Midnight's Descendants

by John Keay

  There matters might have stood, but for three countervailing factors. One was the strategic location of Sikkim. Squeezed between Nepal and Bhutan, its southern border abutted the narrow corridor that linked Assam to the rest of India, while its northern border marched with Chinese Tibet. As India’s relations with China soured in the late 1950s, the latter border had looked as vulnerable as Ladakh’s or that of the North-East Frontier Agency. Beijing not only disputed its precise alignment but, courtesy of its position in Tibet, could claim an ill-defined suzerainty over the Chogyal and his kingdom. By way of a reminder, in 1963 Chinese Communist Party Chairman Liu Shaoqi had sent direct to Gangtok, the Sikkimese capital, a telegram of condolence on the death of one Chogyal and in 1965 another of felicitations to his successor. New Delhi immediately protested over these infringements of its monopoly of Sikkim’s external relations, and suspected some Sino–Sikkimese intrigue. If for no other reason than to pre-empt Chinese influence in the state, any assertion of Sikkimese independence had to be resisted, and any opportunity for closer Sikkimese association with India welcomed. Meanwhile, in the wake of the Sino–Indian war, the Indian military presence along the Sino–Sikkim border was so increased that Sikkim began to feel like an occupied land.

  The second factor was the steady influx of settlers from neighbouring Nepal. By the 1970s, of Sikkim’s 200,000 population, its native component of Buddhist Lepchas and Bhutiyas was outnumbered three to one by Hindu Nepalis. Hungry for employment and land, and unconstrained by border controls, the Nepali diaspora also poured into Bhutan and the neighbouring districts of West Bengal. In time the Bhutanese would try forced repatriation, and the Indian authorities would be obliged to offer incentives to assimilation. Sikkim, and especially its fragile Buddhist monarchy, was more vulnerable to the Nepali influx; for the Chogyal, however anxious to conform to India’s democratic principles, was constrained by the near certainty that Nepalis would dominate any representative bodies. They could then be expected to use them to dismantle the traditional patterns of land ownership, hereditary authority and even the monarchy that upheld them. It was by exploiting this politico-ethnic imbalance that successive Indian representatives in Gangtok, whether as Political Officers, Dewans, Chief Executives or Chief Ministers, were able to manipulate the situation and steadily extend their influence at the expense of the Chogyal’s prerogatives.

  Finally, and much to New Delhi’s annoyance, Sikkim’s endangered existence was suddenly exposed to international scrutiny by the new Chogyal’s infatuation with a long-haired American girl, seventeen years his junior, called Hope Cooke. Sensationalised by the world’s press, their royal wedding in 1963 became ‘the catalyst that completely changed the situation’.21 Sunanda Datta-Ray, the Bengali responsible for the most authoritative, if highly critical, account of Sikkim’s last days, knew Hope Cooke well. She was ‘a strange unhappy woman, unable to reciprocate her husband’s doting love [and] neurotically conscious of her loneliness in a court that found her faintly ridiculous’; yet she gamely championed all things Sikkimese, insisted on the titles and trappings of monarchy, and unwittingly isolated her husband from many of his traditional supporters.22 With ‘Queen Hope’ as hostess, ambassadors and other distinguished visitors to Gangtok flocked to the palace, leaving New Delhi’s Political Officer glaring in disgust from the trellised verandah of his India House. It was unfortunate that the designation of the state as a ‘protectorate’ left the Republic of India looking like an imperialist suzerain, and worse still that the protocol of this relationship was being casually ignored.

  When in the late ’60s the Chogyal had requested a revision of the 1950 treaty, New Delhi had been almost accommodating. In return for closer control of the state, various inducements had been offered, including a ‘permanent association’ instead of a protectorate, plus qualified ‘autonomy in regard to internal affairs’. But this conciliatory approach found no favour in the following decade. Mrs Gandhi’s electoral triumph in 1971, followed by victory in Bangladesh and then the ‘Peaceful Nuclear Experiment’, heralded a more assertive role for India in South Asia. In respect of Sikkim ‘there was no longer any question of accommodation’.23

  The Chogyal would later describe the annexation of his kingdom as a case of ‘smash and grab’. This suggests more haste and less premeditated guile than was the case. But he was right in that first his own authority was smashed, then the state grabbed. The smashing involved discrediting the ruler by masterminding the anti-monarchist challenge of a scruple-free opponent, then flooding Gangtok with this pretender’s unruly supporters. ‘Police stations were burned down, loyal officials beaten up, the country’s few armouries were looted and wireless equipment and petrol were seized.’24 With the Chogyal a prisoner in his own palace, an Indian army division was given the responsibility of restoring order. Thus isolated and powerless, in April 1973 the Chogyal was prevailed on to hand over administrative control to India’s Political Officer. The latter then became Chief Executive and Speaker following elections and the formation of a national assembly. With the ruler sidelined, it remained only to annex, or ‘grab’, his kingdom.

  In 1974, amid further attempts to bully the Chogyal into cooperating in the liquidation of his kingdom, ‘Queen Hope’ took off back to America. It was said to be for a holiday but she never returned, and the royal couple were later divorced. A Bill, drafted for the new Sikkim Assembly by the Indian Chief Executive, was supposed to define Sikkim’s Constitution, but that too ran into trouble when both the Chogyal and the Assembly tried to introduce amendments. The impasse brought the Chogyal to Delhi for his last encounter with Mrs Gandhi. It was time for what he called a ‘final and frank talk’. But ‘it was never Mrs Gandhi’s style to face unpleasant truths or attempt an honest answer’, says Datta-Ray.25 On the contrary, her long silences and ‘drawing-room duplicity’ suggest that the die was already cast. The Chogyal returned to Gangtok empty-handed. Mrs Gandhi bided her time and awaited the moment to strike.

  In India the year 1974 ended with the JP Movement apparently running out of momentum. New elections were promised in Bihar; the universities reopened and students returned to class. JP was still bent on toppling Mrs Gandhi as part of his ‘total revolution’. Moreover, his movement could now count on the support and crowd-management skills of most of the opposition parties. But it lacked any clear ideological focus, and had made little headway in Bombay and the south. With national elections due within eighteen months, it looked possible that the inevitable trial of strength would be left for the voters to decide.

  All this changed when in March 1975 both Narayan and Narain upped the stakes. Calling on all government servants, including the army and the police, to defy orders that ran contrary to the spirit of the Constitution, JP staged a march to Parliament in Delhi and then addressed a crowd estimated at three-quarters of a million. It was probably the largest gathering since the Independence Day celebrations in 1947. Simultaneously Mrs Gandhi received a summons to appear before the Allahabad High Court in connection with Raj Narain’s interminable petition about the Rae Bareilly election of 1971. This was the first time an Indian Prime Minister had been called on to testify in court, and it was not a good sign. Judge Jagmohan Lal Sinha was evidently as much a stickler for electoral niceties as the stick-waving plaintiff. Meanwhile Morarji Desai, Indira’s one-time challenger for the leadership of Congress, was poised to undertake a hunger strike in protest over the delay in calling elections in his home state of Gujarat. The public was getting restive again; it was time to release the remaining rabbit.

  Up in Sikkim there had been no shortage of pretexts for levelling accusations of treason at the wretched Chogyal. In February 1975 he had accepted an invitation to attend the coronation of King Birendra of Nepal in Katmandu. There his brief encounters with a US Senator, a Chinese Vice-Premier and an ageing Mountbatten sparked ‘wild charges of conspiracy’ and some avid speculation in the Indian press. Rumours that the Chogyal was seeking sanctuary overseas proved wrong; he
headed back to Sikkim ‘to live and die there’, as he put it. But approaching Gangtok, his motorcade was halted by Nepali protesters, one of whom was wounded in the ensuing fracas by a member of the royal escort. To the possible accusation of treason was now added that of attempted murder.

  A similar string of trumped-up charges was laid against Sikkim’s heir apparent. But more spirited than his father, Prince Tenzing struck back by circulating a written demand aimed at reining in Indian interference and clawing back powers already ceded. More controversially still, the demand appeared to have the backing of those Sikkimese and Nepalis who had hitherto been foremost in obliging India by opposing the Chogyal and who now constituted Sikkim’s puppet Assembly. For New Delhi, this was the final straw; and for an embattled Mrs Gandhi it was perfect timing. While the Assembly’s turncoats were being made to recant, plans were laid for an outright takeover of the state.

  On 9 April, in a scenario that could have been borrowed from Rawalpindi’s military handbook, Indian troops took up positions throughout Gangtok. Phones went dead, roadblocks went up and Assembly members were plucked from their homes for an Extraordinary Session. On the agenda were two motions. One abolished ‘the institution of the Chogyal’ and declared Sikkim ‘a constituent of India’; the other announced a referendum authorising India to implement these changes. Both motions were passed unanimously.

  The referendum was conducted just three days later and under Indian supervision. Regardless of the absurd schedule, despite widespread disorder, and in defiance of legal opinion to the effect that the whole procedure was unconstitutional, 63 per cent of the electorate was said to have voted; and of this improbable turnout, an even more improbable 97 per cent supposedly supported the motion. Delhi’s Hindustan Times was one of several papers to express acute embarrassment. It called Sikkim’s vote for constitutional suicide a ‘mockery’, adding, ‘And this in the India of [Mahatma] Gandhi and Nehru.’26

  With more unseemly haste a Constitutional Bill was rushed through the Indian Parliament. As the 35th Amendment for ‘the Association of Sikkim with the Union of India’, it was ratified on 26 April. ‘Not a voice was raised in the Parliament, no political party questioned the legality of the measure. The curtain had finally come down on the once sovereign kingdom of Sikkim.’27

  *

  The final act in the Sikkim drama had lasted little longer than the Bangladesh war: from armed intervention to constitutional extinction had taken just seventeen days. Another high-speed triumph brought another burst of applause, most of it from irredentist nationalists on the right wing of Congress. But the sheer speed of Mrs Gandhi’s legerdemain left others bewildered. If Sikkim was so keen on union, why had the exercise not been conducted with greater transparency and decorum? Likewise, if the Chogyal was such a villain, why was he still in his palace? The Hindustan Times was not alone in its scepticism. A later Chief Justice of the Supreme Court found the whole legal process to have been riddled with constitutional anomalies.

  Outside India it attracted mixed attention. A Bangladesh convulsed by the last days of Mujib paid little heed, but in Pakistan protesters took to the streets and Bhutto slated the annexation as further evidence of India’s expansionist intent. The same fears were expressed in Nepal. Mobs there set light to Indian buildings and vehicles. Even B.P. Koirala, the former Prime Minister and leader of the Nepali Congress who was now in exile in India, noted that the Sikkim referendum had been a sham.

  In India it was perhaps fortunate that more momentous events quickly swept the whole affair under the carpet. On 12 June Mrs Gandhi learned that she had lost the state election in Gujarat. In what had been a direct challenge to her leadership, the Janata Front, a combination of opposition parties led by Morarji Desai and J.P. Narayan, had edged Congress out of one of its traditional strongholds. Then, later the same day, there came news from Allahabad: Chief Justice Sinha of the UP High Court had upheld two of Raj Narain’s complaints about the 1971 Rae Bareilly election. Though mere ‘technicalities’ according to the Prime Minister’s supporters, the two infringements sufficed to overturn the result and disqualify her from holding office for six years; she was given twenty days to appeal to the Supreme Court. She in turn appealed against the twenty days. The term was extended, but only on condition that she refrain from voting in Parliament. Given her majority, this in itself scarcely mattered. But it left her in a legal limbo, at the mercy of the Court and her opponents.

  There ensued an exercise in mobilising mass support on the streets of New Delhi. As JP’s followers besieged Rashtrapati Bhawan in an attempt to force the President to dismiss Mrs Gandhi, Sanjay and her other lieutenants bussed in hundreds of thousands of her own supporters to protest on her behalf. It was the middle of June, that hottest of months; tempers frayed and reason wilted; the political mercury soared. Sanjay and his associates drew up lists of those they hoped to see arrested; Mrs Gandhi explored the Constitution for legal options. In the end it was the threat of JP renewing his call for non-cooperation that carried the day; such a call, when directed at the police and the security forces, amounted to incitement to mutiny. Citing all the usual culprits – ‘communal passions’, ‘forces of disintegration’, ‘a widespread conspiracy’ and ‘a foreign hand’ – the Prime Minister saw it as her duty to take control. Hence the declaration of a state of emergency. ‘What else could I have done except stay?’ she later claimed. ‘… I was the only person who could [lead the country].’28

  In the early hours of 26 June, in what anywhere else in South Asia would have been accounted a civil coup, all the main opposition leaders – J.P. Narayan, Morarji Desai and Raj Narain among them – were arrested. Hundreds, then thousands, of others including Members of Parliament and of the state legislatures, student leaders, journalists, academics and union bosses followed them into gaol under the MISA provisions for detention without trial. The newspaper presses were halted by turning off the power; a rigorous censorship was imposed. The cut and thrust of political life ceased; the elections due in 1976 were postponed. ‘And this,’ as the papers might have put it if they could, ‘in the India of Mahatma Gandhi and Nehru.’

  The wider world was aghast. Obituaries for Indian democracy, both tearful and patronising, featured prominently in the Western press. Bhutto, on the other hand, was unusually reticent. He noted only that ‘gloating’ was inappropriate, and warned Mrs Gandhi not to ‘seek to extricate herself from this mess by embarking on an adventurist course against Pakistan’.29 Elsewhere, while India’s friends wrung their hands and volunteered their services, India’s critics preferred ‘I told you sos’. V.S. Naipaul characterised the JP Movement as retrogressive, a throwback to Mahatma Gandhi’s vision of an apolitical India comprised of village republics. The Emergency was a requiem for Western-style democracy and also a long-overdue wake-up call. By ‘dramatiz[ing] India’s creative incapacity, its intellectual depletion, its defencelessness, the inadequacy of every Indian’s idea of India’, it would finally dispel Gandhian complacency.30 Naipaul expected the crackdown to last, and noted that by 1976 the JP Movement was already ‘evaporating’.

  ‘Condensing’ would have been better than ‘evaporating’. In late 1975 J.P. Narayan’s precarious health had taken a turn for the worse. To forestall the explosive potential of his dying in detention, he was rushed to hospital in Bombay and there ‘chained to a dialysis machine’. According to Ramachandra Guha, there were now ‘an estimated 36,000 … in jail under MISA’. A constitutional amendment deprived them of any legal redress; other amendments, all rubber-stamped by the Supreme Court, prevented any judicial review of the Emergency, quashed Raj Narain’s action, allowed Parliament to extend its own life and make its own changes to the Constitution, and gave the central government new powers to suspend or dismiss state governments. The murder of Mujibur Rahman in Dhaka in August only made matters worse. Mrs Gandhi interpreted the assassination of her friend and ally ‘as an omen of what could happen to her and her own family’.31 Surveillance was increased a
nd more suspects were hauled in. As ever, paranoia stalked autocracy.

  There was, though, an upside to the Emergency. Even critics recognised it. Like dictators elsewhere, Mrs Gandhi made much of the need for discipline. Among those rounded up, the tax evaders, black-marketeers, smugglers and bribe-takers greatly outnumbered the political detainees. As demonstrators trooped back to work aboard buses customised with slogans like ‘Talk Less, Work More’ and ‘Efficiency is our Watchword’, industrial strife subsided. The crime rate plummeted, so did the rate of inflation, and the trains kept better time. Denied the usual scandals, those journalists who were at liberty to file reports found there was disappointingly little to write about. Beggars betook themselves elsewhere; taxi meters sometimes worked; and big business generally approved.

  While Mrs Gandhi adopted a twenty-point programme full of rehashed socialist pieties, Sanjay Gandhi hobnobbed with multinational corporations and diverted funds from his Maruti car company into a variety of dubious enterprises. Instead of land reform and debt relief, he spoke out in favour of enterprise and efficiency. Decrying nationalisation, in one interview he looked forward to a liberal economic regime in which the public sector would die ‘a natural death’. In this he was, of course, well ahead of his time. Not for another fifteen years would such radical rethinking about the economy be officially contemplated; indeed, so objectionable were Sanjay’s methods that his advocacy probably hampered liberalisation rather than hastened it.

  His mother, though disapproving, seemed incapable of censuring him. Instead she encouraged him to concentrate on his political future. By shoehorning him onto the executive committee of the Congress Party’s Youth Wing, she effectively anointed him as her preferred successor. Packed with his minions, the Youth Wing would become Sanjay’s power base and a rival to the party itself. He was already ensconced in the Prime Minister’s residence at the head of a ‘kitchen cabinet’ that short-circuited both the official Cabinet and the Prime Minister’s secretariat. In what the wags called ‘the Land of the Rising Son’, it was Sanjay who called the shots. The Emergency seemed as much his creation as his mother’s.