understand legal terms, but I understood one thing very clearly: our Constitution and our rights had been thrown out the window. The Emergency meant free speech was suspended, fair laws were ignored, and ordinary people like us became its victims. My mother and I huddled together in silent fear, unsure when or even if he would return. Through those grim days, it was my grandmother—a formidable woman who had already bravely faced the trauma of Partition, moving from Lyalpur (now in Pakistan) to Batala—who was our pillar of strength. Calm and resolute, she kept telling us, “Justice will prevail.”
The Emergency, imposed by then Prime Minister Indira Gandhi on June 25, 1975, shattered the democratic fabric of India. Civil liberties were suspended, opposition leaders were jailed, media was censored, and fear was institutionalised. Over 100,000 people were arrested under various draconian laws, including MISA (Maintenance of Internal Security Act). Among them were not just politicians and activists, but thousands of protesting farmers, like my father and his fellow BKU supporters, whose only ‘crime’ was demanding their democratic right to be heard.
But the Emergency wasn’t the beginning of constitutional erosion—it was just the most naked form of it.
Amendments: A Tool for Power, Not Principles
The Constitution of India came into effect on January 26, 1950. Yet astonishingly, it was amended just two years later. The First Amendment (1951) introduced the Ninth Schedule and added Articles 31A and 31B. Its aim? To protect certain laws—mostly land reforms—from judicial review. It was a signal that the Constitution would bend to suit those in power.
That Ninth Schedule, initially created to shield land redistribution, quickly became what critics call the “constitutional dustbin.” Successive governments—especially the Congress regime during and after the Emergency—used it to protect arbitrary and politically expedient laws from being struck down by courts. Among the buried laws were critical agriculture-related statutes, including the Essential Commodities Act, which gave sweeping powers to regulate agricultural produce, hurting both farmers and markets. In 1976, during the Emergency, the 40th Amendment ensured this law would be immune to judicial scrutiny.
I remember another moment from our family history—etched into my childhood through the stories my grandmother would tell. Back in 1955, shortly after the First Amendment and the passing of the Essential Commodities Act, my grandmother, my father (then a young boy), and our family received a notice from the government. We were warned for storing around 30 bags of our own wheat, grown on our own farm. The notice bluntly stated that we were not allowed to store it, and it would be confiscated if not released immediately. I still recall what my grandmother said in anguish: “What kind of freedom is this?” That moment captured the betrayal felt by countless farming families—when independent India’s own government began criminalizing self-reliance and food security in the name of regulation. The current crisis in agriculture, I believe, stems from that very point.
Adding to this erosion was the removal of the Right to Property as a fundamental right, one of the most consequential blows to the Constitution’s original vision. This right, guaranteed under Article 31, was first undermined during Indira Gandhi’s tenure. But it was finally removed by the 44th Amendment in 1978, ironically by the Janata Party government led by Morarji Desai, which had come to power on the promise of restoring democracy. It was demoted to a mere legal right under Article 300A. What was once a key pillar of liberty and economic dignity was thus reduced to something the state could override more easily. For farmers and landowners, this shift was not abstract—it meant less protection against arbitrary land acquisition and bureaucratic overreach.
Echoes of Emergency in Today’s India
Though we are not under a declared Emergency today, there are parallels too striking to ignore. Civil liberties are again under pressure. Critics of the government face sedition charges, anti-terror laws like UAPA are used to detain dissenters without trial, and journalists are routinely harassed. Democratic backsliding is a global concern, and India has not been immune. In 2021, the global watchdog Freedom House downgraded India from “Free” to “Partly Free,” citing the erosion of political rights and civil liberties.
Laws continue to be passed with minimal debate. Dissenting voices are delegitimized. The centralisation of power, suppression of protest, and weakening of independent institutions all evoke troubling memories of the 1975 Emergency. The tools may have changed, but the mindset has survived.
Ironically, the same party that once oversaw the Emergency is now leading an aggressive campaign titled “Save the Constitution” or “Samvidhan Bachao.” And surprisingly, this high-decibel campaign is gaining public attention. One cannot help but question—is this genuine reflection, or simply strategic reinvention, having learned how to better shape public sentiment from the past?
Un-celebrating the Emergency
As we mark the 50th year of the Emergency, it is not a time to celebrate—it is a time to un-celebrate, to remember and reflect. The Emergency shamed our Constitution. But what is more dangerous is how its mindset has survived. Every time dissent is crushed, every time a law is insulated from accountability, every time Parliament is reduced to a rubber stamp—we relive a part of that Emergency.
The Constitution is not just a legal document. It is a promise—to be just, to be equal, to be free. That promise was broken in 1975, and it continues to be betrayed whenever laws are passed without debate, when voices are silenced, or when the powerless are punished for daring to speak.
I will never forget how it felt when the police came for my father. But I also remember what my grandmother said: “Justice will prevail.” Let us honour that belief—not by blind celebration, but by active remembrance, and by defending our democracy every single day.