Imagine this: A government, newly in power, decides to honor a group of people who once stood against the very system it now upholds. That’s the surreal dance of history and politics unfolding in West Bengal, where Chief Minister Suvendu Adhikari recently announced a Rs 10,000 monthly pension for 325 individuals jailed during India’s 1975 Emergency. To me, this isn’t just a policy announcement—it’s a masterclass in how memory, identity, and power collide. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it reframes the Emergency not as a dark chapter to be buried, but as a narrative weapon to be wielded. Adhikari isn’t just paying homage; he’s crafting a legacy for his government, one that positions itself as the rightful heir to the ideals of dissent. But why now? Why West Bengal? And what does this say about the BJP’s growing obsession with rewriting India’s historical script?
Let’s unpack the layers. First, the Emergency—a period of authoritarianism under Prime Minister Indira Gandhi—was a time when civil liberties were suspended, opposition crushed, and dissenters imprisoned. The people honored by Adhikari were part of that resistance, yet their story is often overshadowed by the more romanticized tales of freedom fighters from the 1940s. In my opinion, this pension is a deliberate act of historical rebranding. By spotlighting these lesser-known figures, Adhikari’s government is trying to distance itself from the Congress Party’s legacy while aligning with the BJP’s broader narrative of valorizing anti-establishment struggle. But here’s the rub: The Emergency was a product of a Congress-led government, and the BJP’s own history includes close ties to Indira Gandhi’s regime. This feels less like a tribute and more like a calculated move to appropriate the moral high ground.
What many people don’t realize is how deeply this gesture is tied to the BJP’s political calculus. West Bengal, once a bastion of Leftist and Congress dominance, is now a BJP stronghold after a historic election victory. By honoring those who opposed the Emergency, Adhikari is not only appealing to a generation that sees the Congress as a relic but also sending a message to the Centre: We’re here to stay, and we’ll define our own historical legacy. The timing is also telling. June 25, commemorated as ‘Samvidhan Hatya Diwas’ by the BJP, marks the Emergency’s imposition. By linking this pension to that date, Adhikari is embedding his government into a national narrative of resistance, even as he ignores the party’s own contradictions.
But let’s not forget the human element. These 325 individuals endured imprisonment, persecution, and the trauma of a suspended democracy. Their sacrifices were real, and their stories deserve to be told. Yet, the way this recognition is framed feels performative. A Rs 10,000 pension is a symbolic gesture, not a reparative one. It’s a token that says, ‘We remember you,’ but stops short of acknowledging the systemic failures that led to their suffering. What this really suggests is that political gestures often prioritize optics over justice. How many more such ‘tributes’ will we see, each one a carefully curated chapter in a larger story of selective memory?
Looking deeper, this isn’t just about West Bengal. Several BJP-ruled states have followed similar paths, honoring Emergency-era dissidents with awards and pensions. This trend raises a deeper question: When a party that once benefited from authoritarianism now champions the victims of it, what does that say about the evolution of political ideology? It’s a paradox that reflects the fluidity of historical narratives. The Emergency, once a symbol of repression, is now being repurposed as a badge of honor. This shift isn’t just about politics—it’s about how societies choose to remember their past. And in that choice lies a dangerous truth: History is never neutral. It’s a battleground where the victors decide who gets to be remembered and how.
As I reflect on this, I’m struck by the irony. The same government that celebrates these dissenters once dismissed them as troublemakers. Now, they’re being lionized as heroes. This duality speaks to the malleability of morality in politics. But here’s what worries me: If recognition becomes a transactional tool, what happens to the integrity of the cause itself? Will future governments cherry-pick which histories to honor based on convenience rather than conviction? The pension is a start, but it’s a reminder that true justice isn’t just about remembering—it’s about reckoning. And that reckoning is far from complete.
