How was it that thousands of miles away, where the programme was not even in the schedules, the reaction to it was more vehement than in the UK? Well, profound sensitivity to their portrayals in the British media is part of a long-standing Indian tradition. Perhaps in a global media environment that is not surprising. Yet the habit was formed long before the availability of instant communication and shared global exchanges. BBC written archives include a wide range of confidential documents that reveal how much India and Indians have always cared about their media image abroad and particularly in the UK. They have been quick to react and protest even when no one in India had any prospect of viewing or hearing the item that was causing offence. Street demonstrations, ministerial interventions, parliamentary questions and threats of expulsion were all standard reactions, even to programmes and reports that were simply rumoured to be unduly critical of India and Indians.

Mark Tully, who was the BBC correspondent in India for more than 20 years, recalls how he was often caught in the midst of these rows. He attributes them partly to the influence and concerns of the expatriate Indian population in the UK. He told me in an interview: “India House produced a regular magazine for expats with a section on ‘Look at what British press saying about us’. Alert local Indians would pick up on that. Sometimes the objections were from just a few people, but in India it took very little to light a bonfire... for example, if someone knew an MP who could ask a question in the [Indian] Parliament, then all manner of trouble would start.”

One of the earliest and fiercest rows was over a five-part series about India by the famous French filmmaker Louis Malle in 1970. There were objections in India to the coverage of the sensitive matters of caste and corruption, and severe threats were duly made against the BBC. In the end the row escalated to such an extent that BBC correspondent Robert Robson was expelled from the country and the entire office was shut down by the Indian Government for nearly two years. Yet, as Tully points out, in pre-VHS days it is unlikely that anyone who was voicing the objections in India had even seen the films. There was widespread support of the BBC in the British press, where it was pointed out that the documentaries were well made and informative. However, the most remarkable aspect of the row was the fact that in this case the films were not even made by the BBC, but acquired from a French independent filmmaker. They were first shown on French TV – but that did not concern the Indians.

Notoriously prickly

Clearly the long shadow of colonial relationships was a major factor in arousing Indian sensitivities, and a large, vocal expatriate community played its part in stirring up reaction. Even the matter of reporting race relations and the way immigrant communities were perceived within the UK was, on occasion, a subject for complaints by the Indian Government to the BBC. It also meant that there was intense interest within India about how it was perceived by the former colonial power. Programme proposals from foreign companies were vetted at the highest level before permission was given to film inside India.

In a meeting in 1978, Prime Minister Moraji Desai revealed that he kept personal control over the process of agreeing which projects were allowed. He said he had recently prevented a programme about Untouchables, proposed by ATV, from going ahead. Even when a programme was allowed to proceed, the rules stated that a minder had to stay with the film crew, and a rough cut had to be shown in advance to the High Commission. The question of what happened after the viewing remained a grey area. According to the Indian interpretation they could request changes from the broadcaster, but the BBC insisted that they would listen to any comments and only correct inaccurate facts. An exception to these restrictions was made for news reporting which did not require cumbersome permissions, but this led to arguments in the case of current affairs programmes that straddled the categories. In 1981 Newsnight ran several short “news” films and linked them together in the studio to make a longer item. The Indians complained furiously that this had “broken the concordat” because it amounted to more than news. Once again nothing escaped their attention, even though no one in India could actually watch the programme.

In the case of non-news programmes, the permissions became ever more elaborate. In early 1984, the documentary maker Tony Isaacs wanted to make a programme in India for a series about the birth of nationhood. As well as a list of locations and a programme outline he was asked to submit a “thesis” – not a familiar routine in pre-Birtist days. With mounting irritation Isaacs sent a copy of this to his superiors, remarking: “I am sorry it is not a better literary document, they wanted a pompous pseudo-intellectual thesis – and they got one.” Negotiations and a long recce dragged on. Mark Tully and his office tried to smooth the way. In the end, after £10,000 had been spent on development, the Indians refused permission. Isaacs made the film instead in Argentina and Chile, pointing out: “It is ironic that we can film in a country with whom Britain is still at war, and in Chile, where there is an effective dictatorship, more easily than in ‘friendly’ India.”

The fiercest arguments with the BBC came later that same year and concerned two radio news items which no one in India ever heard. As the problems mounted between the Sikh community and Prime Minister Mrs Ghandi – she was to be assassinated in the October – there was an interview on Radio 4’s World at One with an exiled Sikh leader, Dr Jagjit Chauhan, a former Finance Minister and Deputy Speaker in the Punjab State Parliament, who lived in London. In the aftermath of the storming of the Golden Temple at Amritsar in June, Chauhan, originally a doctor and later the self-styled Prime Minister of Khalistan, made inflammatory remarks about Mrs Ghandi. The effect was extraordinary. There were large, often violent, demonstrations outside the BBC office in Delhi and at the British High Commission. Mark Tully’s home was attacked several times and he had to flee over the rear wall. Altogether there were 22 separate demonstrations, each time involving thousands of people – one on June 27 was estimated to involve 6,000 protestors.

Intimidating effect

Later that year, just after Mrs Ghandi’s assassination, there was a second radio interview with Dr Chauhan. This time it was broadcast only on the regional station, Radio London. There were further protests and demonstrations and Tully and others were worried that the BBC office in India would be shut down altogether. Twenty years later, anyone in India who cared could have located the offending items on the web, but in 1984 no one on the streets in Delhi could possibly have heard the material, which made the protests against the BBC even more surreal. In a sense this was global media before its time. An item on a domestic news bulletin was having a major impact on the other side of the world.

Historically, there was a clear distinction between foreign and domestic programmes. In a time when the subjects of a report would hardly ever be likely to see or read it, or at least not until the journalists and crew were far away from the scene, there was an implicit double standard. Journalists reporting about foreign places could get away with more and take greater risks than their domestic colleagues. Even libel lawyers admitted they were not so worried about foreign content.

As domestic becomes global, this distinction no longer applies. Foreign reporters are vulnerable to what BBC World presenter Nik Gowing refers to as a “howl round”. The subjects of their reporting are likely to have a satellite dish on which they can instantly view the report and form an opinion – and the spread of news material to broadband internet means that even the satellite dish becomes unnecessary. On occasion, this has put journalists in danger. For example, Gowing cites rebel guerrilla leaders who dislike the way they are being portrayed, and he urges BBC World to recognise that the subjects of its reporting can all potentially view the output.

Meanwhile, BBC World Service radio had always enabled subjects of a report to hear it first hand. Tully recalls how reporting for the World Service kept him on his toes in a way that preparing material for the domestic UK services did not. The editors at the World Service were more knowledgeable and better informed – but also, as he was based in India, Tully knew that up to 50 million Indians were listening to the World Service (in various languages) and that they cared very much what was being reported about their country. Today the international television news services have in some ways supplanted the role of the World Service radio, but the dynamic is very much the same. In a Broadcasting House lecture in 1964, foreign news editor John Crawley remarked that “a BBC [World Service] correspondent in some parts of the world is aware of the fact that his broadcasts are heard in the country in which he is working... In African countries and in Asia the overseas service is listened to very carefully... so the BBC man is more exposed”. Today, where real-time journalism about almost anywhere in the world can instantly be accessed by the people it is talking about, the same observation applies much more widely. And even if a report is made for a domestic UK service or a UK-only edition, it can be downloaded from anywhere.

It is as if we live in a world without secrets. Do not say anything about someone that you do not want them to hear or find out about. What makes India so special is that it was already especially sensitive to criticism broadcast on the UK domestic services – including even local radio – long before the technology caught up, and so tried hard to influence decisions about broadcasting at every stage. We should not be surprised if there are protests and objections in a global world where everyone can potentially view everything. In a sense, Big Brother now really is watching us all.