From satire to defiance: The political power of Abu Abraham’s cartoons

I can’t really claim I had a well-developed political understanding at the age of six years when the Emergency was imposed by Prime Minister Indira Gandhi in 1975. But I do have a visceral political memory of the times, the black cloud of suffocation as well as the spirit of defiance. That I should have such a clear recollection of the politics of the times is entirely due to the way politics was always central to our family. 

If the freedom struggle politicised our family, future generations carried that understanding into post-colonial authoritarianisms. The centrality of politics to our worldview was sharpened by my mother’s work as a journalist and seeped into everyday life. Conversation at home was peppered with references to political developments, and my grandmother, who had been incarcerated by the British for her part in the freedom struggle (by then both her parents were in jail), was particularly pithy in her scathing comments on the Prime Minister – ‘Mrs G’, as she was known in our house – and her many political depredations. 

But the memory of the days of the Emergency owes its sharpness to the very specific workplace my mother was then employed in – the Indian Express – a newspaper that was front and centre in the media resistance against the Emergency. As the child of a single parent, I spent vast amounts of time in the Bahadur Shah Zafar Marg office of the newspaper, travelling with my mother, Modhumita Mojumdar, each morning during holidays. Entire school vacations were spent in her shared office space, my presence tolerated with benign affection by her colleagues. In the way that children imbibe and have an astute understanding of their milieu, instinctual rather than intellectual, I understood the Emergency and had a clearly felt sense of its injustice.

It was that tangible sense that flooded me when I walked into the exhibition of cartoons marking the birth centenary of the Indian Express’s cartoonist of those times – Abu Abraham. A sense of politics, but also oppositional journalism, tied in with the smell of newsprint, ink, and the long-lost letterpress. The centenary exhibition that is travelling, will now open at the India International Centre in Delhi on November 6, following its inauguration by another stalwart dissenter, historian Romila Thapar.

The 1975 Emergency remains a pivotal moment in India’s post-colonial history, the apex of an elected leader’s growing authoritarianism, a dark chapter against which Indians would compare all future excesses. It exacted a terrible price from many, but was also a time of preferment for those who became collaborators, their competitive jousting for new ways to express loyalty echoing eerily in these times. This stark divide – between those who fell in line and those who resisted – was perhaps seen most clearly in the sphere of journalism, the nature of the medium making it public and visible. 

In a phrase that would continue to haunt Indian journalism, LK Advani – the then president of the Bharatiya Jana Sangh – would tell journalists, “You were asked only to bend, but you crawled.” The verdict, however, was not completely fair. Many journalists were in jail, and for the thousands of column inches of print that served as propaganda – print being the only non-government media at that time – there were also those who used every inch of uncensored space to report on reality and published blank newspaper pages and columns to protest against censorship. Amongst the foremost of them was The Indian Express – and the biting satire of its cartoonist Abu Abraham is a significant part of that storied history. 

Whatever the elisions at that time, the Emergency is no longer an unexamined period in India’s political course. Dozens of books, hundreds of articles, research papers, and academic tomes have mapped every aspect of its political trajectory. It has been captured in theatre plays, films, and music, and in the current political climate, it has evolved into a veritable cottage industry of its own. But in the line drawings of Abu – in an exhibition curated by the cartoonist’s daughters to mark his centenary – we are brought close to the moment with an immediacy that is more than memory. In the yellowing sheen of newsprint, the imprints of the stamp of the censor, there is a tangible recall of those days, tactile and palpable, and the sharp sense of the fierce intellectual community of opposition that stood against the depredations on our democratic fabric. 

Interestingly, Abu’s role as a biting satirist of the Emergency was not inevitable in the early years of his career. The cartoonist’s candid comments about his own life – he also wrote regularly, if not prolifically – have been excerpted as part of the exhibition and allow us to track the course of his political journey. 

Born in 1924 in Alappuzha in Kerala, Abu’s student years spanned the last decades of the British Raj in the Kingdom of Travancore. Though influenced by the exhilaration of the Independence struggle, Abu is candid about not being an active participant. When he joined the nationalist Bombay Chronicle in 1946, it was not missionary zeal but the fascination of print, he later admitted, that was his impetus. We have cause to be thankful for this lifelong fascination – not only because it led to the production of a brilliant oeuvre spanning more than half a century – but because Abu preserved print, original copies of hundreds of his cartoons and drafts, a substantive part of which still remains, in archives and with his family.  

While Abu is best known here in India for his trenchant cartoons on Indian politics, especially the Emergency, a substantive part of his early career was with British papers – a decade with the Observer and three years with the Guardian. His cartoons during this time cover not just British politics but consequential global events, such as the Eichmann trial in Jerusalem. He would later return to travel through Palestinian refugee camps. 

If it was unusual for a brown man to become the first political cartoonist for an established British paper, there was more to come in Abu’s career that was unusual. 

For one, ‘Abu’ was not the name Attupurathu Mathew Abraham signed his first cartoons with. The name Abu – by which he was known for most of his working life – was coined because David Astor of the Observer, felt ‘Abraham’ as he used to sign his cartoons would be “taken as a Jew and all my cartoons would take on a slant for no reason, and I wasn’t even Jewish”, wrote Abu. What was more, the Middle East was beginning to boil at that time, with Nasser dominating the scene. 

The boiling Middle East may have also been responsible for ending Abu’s career in British journalism, according to Michael Foote, who is quoted in the Guardian’s obituary: “Some years later, as I recall, it was an argument about the worldwide racist disease which persuaded him to return to his native India. A cartoon that he did for us on the subject of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict had been denounced by some of our readers as racist. Never was the slander more ill-judged.”

Abu returned for good to India in 1969 to join the Indian Express at a time that would turn out to be a defining moment in Indian history – with the split in the Congress party. 

At a discussion to mark the exhibition at the Bangalore International Centre in August, historian Janaki Nair, who has annotated an accompanying booklet on the exhibition, emphasised the significance of the Lal Bagh Congress session of 1969, which led to the expulsion of Indira Gandhi from the party and the eventual split. Explaining the impact of the moment on Indian journalism, journalist and author AS Panneerselvan said it marked the end of a post-colonial period during which there was a “consensus on self-censorship in the interests of nation-building”. The Lal Bagh Congress broke that compact, and the role of the cartoonist was key, he said, to opening up the space for criticism by journalists.

A self-declared Nehruvian, Abu’s cartoons of 1969 and for some years thereafter reveal his sympathy with Nehru’s daughter, seen then – in one of Indian politics’ gargantuan mistakes – as a powerless marionette. 

As Indira Gandhi marched towards her position as the unchallenged supremo, Abu’s sympathies remained – for the time being – with her. “In Abu’s cartoons, the dynamism of Centre-State relations and the challenges posed by regional powers and politics is examined largely from a Union Government perspective,” points out Nair in the annotated booklet. But while Abu’s fluid lines and sharp caricatures capture the politics, characters, and vividness of the moment, viewing the cartoons decades later with the luxury of space and time gives us a birds’ eye view of the themes running through the political preoccupations of those times. The cartoons capture the resistance to growing centralisation of power, contentious centre-state relations, federalism, Assam and the citizenship issue, the challenge to the constitution from authoritarianism, and the role of caste politics in elections. The enduring power of these themes in our current times is striking as we view the cartoons now. 

Abu’s cartoons also captured the continuities in global politics – IMF pressure, the global arms trade, and issues which have acquired added or more urgent layers of meaning now – the Israel-Palestine conflict, the cold war in Afghanistan, and the struggle for the creation of Bangladesh.

In India, whatever sympathy Abu may have had for Indira Gandhi (he was nominated to the Rajya Sabha in 1972) – appears shredded after the imposition of the Emergency. The biting satire of his cartoons – those which were censored and those which were not – would be a critical part of the reputation of the Indian Express for standing up to power during that period. 

The curators of the exhibition – his daughters Ayisha and Janaki Abraham – have, astoundingly, been able to showcase the original cartoons, which had to be submitted for pre-censorship to the government, and the drafts, stamped, signed, and marked for approval, or “NOT TO BE PUBLISHED”. 

Interestingly, six months into the Emergency, the Censor allowed the Indian Express to publish a cartoon that depicted the then President Fakruddin Ali Ahmed signing an ordinance in his bathtub, the many layers of servility dove-tailing neatly into the allusion of the emperor with no clothes. But it baulked at a rather more innocuous cartoon that punned: “Don’t you think we’ve got a lovely censor of humour”, and, in a clear exhibition of its own lack of humour, marked it “NOT TO BE PUBLISHED”. 

While Abu’s daughters deserve kudos for putting together this exhibition using their resources, the legacy of Abu Abraham needs far wider support, including for the very real challenge of preserving brittle paper that records a rich seam of our nation’s history. If the visceral nature of the material – the paper, the notations that relate to the size, display, and even the white-out used to correct the cartoons – give us a physical sense of the cartooning process and the newsroom of those times, then the sharp satire is a pungent intellectual insight. 

Unlike text or image that tells a story to a recipient audience, a cartoon, at its sharpest, is a riddle, forcing the viewer’s engagement to puzzle out what is being said and what the joke is. By making the viewer complicit and forcing us to think, it changes the relationship of viewing from one of passive spoon-feeding to a political act. 

Aunohita Mojumdar is a journalist who has lived and worked in India, Afghanistan, Nepal, and Sri Lanka. She is the former editor of Himal Southasian and currently lives in Bengaluru.

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