‘Mummy,’ Ronald said, ‘we cannot suffer because of yours and Papa’s fights.’ Then Ronald would tell his young daughter all about McCluskieganj, his father, the jungles, his father’s stud farm. Even today, horses remained Mr Gibson’s first love. One just had to ask and he would start his discourse on the types of horses, Multani horses, Saracen horses, mountain horses. He would dwell on the fine aspects of each breed. His face would light up with every description, the evolution of horses, how the early horses were referred to as equus. ‘Horses were first found in North America, but suddenly 10,000 years ago, they disappeared from America. After a gap of many years, horses were rediscovered in Europe. In the last 3,000 years, horses have been used in warfare in Europe, Asia and the Middle East.’ Mr Gibson could hector on horses for hours, provided people had the time to listen. He loved the medieval hero Rana Pratap of Rajasthan and his horse Chetak. He described Chetak as a charger. Chargers, he would say, were ideally suited for warfare. Of all his children, Minto alone had inherited his love for horses. Being brought up in close proximity to the stud farm, Minto had a fine sense of horses.
After Minto and his wife left McCluskieganj, Mr Gibson had no news of them for several years. Then one afternoon, when he received an envelope containing some photographs and a long letter from Minto, Mr Gibson was beside himself with joy. He started sipping cherry brandy from the afternoon itself. How he wished his wife was there for him to embrace. This letter had been written by Minto from Saudi Arabia. He had been working on a salary of one lakh rupees a month since the last month in Jeddah. He had been appointed manager of a stud farm belonging to a billionaire Sheikh whose son had obtained a horse-racing licence from New Market in London. The Sheikh, in a short while, had grown fond of Minto, whose knowledge of horses and manner of working he liked. Minto was also training his horses for the purpose of racing. He had sent some select photographs of his stud farm and wished that his father were there with him. ‘I am the only one of your sons who has inherited your love of horses. Are you still angry with me, Papa?’ he wrote. By evening, the whole of McCluskieganj had come to know of the great change in Minto’s life, so proud was Mr Gibson in declaring the contents of Minto’s letter to all.
Actually, Minto and his wife had left McCluskieganj in a huff. They had tried to settle in Jamshedpur, but somehow they were not doing too well. Then all of a sudden, Minto saw an advertisement in an English paper that asked for a trained veterinary doctor. Minto was no trained veterinarian, but he responded saying that he had worked in his father’s stud farm and had first-hand knowledge of horse breeding, racing, and so on, though he admitted that he possessed no formal degree as a veterinary doctor. As luck would have it, Minto got selected for the post. It was a godsend.
When Mrs Gibson got Minto’s letter in Australia, she told her daughter Vanessa, ‘Come, at least this worthless father of yours has instilled some qualities in Minto.’ Then suddenly she went back in time and in a flash remembered how madly she had fallen in love with that horseman who only loved his horses, Dynamic Boy, Blue God. Of late, she had been thinking often of her husband. Could it be that he too was remembering her? Was it a telepathy of some sort? Mrs Gibson wondered.
‘Perhaps…’ Mr Gibson thought, when in the night after dinner, Peacock Guest House would fall silent and his only companion was his bottle of cherry brandy, with even Parvati and Babu gone home. He would stroll in the verandah while Munni fanned herself with her enormous ears. ‘Perhaps I should get a mate for Munni,’ Mr Gibson reflected, but then here none of us has a mate, neither I, nor Parvati … nor Munni. Here each of us is biding time in loneliness. It was a strange life, and it was making Mr Gibson restless. After dancing, when the peacock becomes aware of the ugliness of its feet, it suddenly stops in its tracks and weeps. I too do the same, I laugh all day, and at night, I weep in my loneliness. Mr Gibson remembered his wife and then a famous song of Frank Sinatra, ‘This is a lovely way to spend an evening, can’t think of anyone as lovely as you, a casual stroll through a garden, a kiss by a lazy lagoon, catching a breath of moonlight, humming our favourite tune, this is a lovely way…’ Mr Gibson hummed the tune, and by the end, his voice choked. Within his eyes were lost the dark clouds of McCluskieganj, its jungles, its fast-running horses. While his wife was holding him to her bosom and sad-eyed Parvati stood nearby with her animated boy Babu, the pictures that were in his eyes suddenly seemed to shake. The vision welled up and those images got distorted. In the portico, Munni swayed
her trunk.
14
The Thought That Breaks the Heart
It was a lazy April afternoon, but when two police jeeps suddenly came and screeched to a halt under the kusum tree on Nehru Road, Basant, who had been dozing on the counter of his grocery shop, sat up. He was the only journalist in
McCluskieganj and was the correspondent of the daily Jharkhand News published from Ranchi. The correspondent’s job was an ill-paid one. That is why Basant had to also work at the family business of the grocery shop. Sitting at the counter, he would get all the gossip and news of the village. Basant saw the Khalari police inspector alight from the jeep along with some seven or eight cops, and immediately his journalistic instinct told him that something was wrong. By then the inspector had walked up to his shop and asked, ‘You must be knowing Majeed’s house?’
Basant played for a little time. ‘Which Majeed? This village boasts of three Majeeds!’ The police got a little confused. ‘Actually there is Majeed No. 1, known as “Anda Majeed” because he sells eggs. Then there is “Light Majeed”, who is so called because he used to repair all kinds of lights including Petromaxes and lanterns. And finally, there is “Canteen Majeed”, who runs a tea canteen at the railway platform.’ After some deliberation, the police inspector, whose name was Rajinder Mahto, told Basant, ‘We are looking for that Majeed whose son Gibrail has eloped with a girl called Shamina and brought her here.’ Stunned by the disclosure, Basant had no choice but to tell them, ‘Then it is Canteen Majeed you are looking for.’
At the time, Majeed was in the canteen. He was busy getting the tea ready for the arrival of the afternoon passenger train. These days Majeed had an assistant in Tuklu Munda, who came to help him with the cleaning of the cups and making of tea. He was sharp and searing as a hot chili. Majeed used to go home leaving the canteen in Tuklu’s care. He had appointed Tuklu on purpose, which was to keep the caste factor at bay, as there were many who did not wish to drink out of a Muslim’s hands. At lunchtime, Majeed would go home, leaving the canteen in Tuklu’s care, who would in turn go for his lunch when Majeed returned. It was at this point, when Tuklu had gone and Majeed was alone, that the police jeep arrived at the McCluskieganj station looking for Gibrail. The inspector and his men rushed towards the canteen. Majeed was pleasantly surprised and offered them tea, but Inspector Rajinder Mahto grimaced and said, ‘We are not here to have tea, Majeed. We have come to arrest your son. Where is he and the girl Shamina? These policemen have come from Delhi.’ Majeed could have just swooned and fallen. After all, his Gibrail had to show him this bad day. He was a simple, God-fearing man, and today because of Gibrail, he was confronted by the police, for no fault of his. Had Carney Aunty been alive, she would have shooed these cops away in a trice. Aunty, who had been so fond of Gibrail, he thought. But Gibrail’s amorous overtures were his own undoing as well as his family’s.
Despite a family of two wives and eleven children, Majeed still made enough to manage his life comfortably. Gibrail’s arrest left his mother Sabina shattered. She wept and wept. Majeed too was devastated. The whole village held Majeed’s naivety responsible for Gibrail’s arrest. The fact was that Gibrail had arrived about a week ago from Delhi with Shamina. It was early dawn when like two young fawns Gibrail arrived with Shamina in tow and told his mother, ‘Tell Abba to solemnize our nikah’. But Majeed was enraged and rightly so. He said, ‘Are all the girls in our village dead that Gibrail should have eloped with this young thing. Think how her parents m
ust be suffering. Tell that loafer to quietly return the girl to her parents.’ But Gibrail was adamant. He told his mother, ‘I have not brought Shamina to send her back!’ This angered Majeed even more. Then Shamina intervened to say, ‘My mother is in favour of my marrying Gibrail. It is my father who disagrees. Maybe if you speak to him things will work out.’ It was then that Majeed first laid eyes on the girl. Though dark, she was quite lovely, and her dimples made her prettier. After hearing Shamina out, Majeed decided to speak to her father, but before that he spoke to contractor Nazrul Khan with whom Gibrail used to work. From Nazrul Khan, he learnt that Shamina’s father had lodged an FIR with the Okhla police in Delhi, detailing a case of abduction against Gibrail. On the basis of this, the police had already arrested Majeed’s nephew, Ibrahim, and Majeed’s brother-in-law, Israel. He obtained Shamina’s father Zahid Khan’s telephone number from Nazrul Khan. The number Majeed had got belonged to a neighbour who, when he received Majeed’s phone, immediately called Zahid Khan. Majeed spoke in detail, ‘Your daughter Shamina has undoubtedly been brought by my son Gibrail to McCluskieganj without your consent, but at the moment, she is with me and is safe. If you do not desire Shamina’s nikah with my son Gibrail, you may come whenever you wish and take her back.’
It was this gentlemanly act of Majeed’s that precipitated the arrival of the police from Delhi and led to his son’s arrest. The police took custody of both the boy and the girl and returned to Delhi by train, after which Gibrail was immediately sent to a lock-up in Tihar Jail. The punishment seemed too cruel and unrealistic, thought Majeed. He should have hidden the two in the surrounding forests, the police would have never been able to find them. But Sabina thought Majeed’s decision to be honest had been prompted by his second wife Shahida, who cleverly manipulated the whole thing. Such are the complexities of the politics of the family. Actually the romance between Gibrail and Shamina had been going on for some time. Once earlier, he had tried to flee with Shamina, but they had been overtaken by Shamina’s father at the station. Majeed had never known of this incident. He learnt of this sometime after Gibrail’s arrest from a letter that his brother’s son-in-law, Israel, had written to him. It was at Israel’s behest that Gibrail had gone to Delhi. Israel had enticed him saying, ‘How long do you intend to wash soiled utensils in your father’s canteen? Come to Delhi with me and I will get you a good job.’ Majeed was not in favour of his son’s going; nevertheless, Gibrail did go. At first, he worked at a tent house with Israel. They later switched over to a construction firm. In fact, Gibrail worked gratis for Israel, all he got was his food and lodging, and this he resented.
Gibrail resided with Israel and his own cousin Ibrahim in Jamia Nagar. It was there that he met Shamina, who lived with her family in the neighbourhood. Shamina’s father Zahid Khan was a small-time electrician, who, because of the contractual nature of his work, was mostly away from home. Thus developed a romantic relationship between the two. Shamina’s mother was quite fond of Gibrail and even thought that a marriage alliance between the two would be a good idea. Shamina’s mother had broached the subject to her husband, but he had rejected it outright, ‘Are you mad? I’ll never marry my daughter to a Bihari boy!’ he had said. Still the closeness between the two grew. However, the episode of elopement and the subsequent bringing back of the two by Zahid Khan from the station abruptly halted the romance between Shamina and Gibrail. Gibrail was given a stern warning not to ever enter the house of Zahid Khan, and Shamina was ordered not to go out unnecessarily. Gibrail was told that should he ever dare to come near Shamina, his parents would be informed of his waywardness.
Somehow, things started slipping, what with Zahid Khan’s work and Shamina’s mother’s softness, and the young lovers started meeting again. And one day when Zahid Khan had gone out of the city to attend a marriage, they eloped.
But the love story of Gibrail and Shamina took a tragic turn when Gibrail was arrested and sent to Tihar Jail. Shamina was made to change her stand in the court under duress. She had to say, ‘I donot love Gibrail—on the contrary, Gibrail had forced me to flee with him, and he has also, on two occasions, had sex with me against my wish.’ All this Shamina said with her eyes averted. There was so much pain on her face, Gibrail realized that she had no choice but to say all this. He remembered the song that the Mundas and the Oraons used to sing: ‘Oh my queen how could you abandon me. My heart breaks. We were a pair of inseparable swans but you abandoned me and the very thought breaks my heart!’ Gibrail had never paid much attention to this song earlier, but today in the loneliness of the prison cell, he couldn’t help but remember. Majeed went to bail out his son a number of times, but the court insisted that he deposit his property papers as well as bring a guarantor from Bihar, along with innumerable other conditions which he could not fulfil. Majeed felt like burning his face in the stove of his canteen, because he held himself responsible for Gibrail’s fate. Shamina, on the other hand, was quickly married off and, when she was leaving her house for her husband’s, she buried her face in her mother’s breast and wept inconsolably. Shahana could see Gibrail’s face in her daughter’s tears.
15
The Dirt Road
And now the time had come for Robin’s departure to his village in India. His mother was restless. At the airport, she repeatedly reminded Robin to take care of himself, to write, to occasionally come and telephone her from Ranchi, as one could never be sure of the phone lines in McCluskieganj. Observing his wife’s distress, Dennis overcame his own and said bravely, ‘Your son is going on a great mission and you are weeping? Come on, Liza, bid him goodbye with a smile.’ Then patting her on the back, he added, ‘This is it! Right?’
On reaching Delhi, Robin took a connecting flight to Ranchi. When he alighted and later while driving, he had the sense of déjà vu—the trees, the landscape … Perhaps Dennis had told him too much. No sooner had he collected his baggage and exited than he was surrounded by taxi drivers, each of whom tried to outdo the other in his attempt at spoken English. Some of them offered him their services, and also a hotel. Robin wondered, one man, so many cabs, and, then in chaste Hindi, said, ‘Don’t bother yourselves with speaking in English’. Their faces fell immediately in double disappointment. Not only could they not charge Robin exorbitantly as they usually did foreigners, but probably their hopes of whisking him away to an expensive hotel and thereby obtaining a good commission too was dashed. Then an elderly driver came forward and, pushing them all away, took charge of Robin and his belongings. He escorted him to his cab and soon they were off. Robin was instantly confronted by a sea change he perceived from Hong Kong. There, there was so much rush, so many people, all lost in their own pursuits, and here, a small airport with just a few cars.
In the scorching heat of May, the taxi drove on. They were still in Ranchi. Outside, the strong, dry summer wind that is often called ‘loo’ was blowing. The driver turned slightly and inquired, ‘You must be feeling the heat excessively.’ Robin had, in fact, never experienced anything of this kind. His father had told him that Ranchi was the summer capital of Bihar at one point of time, which implied that it was cool, yet the impunity with which trees had been felled in recent years had quite deforested this wonderful hilly land.
The roads were empty and their tar pitching was soft with heat. At places the marks of tyres and wheels too were apparent. Then suddenly Robin’s eyes alighted on a black statue of a man with a thick turban, a naked torso and a dhoti, which came down to his knees. Robin moved forward to get a better view and the driver, perceiving Robin’s curiosity, said, ‘That is the statue of Birsa Munda, a great Adivasi revolutionary and, although he died incarcerated, he gave the British a run for their lives. May I just stop the car for five minutes at the Firaya Lal Chowk? You see it will get late by the time I return and my wife needs money for provisions.’ Robin nodded in agreement. The driver returned fast enough and, while he was away, Robin had observed another statue. This was of a man in military gear, his gun cocked in a
ction. The driver once again informed Robin, ‘This statue is of Albert Ekka who died in action in warfare. He too was an Adivasi. Although the government recognized his services and awarded him the Param Veer Chakra, soon the hype surrounding his bravery died away, and today his wife and children are starving. The government had promised his widow five acres of cultivable land, but failed to do so. Today the widow, Balam Dina, works as a labourer! Ranchi, Sahib, is a city of statues and monuments, that is all by way of recognition, the government fattens on false promises for public consumption.’
Robin was perplexed for a while at the awareness of an ordinary taxi driver. In Hong Kong, no one would bother about the widow and children of a soldier who died fighting for his country. A statue, thought Robin, was enough recognition for bravery. He recalled how his father had described the abject condition of the Adivasis. How marginalized they were, these original inhabitants of the country and, now that they were driving on, he observed the labourers on the sides of the road. There were both men and women, indigo-purple in colour, struggling to work in the burning heat. The books, he had read, that had glorified this state were exaggerated stories. The truth was something totally different. How much could they be earning? Certainly not as much as in Hong Kong where labour was very expensive. An expression of disillusionment flitted across Robin’s face.
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