McCluskieganj. The whole of the Oraon village was seething. But Bahadur frowned and reprimanded his fellow villagers, ‘Have you gone mad, can’t you see these are policemen? Do you want to take the law in your hands? Nothing will happen, just let me go with them. Let’s see what these people plan to do!’ The Oraon folk lowered their weapons in obeyance.
Seeing that the situation was favourable, the police said diplomatically, ‘We just need to ask him a few questions, and then we will return him in an hour.’ But they took Bahadur straight
to Ranchi.
The following morning saw this news spread like wildfire. Shanichar Oraon rubbed his palms and said, ‘We should never have listened to Bahadur Bhai, come what may. We should have surrounded the police no matter how many of us fell.’ By afternoon, the police station in Khalari had been surrounded by tribals, armed with bows and arrows, from many surrounding villages. Khushia Pahan, before leaving for the police station, wiped his bow and arrow and said, ‘They have caught the tiger cub, haven’t they? Today we will hang the Khalari police station on our arrows.’ Binda Oraon of Quar Patar took his axe and said, ‘Today we will definitely come to a decision.’ There was tension at the Khalari police station for quite some time. Seeing the tempers going out of control, the police took position to fire shots in the air, but the inspector stopped them and said, ‘Don’t be stubborn, you in your brashness will fire in the air, and these ignorant folk will respond with a shower of arrows, to which you will respond with direct fire and many Adivasis will be killed. The media will make a big fuss over it and all of us will lose our jobs.’ This was indeed a wise move. Then a clerk of the police station was sent to the Adivasis and, after much persuasion, five representatives from among them were brought. The inspector said, ‘You have lost your reason to anger, Bahadur Oraon has not been arrested by the Khalari police station. It is the Ranchi Police that has arrested him and taken him there. If you don’t believe us, come see the lock-up for yourself.’ Sure enough, there was no one there.
Those who had planned the arrest of Bahadur knew the repercussion of this episode. That is why the police had taken him to Ranchi right away. In the afternoon, Mr Mendez visited Mr Miller at Queen’s Cottage and sitting on the verandah sadly remarked, ‘Did you hear what happened last night?’ ‘Jack reported everything to me this morning, I was afraid of something like this,’ said Mr Miller. He continued, ‘The way Bahadur was opposing the local member of parliament (MP), member of legislative assembly (MLA), officers and contractors in their loot of government funds, it was more than obvious that something like this was bound to happen.’ Mr Miller’s voice was hesitant. Mr Mendez said, ‘When I saw those police jeeps at that late hour, I knew something was wrong. Did you know that Bahadur has been falsely implicated for murder and robbery? The information was given by someone returning from Khalari.’
Putting the tea on the table, Jack looked around and said secretively, ‘I know the truth: Bahadur has been arrested at the instigation of Duti Bhagat, who has been after him for a long time.’ Mr Mendez replied, ‘Yes, Mr Miller, Jack is correct. Sitting in the kitchen of Queen’s Cottage how on earth does he get all this information? Atma Raksha Samiti, the self-protection squad that Bahadur had made from amongst the local people and their continuous clamour against corrupt folk like Duti Bhagat is what has resulted in this.’ Mr Mendez looked at Jack with approval.
‘Now it is up to you to interpret. But whatever happens in
McCluskieganj is relayed to me by the minute,’ replied Jack. The road from Chama Mod to McCluskieganj was to be built with the MP’s fund and Bahadur Oraon and his self-protection group were constantly badgering the powers that be to stop taking commissions on the work. In fact, they had directly pointed at Duti Bhagat and challenged him saying, ‘This road should be built with good material’. ‘Do you know that the contract for that road was given to Duti Bhagat?’ said
Mr Mendez to Mr Miller. ‘I know all, who doesn’t? Duti Bhagat is the local tout of the MP and the MLA’. Mr Miller’s face was flushed while saying this. Mr Mendez said, ‘Mr Miller, when McCluskieganj was being made, Duti’s father, Karman Bhagat would carry all the material on his bullock cart. When my father was building his house here at that time, shrivelled old Karman would stand obsequiously in front of him. Today he sits comfortably in his chair.’
‘Even half a buffalo is worth considerable money! But Duti is not satisfied with what he has, which is a lot.’ These words were spoken by Jack who stood with his back flattened against the wall. ‘Right from illegal felling of trees, to commissions from all sources, these are Duti’s methods of moneymaking. In a matter of years, he had amassed great wealth, in the form of real estate, spread from McCluskieganj to Ranchi. How can Bahadur cope with such mafia?’ said a perturbed Mr Miller. ‘Mr Mendez, I think this mafia chain will ruin Bahadur because his is a lone voice against them. He has always fought for local issues.’ Mr Miller paused and continued, ‘Ever since McCluskieganj was established, it has been under the supervision of the Budhmu block. To get to Budhmu block, people have to cross Chanho and Mander blocks with great difficulty. Prior to each election, promises are made to make
McCluskieganj part of the Khalari block which is close. Yet to date, nothing has been done. Bahadur has sat on protest on so many occasions for the construction of this road. How many are there of Bahadur’s stature? But look what has happened to him?’ ‘Mr Miller, today’s world belongs to the likes of Duti Bhagat’ said Mr Mendez dryly.
Shanichar Oraon had made a spectacle of himself at the police station, shrieking, ‘The tiger cub, Bahadur, is made of stern stuff. That Duti is after him. He is imagining that he is riding the elephant! We won’t let him be. We will hack him to pieces. That bastard! How long can he stay away from
McCluskieganj?’ After coming out of the police station, the Adivasi youth went to Duti Bhagat’s house. But Duti Bhagat’s wife caught their feet and begged. ‘Why punish us for his crimes?’ Sakhua Oraon, a venerable individual of Oraon Tola said, ‘Let it be, when Duti returns, we will slaughter him, but let these goats be.’ Duti Bhagat absconded for a long time from his village after Bahadur Oraon’s arrest. If ever he did come, it would be under the cloak of darkness and he would return before dawn. No one saw him for months. According to Tuinyan Ganjhu, he was beyond reach. Khushia Pahan said with a sigh, ‘In childhood, Mr Brian’s son Dennis, Bahadur, Tuinyan, Duti and I played together. But Dutiya was always a damned swine. His whole persona was devilish.’
Much effort had gone into sidelining Bahadur Oraon. In order to oppose the land mafia—consisting of various politicians, officers, contractors including Duti Bhagat—from appropriating government funds, Bahadur Oraon had organized the Adivasis of different village units into self-protection groups. Bahadur had repeatedly warned them to assert their rights against those people who were misusing the funds meant for their development work. As challenges grew against these corrupt people, Duti warned Bahadur, ‘Why are you insistent on creating obstacles? If you stay with us you will get what you want. The new state of Jharkhand will soon be formed. Then the government will be of our Jharkhand Freedom Front.’ But Bahadur Oraon replied, ‘Duti, how is it that your tongue doesn’t melt in saying all this. Whom are you destroying other than your innocent Adivasi brethren.’ After Birsa Munda, it was Bahadur Oraon! On every arrow’s tip, there was only one face, the face of Bahadur. Duti Bhagat had told the chief of the Jharkhand Freedom Front, ‘One must break this wild elephant.’ Soon after Duti had said the above, there was a robbery in Mahua Milan and the robbers had shot dead a young man, Rameshwar Oraon. The police were waiting for such an opportunity to incriminate Bahadur of this robbery and murder. When the police were taking Bahadur away, his daughter Neelmani’s tears would have moved even the Kanka hill to pity. The hills of Kanka seemed to have darkened in protest and the Chatti river appeared to gush in a deafening roar. Mr Gibson said in a heavy voice, ‘Nature too mourns for the brave. Look at all the trees, how they
seem to be hanging their heads in sorrow.’ ‘From August to October, so many ills have beset McCluskieganj. It seems as if the gods are angry with us,’ said a morose Khushia Pahan to his son Parasnath. Even Parasnath sensed the sadness brought on by the black ways of McCluskieganj. The village had been badly affected. Had his grandfather been alive, surely he would have resorted to his chants of black magic!
‘If man could understand nature’s sorrow and happiness, the secret of this universe would be revealed to them for all times. But how many of us can divine the secrets of nature? The chapter of
McCluskieganj and its progress is closed forever,’ said
Mr Mendez to his wife. ‘Oh God!’ was all that Mrs Mendez could utter. ‘I wrote and informed Dennis of Reuben Raphael’s death but I cannot tell him of Bahadur Oraon’s arrest; they were childhood friends! This will surely devastate him,’ said
Mr Mendez with bitterness.
The rain abated. It was merely drizzling now. The rain of the Hathiya Nakshatra is a continuous windy drizzle, no sunshine to break the monotony. ‘Darkness at day,’ Tuinyan Ganjhu looked at the sky and said, ‘it’s the seven-day cycle. The weather won’t change for the next seven days.’
In the quiet, McCluskieganj boiled as the Kanka hills seemed to wrinkle and cower in the weather.
6
Cocktail
Dennis McGowan could view the past thirty years of his life with ease, but he didn’t want to evoke those memories. Yet, even this was not possible, because the imminent transfer of Hong Kong was causing him distress on one hand and his memories of McCluskieganj on the other. In these past three decades, Hong Kong too had seen many ups and downs.
On his first arrival in Hong Kong, Dennis had realized that this place was entirely one of glamour as reflected in magazines and newspapers. Yet, like all big cities, there was a very seedy side to it as well; the fearful world of Crown Colony, which housed the poorest of poor Chinese immigrants, had abysmal pain and excessive poverty. These houses were ugly shacks, and for its people, the high-rise buildings and skyscrapers, despite the fact that they worked so hard, would always remain an impossible dream.
There was an obsession with progress at all cost. One must have everything! Dennis observed that these people worked in factories and offices from morning till evening, then rushing back, without so much as resting or eating, off they would go to some other work to return late at night! The youth were relentlessly pursuing courses for self-enhancement, which included computer training, language classes and so on. To this Liza would say, ‘Here the speed of life is maddening, there in McCluskieganj it was slow and maddening, like the pace of its bullock carts. One day merged into the next.’ Dennis would say, ‘Undoubtedly the pace was slow there, but do you hear the music of the trees, or the breeze that touched you, or the flight of birds? Do they come to your window here at all?’ Liza would smile, ‘Don’t turn a philosopher.’ Dennis and Liza had worked for a good twenty years in several offices before they could summon sufficient resources for the purchase of a small printing press. At first they had to satisfy themselves with small orders, but slowly the work increased.
Some years later, Liza suggested they publish books of popular interest, books of short stories and comics. The idea appealed to Dennis and straightaway he contacted some local writers who would provide him with instant best-sellers. However, Dennis insisted that these stories preferably be short, because today’s public did not have time for tomes. Therefore they would have to limit themselves to a maximum of seventy-five to a hundred pages. The illustrations for the comics and books as well as the covers should be eye-catching.
Liza was far-sighted. She combined the day-to-day publications of the press with these novels for popular consumption. These novels were an instant hit. The first venture, Graham D’Souza’s Sex and Crime, had been specially commissioned by Dennis. Graham D’Souza could write clever little stories replete with sensational and stimulating disclosures. When he came to the press with his second manuscript entitled The Second Night and read a few pages from the first chapter, Liza responded, ‘Congrats, Mr D’Souza. You have set the atmosphere in the very first page. I am sure this one will be a best-seller.’ Accepting the manuscript, Dennis had asked Graham D’Souza at what frequency he would be supplying such sensational stories. Graham D’Souza replied with his trademark laugh, ‘Approximately one a month. All I need is a regular advance and then you’ll see the fun!’
What started with Graham D’Souza was successfully continued by others. These writers included Michael Wilson, Susan Sarah and so many others with their adventurous and well-knit plots. Susan Sarah’s book had, in fact, brought in good revenue, especially the novel The Afternoon Murders. There was a heavy demand for it, such that Dennis could not meet the requirements. The story was absorbing; it revolved around a mafia group which carried out murders in the afternoon with perfect precision. The leader of the group was a woman and the group targeted wealthy tradesmen and social elite. Despite police investigation this mafia group was never caught.
Now Robin too was working in the press part-time while pursuing his studies alongside. After all, it was he who would have to manage the business afterwards. Dennis remembered how his father had once suggested the idea of a press in McCluskieganj,
since there was none in the village. It would yield sufficient livelihood, but Dennis had laughed it off. ‘How can a press function here in McCluskieganj where there is hardly any electricity? A press in the middle of nowhere, people will laugh at us.’
Mr Brian McGowan never again mentioned the project to Dennis. Yet who knew what the future had in store. ‘Que sera sera…’ Did Dennis ever envisage running a press in Hong Kong. Sometimes Dennis would tell his son, ‘Your granddad was a visionary. It was he who had first impressed upon me the idea of a press, although in McCluskieganj.’
Any talk of McCluskieganj was enough to get Dennis going. Robin could appreciate his sentiments. He would egg his father on for more stories saying, ‘I was born there, wasn’t I?’ ‘When you were born,’ said Dennis, ‘there was much excitement and celebration in the village. My father threw an impressive party, so happy was he. He would say, ‘My only son’s son! Had his grandmother been alive, how thrilled she would have been!’ My father was the only son of his parents as I was and as you are.’ Robin would smile, ‘Papa, do you wish me to continue this great family tradition of having just one son?’ Then Liza would interrupt with her special look, ‘Oh no, I need a whole bunch of grandchildren, one will not do!’ Then Dennis added, ‘Liza, I wonder if you remember Saddiq
Mian of McCluskieganj. His wife produced annually until she had fourteen children. After that she was given the name of “Salana” meaning the “the annual queen”. Is this what you have in mind for Robin as well? OK, it’s good! Every month there will be a birthday party in the house. Great, Liza that will be great!’
Celebrations are always happy occasions. McCluskieganj was special even at Christmas. Mr E. Pyres, though quite senior, would dress as a clown much to the joy of the children. On that occasion, the older people too joined the fun. The Cinderella dance performed on the day was also incomparable. How to get a band for the celebration would be an obsession for all, because they were hard to come by on that day. But the Arnolds were always there to solve that problem. There was a time, when Mr Arnold himself used to play the saxophone in a Bombay band. During this festive season, there would be a lot of dancing. People would dance till late hours in the Highland Guest House. Dennis could recall the sheer magic. Despite being in the dense forests of south Bihar, the Anglo-Indians of this village knew how to make merry. They would drown themselves in a cocktail of Western spirits and indigenous mahua. Every evening, their throats appeared parched if unwetted by booze! However, this caused a lot of harm as well. But so what? For fun and enjoyment, booze was a must! Every evening these words would ring out loud. ‘Arre, man! Chalo, let’s have some daru-sharu!’ Just before Independence, when it was difficult t
o obtain a licence for selling liquor, one Bengali gentlemen by the name of P.K. Roy Chaudhury managed to get such a licence. As a result, there was never a dry day, short of English wines. Moreover, local liquors like hadiya and mahua were always available, specially on Wednesday, which was market day. Mr Mendez used to say, ‘Had the quantity of booze which the people of this village have consumed been invested in silver, there would have been enough to cover the entire village.’
Then there was the unusual story of Jonathan Warden. Jonathan Warden worked for a well-known jute company in Calcutta. He was a bachelor. Though he enjoyed a high post, he decided one day that like others he too would settle in
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