by Javier Moro
But the rumour that the military were preparing a coup had spread like wildfire in the big cities, Bombay, Delhi and Calcutta. The idea that India would not be able to survive either as a democracy or as a unified country was taking root among the elite sectors of society. The figures of Nehru and Gandhi were beginning to be seen as relics of an idealist past which no longer had much to do with reality. More and more isolated at the height of power, Indira began to feel paranoid. And she had good reason. General Sam Manekshaw, a Parsee who was Commander-in-Chief of the Indian army, was asked the same question wherever he went: “When are you going to seize power?” He refused to answer. What shocked him most was that among those asking him the question, there were ministers in Indira’s cabinet.
Tired of so much rumour, which had even filtered into her own home, Indira called General Manekshaw to her office in South Block. They were old friends; Indira had been married to a Parsee and that always added familiarity to the relationship. Sam found her seated on the other side of her kidney-shaped office desk, with her elbows resting on the table and her head in her hands. After greeting him she said in a tired voice, “Everyone says you’re going to replace me… Is that true Sam?”
The soldier was shocked, but reacted after a few seconds: “I took a few steps towards where she was sitting. She had a long nose, and mine was also prominent, so I brought my nose close to hers and asked her, looking her straight in the eye: ‘What do you think, Prime Minister?’
‘You can’t do it,’ she answered.
‘Do you think I’m so incompetent?’
‘No, Sam, I didn’t mean that. I mean you won’t do it.’
‘You’re absolutely right, Prime Minister. I do not interfere in matters of politics. My job is to run the army and make sure it’s maintained in first class condition. Yours is to run the country.’
‘My ministers say a coup is being prepared. Even my sons have heard that.’
‘Those ministers, you named them. Get rid of them. You must trust me.’”
The general had never seen her so worried and so low as that day. “She had many political enemies,” Manekshaw would remember. “They were constantly plotting against her. But she was a clever girl. She came to me and said, ‘Sam, if you’re thinking of doing anything, just be aware that I know all about it.’”
It was a turbulent Christmastime. Although behind closed doors Indira did what she could to keep her worries to herself, it was impossible to be immune to the tension in the streets. Sanjay was the one who asked her most often what she was going to do, but Indira would answer with one of her famous silences and would pick up little Rahul, as if she sought the answer to complicated matters in that simple gesture. What would her father have done in the same circumstances? she asked herself. In 1951, Nehru had found himself in a similar situation, although not so extreme. And he had decided to ask the people. Indira would do the same. She felt that her government, only dependent on the support of the parties of the Left, would not survive the attacks of the powerful forces that had banded together against her. She had the intuition that if the people were consulted, they would back her. But this time she would separate the general elections from the state ones. Until then, they had always been held at the same time, with the result that local considerations of caste and ethnic origin became mixed up with larger, national matters. Now she wanted to make sure that they would not be connected. She wanted to present a real national program to the electorate.
On December 27th, 1970, at eight o’clock in the morning, after her daily meeting in the garden, Indira had a cup of tea with Sonia.
“I won’t be back for lunch today,” she told her. “I’m going to see the President of the Republic and I’m going to ask him to dissolve Parliament. It’s going to be a very heavy day. Tell Rajiv that I’ll be speaking on the radio tonight.”
In effect, that same night she addressed the nation to announce that the general elections would be brought forward a year. Sonia heard her from the kitchen at home: “Time will not wait for us,” Indira said in a somewhat apocalyptic tone. “The millions of people who are calling for food, housing and work are in a hurry for us to do something. The power in a democracy is held by the people. Therefore we are calling on the people to ask for a new mandate.” A short time after the announcement, a Newsweek journalist asked Indira what the central issue of her campaign would be. Without hesitating for a second, Indira said: “I am the issue.”
For the next ten weeks, she was hardly at home, and when she was it was just to change her clothes and go back out. Sometimes that happened at one in the morning, and on hearing her, Sonia woke up, ready to help her look for a sari or to make her some tea. She gave her news of the baby, and Indira talked to her about the campaign. She was hopeful: “I like being with people, with ordinary people. I don’t feel tired when I’m with them,” she said as they both looked back on the day. “You know, Sonia, I don’t see them as a crowd, I see them as many individuals together…” She was happy because the great alliance that brought together opposing parties — from parties on the Right to Socialists—and who were her adversaries, had committed the mistake of choosing a slogan that reflected their deepest wish: “Let’s get rid of Indira”.
“I have proposed another slogan: “Let’s get rid of poverty!” Don’t you think it makes more sense?”
Sonia nodded. Indira went on, in a low voice in order not to wake the baby. “That slogan gives our party the moral high ground and an image of progress against a reactionary front. After all, the poor are the greatest majority of the electorate…”
“They’ll see you as their saviour…”
“I hope so.”
The campaign she carried out in January and February, 1970 was very intense. Having frugal habits—she did not eat or sleep very much—helped her in her efforts. More than thirteen million people attended her rallies and another seven million greeted her at the sides of the roads, according to official statistics. “In the 43 days I had available,” she wrote to her friend Dorothy Norman, “I travelled over sixty thousand kilometers and spoke at some three hundred rallies. It was marvellous to see the light in people’s eyes.” What was even more marvellous was to see that the type of poverty that existed twenty years before was no longer visible, except in certain areas inhabited by untouchables and tribal communities. You no longer saw terrible deformities like you used to, or children with their bellies distended from malnutrition. “Perhaps they don’t all have a roof and a job, but the people seem healthy. The children’s eyes shine,” she told Dorothy.
That was a great source of pride for her, backed by statistics. In five years, the annual production of wheat and rice had doubled. “For the first time, I do not have the impression that the economy depends exclusively on the success or failure of the monsoons,” wrote a British journalist who travelled regularly to India. The Indian media, mostly in the hands of the opposition, did not talk about this, but the people did speak up in the greatest call to elections to date in the world.
On the night the results came out, the whole family was together at home. Sonia had made sure there were sweets and flowers everywhere. The house was lit up outside, and inside the atmosphere was of contained enthusiasm. As the Electoral Commission gave out numbers and results, the euphoria grew. Two hundred and seventy-five million people had voted in this fifth call to elections since independence. Not a single person had had to walk more than two kilometres to place his vote. Almost two million volunteers had acted as electoral agents. Sixty-six attempts at fraud had been detected, an insignificant number in such a huge country. The tendency of the results was clear: Indira’s party was winning in all constituencies. One after another, cars began arriving at the house. A victory like this came accompanied by an unavoidable circle of sycophants. People who did not hesitate to bow down and touch her feet, a traditional way of greeting which the Nehrus had always seen as a sign of servility when the people doing it were wealthy. Her ministers, the same ones as had
talked behind her back about a military coup, were the first to arrive and prostrate themselves. Sonia learned then to recognize these toadies with their honeyed words who changed their coats according to the political temperature. That was the time when her obsession was born to identify them and keep them at bay, an obsession that would never leave her. Sincere friends also arrived to congratulate Indira, who came in and out of her study packed full of party colleagues sitting cross-legged on the floor. Another room, near the entrance, was suddenly filled with more people. The telephones rang non-stop. The dogs also joined in the general excitement and slipped in and out of the legs of the visitors, whom Sonia welcomed with little Rahul in her arms. Indira tried to hide her jubilation, but in fact she had achieved a comfortable two thirds majority for her new mandate. A victory that made her the most powerful Prime Minister since independence. The person most venerated, most feared, most loved and in certain spheres, the most hated too. But it was also a victory for India. The elections showed they were a real unifying
force in the nation, over and above the differences and diversity. Democracy was confirmed as the new religion in this country so ancient and so peopled with gods, a religion that helped to clear the path towards the future.
Indira did not have much time to savour her triumph. Two weeks after the announcement of her fantastic victory, the Pakistani army launched a fierce attack on the Bengali citizens of East Pakistan. The pictures on television showed a human tide, made up of millions of refugees, mostly women, children and old people. They crossed the border seeking refuge in the Indian province of West Bengal, already very densely populated, and whose capital was Calcutta. Neither Sonia, nor Rajiv, nor Sanjay missed a news broadcast. That flood of refugees reminded them of the tragic events of Partition. They knew that Indira was facing a crisis of enormous proportions. How could a country as poor as India take in so many refugees? they asked themselves anxiously. Would it be necessary to intervene in East Pakistan to stop the flow of people arriving? What will Mother do?
“Is it civil war?” asked Sonia.
They explained to her that it looked like that because it was happening within the same country, Pakistan, but it was a country made up of two parts separated by over three thousand kilometres of Indian territory, the product of the partition of the sub-continent according to the doubtful religious and community criteria used when independence came from the English. Actually, there was no real unity between those two nations, whose western part had just declared war on the eastern part. The inhabitants of West Pakistan spoke Urdu and were rather tall and fair-skinned. Those of East Pakistan were short, dark-skinned and spoke Bengali. The only thing they shared was Islam, but this was not enough of a basis on which to found a nation. Above all because, in spite of the eastern part being more densely populated, most of the resources—healthcare, education, electricity—were systematically diverted to the western part. Those in the west were unashamedly exploiting those in the east, who were calling for autonomy.
In contrast with India, where democracy had survived political upheavals, famine and war, Pakistan had been under military rule for thirteen years. Its President, Yahya Khan, known for his fondness for alcohol, had promised to celebrate the first free plebiscite in the country’s history in December 1970. He could not foresee the consequences of those elections, which uncovered the contradictions and fragility of that political entity known as Pakistan. In the west, Zulfikar Ali Bhutto won, a lawyer educated in England who had gone into politics when he went back to his country and who was the leader of the PPP (Pakistan People’s Party). In the east, a party won overwhelmingly, led by a charismatic character, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, a friend and ally of Indira’s, who had run a campaign denouncing the colonialism exercised by West Pakistan over the eastern part. He gained such a massive victory that he achieved the majority in the Pakistan National Assembly. According to the logic of the results, he should have been named Prime Minister. But the general in power had no intention of the eastern part taking over political power. In view of the movement of civil disobedience launched by Sheikh Mujibur Rahman all over East Pakistan, calling an indefinite general strike, the dictator Yahya Khan decided to crush the rebellion by force. Suddenly and with no warning, he sent forty thousand soldiers from West Pakistan to invade the eastern part. Press reports spoke of a brutal, merciless attack. Many officers, boasting that they intended to improve the genes of Bengali children, raped thousands of women, sacked and burned homes and businesses, and murdered thousands of innocent people. Anyone suspected of dissidence was tracked down and eliminated, especially if they were Hindus: students, university professors, writers, journalists, professionals and intellectuals, no one escaped the terror of those tall, strong, well-equipped soldiers who cut people’s throats without mercy. Not even children escaped the brutality: the lucky ones were murdered alongside their parents, but thousands of others would have to spend the rest of their lives blind or with horribly amputated limbs. Sheikh Mujibur Rahman was arrested and sent to West Pakistan, where he was jailed.
“Are you going to declare war, Mother?” Sanjay asked her at dinnertime, like someone asking if she were going away on holiday or on a shopping trip.
“If I can’t find another way to fix the problem, I’ll have no option. Anyway, tomorrow I’m talking to General Manekshaw.”
Indira knew that if the Pakistani dictator had acted so confidently, it was because he had the backing of his main ally, the United States. The other ally was China, who had declared war on India in 1962, and had, in a lightning attack, annexed border lands in the Himalayas. That had been humiliating for India, and a mortal blow to Nehru’s old idea of solidarity among the non-aligned nations. It had also marked the beginning of the end for Nehru. His health began to fail, and more than one observer attributed his death to the sadness caused by the attack from the neighbours in the north.
“You know what’s happening in East Pakistan?” Indira asked her old friend Sam Manekshaw, Commander-in-Chief of the army, as soon as she got to a meeting of her government.
“Yes, there are massacres,” replied the general.
“Telegrams are pouring in from the border states,” Indira continued. “They say the refugees keep on coming. Sam, we have to stop the flood any way we can. We have no resources to deal with any more people. If we have to go into East Pakistan, do it. Do whatever you have to, but stop them.”
“You know that means war.”
“I don’t care if there is a war,” the Prime Minister cut him off.
The general went on to explain the dangers of an invasion. The monsoon rains were about to fall, troop transport would have to be carried out by road because the fields would be flooded. The Air Force would not be able to act under those circumstances. He told her frankly that in that situation they would not be able to win a war.
“The harvest has begun in Punjab and Haryana,” added the careful general. “If the country goes to war at harvest time, I’ll need all the roads available, and that is going to cause problems in food distribution, and maybe lead to famines. Then there’s the problem with China. The Himalaya passes will be open in a few days… Will they stand there with their arms crossed, if they’re allies of Pakistan? What shall we do if they give us an ultimatum?”
“They won’t,” said Indira. “Let me tell you that we’re about to sign a pact of cooperation and mutual defence with the Soviet Union. A pact for the next 20 years.”
Such was Indira’s fury, the general remembered, that her face got redder and redder. She decided to break off the meeting and carry on in the afternoon. The ministers left the room, but Indira asked Sam to stay. When they were alone, the general felt it was obligation to tell her, “My duty is to tell you the truth, Ma’am. But in view of all I have told you, if you want me to present my resignation, I am prepared to do that.”
“No, Sam. Go ahead. I have the utmost confidence in you.”
From then on, the Prime Minister and the Commander-in-Chief w
orked in perfect harmony. Indira never allowed anyone to stand between them. Sam had convinced her that the military option should be the last resort, and then only if they were forced into it. The strategy now was to gain time, at least until winter came back to the Himalayas and froze the mountain passes, an essential requirement if the Chinese were not to be tempted to become involved in the conflict.
The tide of refugees was unstoppable. As many as 150,000 were crossing the border every day. They arrived in lorries, oxcarts, rickshaws and on foot. Sonia saw how upset Indira was when she came back from a visit she had made to Calcutta.
“I visited camps in the torrential rain,” she said at home, sitting at the table, but not eating a thing because she had no appetite. “I thought that after the experience of the refugee camps during Partition I would be prepared for what I was going to see. But I wasn’t. I’ve seen men and women as thin as toothpicks, skeletal children, old people being carried on the backs of their children walking over the flooded fields… They stood for hours in the mud because there was nowhere dry to sit. The people with me expected me to say a few words, but I was so upset that I couldn’t speak.”
In eight weeks, three and a half million refugees had come into India. Although the majority were Hindus, there were also Moslems, Buddhists, Christians… People from right across the social spectrum and of all ages. Whatever it cost, Indira repeated, she would not leave them to their fate. She and her advisors planned the organization of the refugee camps meticulously. She wanted her government to do its best to house them, feed them and protect them from epidemics. If once again she had to go round the world asking for money to cover the cost, she was prepared to do it.
Sonia was a little frightened at the turn events were taking, but she did not show it. She had blind faith in her mother-in-law. The Press insisted that the atrocities were still going on, and the flow of refugees did not slow either. Where will it all end? they asked themselves at home, glued to the television at news time. Everywhere the same call could be heard for the government to send in the army. But in spite of all the frantic calls, Indira kept her cool. As always in times of crisis, she remained in total control of the situation. The family atmosphere at her home in New Delhi helped her to relax. Seeing her grandson Rahul growing was like a balm to her. Decision-making, especially when it affected a sixth of humanity, could easily become mental torture. Staying clear-headed and calm was fundamental, for her, for the country and for the world. In that she found Sonia to be of great help. “Your daughter is a treasure,” she wrote to Paola. In public, she complimented her all the time. She told one veteran reporter, “Quite simply, she’s a wonderful woman, a perfect wife, a perfect daughter-in-law, a great mother and a fantastic housewife. And the most incredible thing of all is that she’s more Indian than any Indian girl!” One day the whole family attended the screening of a documentary that a friend of Indira’s, the journalist Gita Mehta, had filmed about the refugees, and which was going to be shown in the United States. Sonia was deeply moved by the pictures. The documentary showed and interviewed women that the Pakistani soldiers had held captive in the trenches. One of them, aged about fifteen, must have been raped about two hundred times. She could not cry; she was in a state of catatonic shock. Pictures of old and young people could also be seen, returning to the wreckage of their homes, pictures of fields burned and devastated. When it was over, Sonia realized that Indira was crying.