McCluskieganj

by Vikas Kumar Jha

  Before returning to New Zealand, Asma requested Latif to take the money for the expenses incurred for her uncle’s burial; it would give her peace. But Latif replied with folded hands, ‘How can I, Asma? Even God will not forgive me if I do so.’ To this Asma had no answer.

  The day Asma was to leave, the Latif family rose early and set about their chores as they would have done had their own daughter been leaving her home. Latif’s wife cleaned the house before dawn and prepared some fresh snacks for Asma to carry on her journey back.

  ‘Why so much activity, so early?’ asked Asma. Latif’s wife smiled and replied, ‘We have a tradition that no cleaning and sweeping is done after the daughter of the house departs.’ This rendering in Hindi was in fact translated by Altaf. Asma just stared at Latif’s wife, her eyes expressing her innermost feelings, feelings that go with belonging, feelings that are part of the tenderness of freshly found roots.

  Despite Asma’s protests, Latif and Altaf accompanied her to the airport at Ranchi—how could a daughter depart unaccompanied from her house! On reaching New Zealand, Asma wrote to say that she just could not forget her memorable seven days in McCluskieganj. Should God so will, she too would come and settle in McCluskieganj like Mr Rafael.

  Still there were instances of Anglo-Indians who had left

  McCluskieganj and gone abroad out of compulsion, in search of work and employment. People like Dennis McGowan whose heart still throbbed for this old village. Even though he lived so far away, he was in touch with Mr Mendez, getting all the nitty-gritty of daily life in McCluskieganj.

  In fact, it was Mr Mendez who had informed him of the things that followed Mr Rafael’s death. Such an ugly turn of events, such meanness on the part of people, thought Dennis. I better tear this letter before it reaches Liza and gives her ideas. She would then gloat and say, ‘See, this is your McCluskieganj! This is the place for which you pray day and night, where a man does not get his last wish for burial!’ No, man, this won’t do. Liza should never get to know of this incident. I will not hear the end of it, said Dennis to himself.

  But these thoughts continued to haunt him. They made him restless. Man with his endless desires, being denied one small last wish … So vulnerable, such a slave of circumstance …

  * she-elephant

  3

  Ghost Town

  Why does man want to return to the ruins of the past, the memories of Papa and of McCluskieganj, the smell of his accursed forebears in his very breath? These thoughts raced through Robin’s mind. His father had struggled a lot to establish himself in Hong Kong, yet he never belonged there in spirit. To this day Dennis, as always, lived in McCluskieganj. ‘This is a matter of one’s roots! When they weaken, every moment becomes a burden,’ Dennis had said. Robin felt that his father held on to his roots through his memories and he was his fellow companion. Did he not try like Dennis to clutch at these memories as well? Was it not a collective effort? Memory and reality continued to play hide-and-seek with him. Dennis’s dreamy voice always echoed in Robin’s ears. ‘Hey, Robin!’ Dennis would say, ‘Even in those days, people referred to

  McCluskieganj as “Little London”. What was so special about the place? It may have been a riddle for outsiders, but the answer was simple: this village was perhaps the only one in the world that had been established as a settlement for the Anglo-Indians. Yet it is sad that after so much fanfare, the sleepy little place is called “Ghost Town.” Possibly because the Anglo-Indian community had itself become an ill-fated ghost community of late.’

  ‘What brought about such a turn of fate?’ Robin asked Dennis. ‘I am coming to the point son,’ said Dennis. ‘First try to understand the matter.’ Dennis would once again delve into the history of his village. ‘The state of Bihar in India whose southern part is essentially tribal, is known as the Chhota Nagpur area. Why the Anglo-Indian community chose to settle here in the 1930s is an old story.’ Robin was enraptured by his father’s story; to him there was none to rival his father as a storyteller. Dennis responded with a smile: ‘In those days, it was rumoured among the gullible tribals that the soil of McCluskieganj had been sent to London to be tested for its suitability for the Anglo-Indians. Mr McCluskie’s father was an Irishman who worked in the railway service. While posted in Benares, he fell in love with a Brahmin girl and married her, despite loud protestations from all around…’

  Mr Ernest Timothy McCluskie had since childhood seen the anguish of the Anglo-Indian community. So, he had wanted to do something for them, especially after the Simon Commission had clarified that the British would not do anything for them.

  Mr McCluskie, who was already a member of the Bengal Legislative Council and had a well-established real estate business, decided that he would find a permanent place for his community that needed an Indian identity. It took about four years for him to realize his dream.

  There were Anglo-Indian settlements in Bandra in Bombay, in Whitefield in Bangalore and in Calcutta’s Elliot Road, but few could accept that Anglo-Indians would ever settle in a village. Mr McCluskie had a point to prove, that his Anglo-Indian community could live in a village, just like thousands of Indians did. The start was good and this lasted for about twenty years, but afterwards the society hurtled towards a break-up. Many Anglo-Indian families went abroad, and soon this village, came to be known as ‘Ghost Town’.

  Dennis said, ‘For this we were to blame. We tried to connect with the rural way of life but could not. We were a graft that did not take root. A Utopia is at best a fantasy, never a reality; for an idea to succeed, it must be rooted in pragmatism.’

  Robin wanted Dennis to go even further back in time and describe to him his grandmother, his great-grandmother and so on before those sepia-toned photographs receded into oblivion.

  While other children were being told fairy tales, Dennis had related stories from his treasure trove to Robin. These stories went as far back as 1498. How the great Portuguese traveller, Vasco da Gama had arrived in a port in Kerala. Vasco da Gama had heard stories of the absurd wealth of India. He brought many sorrows which were revealed much later. But it was his arrival that showed the path, to India, to other European trading communities as well. The result was a jostling for the Indian trade market. Two years on, the great Portuguese general, Pedro Cabaral, also arrived. He entered into business with the Rajah of Cochin. This business grew rapidly because of his proximity to the king. Dennis told Robin, ‘During the next one hundred and sixty-two years, the Portuguese did much by way of consolidating their influence on the Indian business scene. Cabaral succeeded in convincing the royal family that he and the Portuguese shared a kindred spirit with them. However, the underlying element was obviously one of subterfuge. Thanks to the machinations of Vasco da Gama, Pedro Cabaral and Afonso de Albuquerque, whose plan was to start a line of Portuguese Indians, the continuity of this race in India was ensured. These Portuguese Indians were called Luzo-Indians. Albuquerque let his government know that the Portuguese should be encouraged to marry Indian women.

  ‘Taking their cue from the Portuguese, the English, the Dutch and the French too turned their attention towards the East for trade and commerce. The British were the last to come and, routing them all, stayed to rule India the longest. As a result, the interaction between the Englishman and the Indian women had increased leading to a repetition of the problem of half-breeds. These half-breeds thought it wise to join the mainstream of the British Indian populace. They went to the extent of acquiring British names and a British lifestyle. Yet, ironically, fear always stalked the community. Lord Curzon had once remarked, “The Lord had made us, he made the Indians and we made the

  Anglo-Indians.”’

  Dennis said, ‘Robin, this had been the cause of frustration for the Anglo-Indians. It was the touch of their colour that became their curse. They were neither here nor there, neither English nor Indian. They were half and half, just eight annas, blacky-white, chichis, always incomplete. Their skins were fair, their hair blonde, the
ir language English, but the blood that flowed through their veins was Indian. They were British from without and Indian from within. Yet the Indians never accepted them as one of them, just as the British treated them as pariahs—a community relegated to the dustbin, throwaways. Still India gave them shelter and mentioned in her constitution, the definition of Anglo-Indians. A person whose father or any any other male progenitors in the male line is or was of European descent but who is domiciled within the territory of India and is or was born within such territory of parents habitually residents therein and not established there for temporary purposes only before India’s independence. Mr McCluskie proved that the Anglo-Indian community could carve a niche for itself.’

  4

  The Golden Egg

  Dennis was born in the Morabadi hill area of Ranchi town. But his earliest memories went back to the Kanka mountains overlooking McCluskieganj. Catholic missionaries had converted hundreds of tribals in this area, and had also built innumerable churches. But despite this, the missionaries had not made any Catholic settlements as such in the area. It was Mr McCluskie

  who succeeded in establishing a whole Catholic Anglo-Indian society here. Dennis clearly remembered, how in his early childhood, Anglo-Indian homes just mushroomed in this village. And now, the fate of his village had fallen to joyless times. He felt as if he were leafing through some old faded album that was fast receding into oblivion. He had heard the story of its inception from his father BrianMcGowan many times over; the episodes of its history were clearly etched in his memory. Mr McCluskie was obsessed with the fate of his community. Once the Simon Commission had released its plans, Mr McCluskie embarked on a relentless search for a suitable place for his community. In Bangalore, which was his first destination, he had seen a beautiful orchard, spread over thirty acres. It belonged to one McIsaac, who was also an Anglo-Indian, but the plan had to be abandoned as the land was not large enough. However, on returning to Calcutta, and while travelling through Hazaribagh in the Palamu district of Bihar, his eyes opened to the vistas before him. This was the ideal spot—hilly, green and cool. This area, far removed from the noise of cities, consisted of three villages, namely, Kanka, Lapra and Hesalang. This belonged to Ratu Maharaja. This feudal set-up which was largely exploitative was part and parcel of life in this area. Bonded labour was prevalent, yet no one questioned it. Mr Pepy, who was the manager of Ratu Maharaja’s estate, was a very cunning operator. It was he whom Mr McCluskie approached and as luck would have it, his plan succeeded. Mr Pepy convinced his patron to give ten thousand acres to Mr McCluskie. This included the three villages of Kanka, Lapra and Hesalang. The only clause that the Maharaja attached to the lease was that the tribals of these villages were not to be affected.

  On 13 October 1933, this land was registered as a permanent property lease. Mr McCluskie called upon the services of his good friends Dr Henry Gidney and Mr A.S. Bower to see this deed through. This proposal was also intimated to Viceroy Lord Irwin. Finally, with the help of the Colonization Society of India,

  Mr McCluskie made his dream come true in the year 1934. There were about one thousand shareholders in this society of which some three hundred Anglo-Indian families came and settled here. The land was very cheap, and one could avail a ten-acre plot for as little as seven hundred and twenty-six rupees. Dennis said to Robin, ‘It’s around this time that your grandfather purchased his plot and somehow made a house after taking a loan from his provident fund. He was working then for the Ranchi General Post Office. You know that he worked for the Post and Telegraph Department, don’t you? In those days, most Anglo-Indians were working either for the Railways or for the Post and Telegraph. The discussion regarding the Anglo-Indian village that was coming up at Khalari was foremost in every conversation. After this your grandfather managed to get a transfer to the Khalari post office. Then he cycled daily from McCluskieganj to Khalari. Should you enquire after Brian McGowan, even today, some of the old residents may still be able to remember him. I recall that I used to sit on the handle of his bicycle and go to the Government Primary School at Khalari. Later, of course, we got our own school at

  McCluskieganj and then on I studied there. Oh, Robin! Those were such good times. When the mere ring of the bell at the gate told us that Papa was back from work. On holidays, he would take me on his bicycle through so many villages. How people loved and respected him. I really enjoyed McCluskieganj in childhood … that hard-to-find idyllic life!’

  Yet, though McCluskieganj spelt charm for the Anglo-Indians, the local Adivasis felt dismayed and threatened. Would these newcomers be their ousters? Even the flora and fauna of the area felt threatened. After all, the country was ruled by the whites. There was widespread opposition to the settlement by the locals of Jobhiya and Chatti river, the people of the Tana Bhagat tribe.

  But the sole Congress representative of the area, Bhukhla Ganjhu, had assured the tribals, ‘Don’t you worry. Should the need arise I will personally go to Gandhiji and call him to intervene on our behalf.’ However, despite the assurance, the murmurings continued, ‘Is the village the paternal property of these whites?’ They continued to be mortified of any encounter with the new settlers, less they be castigated, for whatever reason. ‘We cannot comprehend them, neither their language, nor their ways—alien, that’s what they are.’ Yet even when

  Mr McCluskie extended his hand to these villagers, assuring them of his community’s support, the tribals were suspicious. At that point of time, the whole country was seething with tension at the call for independence from British control. The irony was that these innocents could not distinguish between the British and the Anglo-Indians.

  On that day in 1934, when Mr McCluskie was on the verge of realizing his dream, the country was in the throes of political upheaval. The British government had declared the established Congress party as legal, and the party had successfully conducted its first session in Bombay. Mahatma Gandhi had resigned from the Congress and attended the session as an independent member. It was also in this year that the Congress Socialist Party had been formed under the leadership of Acharya Narendra Dev. Others who joined it included Jayaprakash Narayan, Minoo Masani, Yousuf Meher Ali and Achyut Patwardhan. Bihar’s worst earthquake had struck the same year, causing endless destruction and loss. In the reconstruction that followed, McCluskieganj was

  born. Mr McCluskie had poured all his resources into this venture. Slowly, the settling community won the confidence of the locals. Although the contractor and the masons for the execution of designs were brought in from Calcutta, the labourers were drawn from among the local Oraons, Mundas, Ganjhus and Ahirs. Kaila Miyan, the old cook of David Cameron of the Highland Guest House, still recalls, ‘My father and mother hailed from Bathet village, which they left when construction work began here. I was barely eight or nine years old then. The wages were paltry, three annas for a labourer, ten paisas for the crushers. Labour was cheap, so you can imagine the condition of these people. Yet this paltry sum seemed to suffice for them. And why not? Twenty to twenty-two seers of rice were available for one rupee, mutton could be obtained for three annas a seer.’ The houses and bungalows these labourers built were very beautiful and even the newly constructed roads were smooth and impressive. The workers continued with the construction work till late night, aided by Petromaxes and gas lights. Even today these buildings, derelict though they are, stand witness to the fine workmanship of the hands that crafted them. The bungalows of Mr J.J. Smith and

  Mr F.H. Loveday were eye-catching. The first stood on an area of five acres, and small though the house was, it was exceptional. The latter’s bungalow was made of tiles that were brought from Ranigunj in a neighbouring area. The family of Roger from Allahabad started the first general stores as well as a tailoring outlet for the village. The joke was that this shop could provide anything from pins to aeroplanes at the drop of a hat. Messrs T.J.S Stout and Sons constructed the village’s first club. It was indeed a grand place where one could see one’s refle
ction on its red floor, so polished was it. It was described as a stout effort by the Stout family. Most of the settlers had emphasized on planting orchards in their bungalows, and at one sitting of the Colonization Society, Dr Henry Gidney had gone to the extent of suggesting the endless possibilities of these orchards—namely a

  veritable golden goose. It was, in fact, Mr McCluskie’s dream to turn McCluskieganj into an agricultural haven. The settlers were warned not to reduce the peasants to serfdom but to use them to change McCluskieganj into an admirable agricultural hub that would be unparalleled in the country. ‘Our virtues will become the gospels and our example the theme for the whole of India. We shall be an inspiration for the country,’

  Mr McCluskie had said. And although he died soon afterwards, innumerable Anglo-Indian families came to settle in the village of his dreams. Not merely this, a famous nursery near Calcutta called Hobby and Company supplied saplings of fruit trees to most of the newly constructed houses. This zeal to establish large, limitless groves drove the locals quite berserk.

  One evening Bhukhla Ganjhu asked Mr Roger, ‘Sahib, when the country becomes independent, will you people leave?’ Mr Roger laughed aloud at this expression of hope. ‘No,’ he said and continued, ‘the English will leave, but we are not English, you see. This is our country and we will stay here.’

  A point of interest, however, was that the English tried every method to stay back. In 1935, the British rulers passed the Government of India Act. This envisaged the people of India starting their own government in the provinces. That was why the Congress party was recognized as a legal party in 1934 itself, so that they could participate in self-governance and give up their anti-British activities. But many Congress stalwarts opposed the move. They said, ‘We will never accept this Act; what will Churchill do? He is buckling under the pressure of appeasing Italy and Japan. We will break his back.’ But the British political system was stronger than the Congress had thought.