The silence of the reels: Why Hindi cinema never faced the Emergency

Time of India

10 hours ago

Power games: The few filmmakers who did deal with the subject, either directly or indirectly, faced bans and attacks
For an industry that prides itself on chronicling the nation's struggles, Hindi cinema's silence about the Emergency is more revealing than any film could ever be. The 21 months between June 1975 and March 1977, when Indira Gandhi suspended civil liberties, censored the press, and jailed thousands without trial, were arguably the most consequential in India's modern political history. Yet, in the decades since, Hindi cinema—the self-appointed mirror of Indian society—has barely mustered a smudge to reflect it.
This conspicuous absence did not arise from creative oversight or timidity alone. In the early decades of Independence, popular cinema was never truly free. Nehruvian socialism shaped public policy and the ideological contours of the industry. The so-called golden triumvirate—Dilip Kumar, Raj Kapoor, Dev Anand—crafted personas that echoed Pandit Nehru's vision of the self-sacrificing, morally upright everyman. Dilip Kumar's dialogue seemed like leftovers from Nehru's speeches, Dev Anand's rebellious charm served the establishment's romantic socialism, and Raj Kapoor's everyman heroes peddled idealism to the masses.
Such intimacy with power set the template. The state could inspire cinema, but never the other way around. When that same state turned authoritarian, the industry found itself unprepared and unwilling to challenge it. In the Emergency years, the machinery of coercion extended directly into the corridors of Bombay. V C Shukla, Indira's information & broadcasting minister, became infamous for exerting his influence over the film industry.
Wielding the Maintenance of Internal Security Act like a scythe through the industry, the political establishment wasn't breaking new ground—it was merely weaponising an existing dependency. Kishore Kumar, the mercurial genius whose voice had soundtracked a generation's dreams, was banned from All India Radio and Doordarshan for refusing to perform at a Youth Congress rally. Dev Anand, tricked into attending a
Sanjay Gandhi
event and asked to praise his 'dynamism', found his films blacklisted when he refused to comply. When he sought an explanation from the I&B Minister, he was told with chilling matter-of-factness that it was 'a good thing to speak for the govt in power.'
Shatrughan Sinha
, then one of cinema's busiest stars, saw his films banned for the cardinal sin of supporting Jayaprakash Narayan.
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Gulzar's 'Aandhi', merely suspected of drawing inspiration from Indira Gandhi's life, while most argued it'd taken a few chapters from the life of Tarkeshwari Sinha, was banned for the duration of the Emergency, releasing only after the Janata victory restored a semblance of democratic normalcy. 'Maha Chor' starring Rajesh Khanna casually inserted a 'Vote for Congress' graffiti into a musical sequence. Most telling was the fate of Amrit Nahata's 'Kissa Kursi Ka', a political satire that dared to mock the Emergency's absurdities. All prints of the film were destroyed allegedly by Sanjay Gandhi at a factory in Gurgaon. This was not subtext—it was brazen collusion between art and authority.
Yet what happened after the Emergency lifted reveals the true depths of the industry's moral bankruptcy. When the time came to reckon with the period—its absurdities, its tragedies, its moral squalor—Hindi cinema fell silent. There was an almost immediate return to sycophantic normalcy. Feroz Khan's 'Qurbani' (1980), the biggest hit of the year when Indira Gandhi returned, opened with a short film eulogising Sanjay Gandhi, narrated by Khan himself as he dedicated his film to the memory of the 'Prince' and bowed in reverence to the 'Mother'.
If films between 1977 and 1980 did not address the Emergency, to expect that to happen after Indira Gandhi returned would perhaps be hoping for a miracle. This wasn't just political calculation—it was the instinctive reaction of an industry that had learned to worship power. Some filmmakers attempted to address the Emergency but it was often through the refuge of allegory—Hrishikesh Mukherjee's 'Kotwal Saab' and 'Khubsoorat' chose not to cast a direct look; the latter managed to justify the Emergency as a necessary evil. Mukherjee's 'Naram Garam' gave Hindi cinema's smartest comment on the era in the form of a nervous joke — Om Prakash, told to hurry because of some emergency, haplessly comments, 'Phir se?'
While not Hindi cinema, Satyajit Ray's 'Hirak Rajar Deshe' and Jabbar Patel's 'Jait Re Jait', used the same route. Parallel cinema, too, largely skirted the challenge and despite their social conscience, filmmakers preferred the microcosm to the macro. Over the years, some films such as 'Ghashiram Kotwal' based on a
Vijay Tendulkar
play and directed by K. Hariharan, Mani Kaul, Kamal Swaroop,
Saeed Mirza
were cited as a film about the Emergency. However, it was written in 1972 as a response to the rise of a local political party in Maharashtra.
There are structural reasons for this reticence. Hindi cinema has always struggled with ambiguity, preferring neat endings where heroes redeem all. The Emergency, by contrast, offered no catharsis—only a nation capitulating to authoritarianism without resistance. The definitive Emergency film still eludes the screen even as we enter the fiftieth year of the Emergency. The exceptions remain sparse: Sudhir Mishra's 'Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi' would not arrive until 2005, nearly three decades later. Even then, it couched its indictment within the personal journeys of three idealistic young people, careful not to indict the broader complicity of society. Even today the few who try to confront the past are harassed —Madhur Bhandarkar's 'Indu Sarkar' provoked shrill attacks and legal threats simply for attempting a fictionalised retelling.
The Emergency may have ended in 1977, but its most lasting victory was psychological: the creation of a cultural establishment that polices itself more effectively than any censor ever could. Perhaps it was simpler to pretend nothing happened. After all, if cinema cannot process a trauma, maybe the nation never really did.
(Chintamani is a film historian and author)