Journalism Of Courage

If anyone is confused about the meaning and content of ‘patriotism’ or ‘nationalism’ or ‘deshbhakti,’ then Pratap: A Defiant Newspaper becomes a required reading. It is a history of an Urdu newspaper and its unbowed defence of freedom of speech; it is a biography of the newspaper’s founder’s son, Virendra, and his effortless induction into the freedom struggle; it is a glimpse into the working habits and idiosyncrasies of those intrepid revolutionaries like Bhagat Singh and Chandrashekhar Azad who took up arms against the colonial power; it is a chronicle of militancy and extremism in Punjab; and, above all, it is an invitation—and, a much-needed invitation at that—to reflect on the moral shabbiness that has settled over all aspects of national life.

Before 1947, Lahore was the intellectual capital of undivided India. It was home to eminent colleges, headquarters to respected newspapers, and it was only natural that Pratap should have begun its journey from this vibrant city—a journey that ended in Jalandhar after the Partition. From the very beginning, Pratap thought of itself as a newspaper with a spine, always willing to cock a snook at the colonial authority and its native successors.

Pratap was a nationalist newspaper and it was normal for its intransigent editor, Mahashay Krishan, to earn the wrath of the British Government in Punjab. At one time, Pratap chose to shut its shop for 45 days, rather than submit to pre-censorship. And, it came as no surprise that Pratap was one of the few publications that did not bow to Indira Gandhi’s Emergency.

In an editorial, dated August 11, 1957, Krishan spelt out the role of a journalist:

“Are journalists merely vendors of news? If so, then there is no difference between them and other traders, and they have no right to demand any extra respect from society. However, a journalist is not the same. He not only sells news, but he also dedicates his life to a cause. He is given the responsibility of raising his voice against oppression. He must speak for the oppressed. He must be prepared to incur the wrath of the authorities. A journalist must voice the grievances of the people, to speak clearly and loudly to the government, to advise it, and if it does not pay heed, to wage a struggle against it.”

Such unsentimental clarity, intellectual precision, and moral responsibility! It is embarrassing to even recall such clear-headedness.

And, most media personalities and practitioners today would not know what Krishan was talking about.

Krishan’s son, Virendra could not resist the lure of struggle against the colonial authorities and ended up in jail nine times. “Virendra spent most of his youth in and out of colonial jails, building a formidable reputation that the British weaponised to jail him even when he was innocent. He was “a hardened member of the revolutionary club led by Chandrashekhar Azad and Bhagat Singh,” write the authors approvingly.

In telling the story of their father (and grandfather), Chander and Jyotsna Mohan bring alive the heady atmosphere of idealism and ideology that beckoned young men and women to join the freedom struggle, and how Virendra connected with the revolutionaries. “The revolutionary movement was led by foot soldiers—most of them in their 20s—who casually played with their lives. The “Bhagat Singh cult” was intoxicating a whole generation and was a rival to the Gandhi phenomenon:

“As in life and so in death, Bhagat Singh challenged Gandhi’s principles. While the leader mobilised masses through his campaigns, the obsessively well-read and erudite Bhagat Singh simultaneously explained his actions to the public at every step. He wasn’t ashamed of his doctrine, only in its interpretation, and deliberately chose to be an open book. In his own way, Bhagat Singh was as effective as Gandhi,” assert the authors. An unorthodox judgement, certainly at odds with the officially inspired history.

And, Bhagat Singh was as clear-headed as was Gandhi in his convictions and beliefs. The authors have this gem: Moments before his execution, the chief warden told Bhagat Singh “that as there were only a few minutes left of his life, he should remember Wahe Guru. Hearing him, Bhagat Singh laughed saying: Sardarji, throughout my life I have never remembered Him. Looking at the atrocities against the poor and the downtrodden, I may even reprimand Him sometimes. Now, with death standing right in front of me, if I remember Him, He will say this young man is both dishonest and a coward. But if I do not change my views about Him, He would say that this young man was both honest and brave. Saying this, Bhagat Singh started his walk towards the phansi ghar (execution room)”.

Pratap was severely tested in Independent India too—in the 1980s, when Punjab conducted its own experiment with violence. The proponents of Khalistan were demanding, at gunpoint, that newspapers submit themselves to their demands. Newspaper editors were gunned down; Pratap received a parcel bomb. “How did those of us who lived in the state, and were targeted for our religion and work, survive? Those were nightmarish years for Punjab and for the country.”

The authors give us a peep into “cynical and low politics” that informed the Congress leadership calculations, as also the “conspiracy of silence” among the Akali Dal leadership that transformed a routine political grievance into a national catastrophe. “The pusillanimity of the Akali triumvirate—Longowal, Tohra and Badal—contributed to Punjab’s tragedy.”

And, the authors bemoan, rightly, that no lessons seem to have been learnt. They cite K. P. S. Gill’s insight: “The heart of darkness is located in the long and continuous manipulation of the Sikh psyche through the institutions and symbols of religion.”

This dangerous cocktail of religion and politics has contaminated the vast swathes of our citizens among all religions. And, we now find the highest institutions of the State becoming openly partial to one religion and antagonistic to another.

Above all, the authors have the courage and the credentials to castigate the current infatuation with rewriting of history to create new heroes and downgrade iconic figures because their residence at 41, Nisbet Road in Lahore was the scene of action.

“It is lamentable, how, in seventy-five years, the ethos of our freedom struggle has been replaced by the vilification of leaders who facilitated the march of almost 8 million refugees into a new dawn. It is lazy and opportunistic to judge their actions through the lens of hindsight; in those extenuating circumstances, India was privileged to inherit the leaders of the stature that it did.”

At the very beginning of the Pratap story, the authors pose a piercingly troublesome question:

“What mettle were our freedom fighters made of? They unflinchingly stared at, or down at, death while burying all emotions to unshackle India from the Raj. It is in stark contrast to the faux nationalism and noise that pervades us today. Where have those men and women gone? In seventy-five years, how did the character of bravery change so drastically? Ironically, the term ‘shaheed,’ or martyr—a privilege used exclusively for names like Bhagat Singh—is thrown around loosely in present-day India. Will we no longer aspire for leaders of the stature of those who handled India and its refugees as they together embraced the seminal folds of an unfamiliar destiny?”

The question will keep on tugging at our troubled conscience, even in this Amrit Kaal (golden era).

(Views expressed are personal)

Harish Khare is a Delhi-based senior journalist and public commentator

This article is part of Outlook’s May 22, 2025 issue, ‘Is This War?’ covering the escalating tensions between India and Pakistan, who are once again on the brink of war. It appeared in print as 'Journalism of Courage'