McCluskieganj

by Vikas Kumar Jha

  The cab left Ranchi behind. The driver remarked, ‘This area is known as Pandara. Earlier this was all jungle, but now the city has eaten into the forest.’ Robin saw occasional clumps of trees. He mused, yes, the city has indeed pushed out the forest. But later the line of trees reappeared. Clumps of trees amidst tons of rocks rising in hills, all neatly arranged.

  And Robin, smiling to himself, wondered who could have arranged them so picturesquely. Soon the driver pointed to an old palace, ‘That is Ratu Mahal, that reddish palace over there.’ Robin responded immediately, ‘Yes, Ratu Maharaja, he ruled this place at one time. His progeny still live here, although it has ceased to be a princely state.’ The driver nodded in agreement, ‘Times have changed. Their status is altered, but can their names ever be changed?’

  By now the sun had practically descended. The afternoon heat was almost gone. As the car wound up the ghats, the air felt far cooler. The driver pointed out more villages and suddenly remarked, ‘Your baggage indicates that you will be here for a while. You will get familiar with places sooner than you know. This is Mander Block. Then this is Chano Block, and now finally we have reached Biju Para.’ This last was a strange village with quaint shops and, in the middle of the road crossing stood a small statue of a freedom fighter, Soma Tana Bhagat. At Biju Para, the driver, taking Robin’s permission, stopped for tea. They both got off. The driver told him that a unique sweet papdi was available here, he could take some to McCluskieganj. It was called Papri and was a famous local product. Soon they were back on the road. They drove through the forests of sal, mahua, jamun and other trees, and past flowering shrubs alongside an accompanying stream, which filled Robin with an awareness of the purity of nature. It overwhelmed him. The driver divined Robin’s ecstasy and asked, ‘Do you belong to

  McCluskieganj, Sahib, and have you got family and relatives there?’ Then Robin answered, ‘I do belong to McCluskieganj, but I left it when I was barely two years of age. My parents went and settled in Hong Kong to earn their livelihood. My grandfather, Brian McGowan, was a postmaster at the Khalari post office. Maybe you have heard of him because he lived here till his death. This is my first visit since our departure.’ ‘So do you have relatives here?’ the driver inquired. Robin was a little taken aback. What need was there for relatives and family when the village itself was yours. ‘It is my village, isn’t that enough?’ The driver nodded in agreement.

  The sun had nearly set, giving the sky a blush like that of a shy, virginal girl. Then into the salmon sky, a flock of birds suddenly flew out. They seemed to encircle the distant ball of fire and then flew into it, as if it was their nest. Such was the visual illusion that nature seemed to create. Robin asked the driver, ‘This area seems to abound in birds.’ The driver told him that it was just not birds, but animals like elephants, leopards, bears, wild boars and man-eating wolves too were aplenty.

  McCluskieganj too had its share of these animals. Robin was getting a little worried and wondered how much more time it would take to reach and the driver said, ‘Look we have reached the Chama turnpike, your village is a bare 12 kilometres from here. Where will you get dropped in the village?’ ‘At Queen’s Cottage,’ Robin replied. Soon they approached the village. The driver pointed out a cottage on the right and said, ‘You see that house? An old lady lives there all by herself with her dog. Her husband died some thirteen to fourteen years ago and her only son lives abroad.’ Robin said, ‘Then it must be the house of Mrs Alice Tomalin.’ The driver was taken aback. ‘You said that you had left when you were just two, then how do you know about Alice Tomalin?’ ‘Oh!’ answered Robin, ‘my father has acquainted me with this place, its houses and residents in detail.’ And passing a white building, Robin again said, ‘That must be the village school, right?’ The driver was most impressed. Soon leaving the metalled road, the driver once again turned into a dirt track and then halted in front of a gate. The place was hardly visible in the dark, so forested it was. There being no electricity most of the time, Robin saw in the headlight an elderly gentleman approach. He wielded a massive five-cell torch. He was a fair, slim person of medium height. Robin knew it was Mr Miller. He and Robin embraced each other. Robin bid the driver goodbye and thanked him profusely. ‘I have been waiting for you for so long’, said Mr Miller, while Jack took Robin’s luggage inside one by one. He too was slim and middle-aged, and once inside, Robin gave him the packet of Papri that he had purchased in Biju Para.

  Queen’s Cottage was just as Dennis had described.

  Mr Miller asked Robin to sit down on the wicker chair in the verandah, while Jack brought some tea. Then they fell talking of Robin’s grandfather and of the season for the tourists to visit the village. Mr Miller told Robin that the tourist season for

  McCluskieganj was between October and February, the rest of the year remained very quiet due to the intense heat. Only he and Jack remained by themselves. Jack the old bachelor was an old faithful and also a great chef, who could produce the best of dishes at the drop of a hat, and all this he did gratis.

  Mr Miller took Robin to his own room. It was the best room in Queen’s Cottage with an attached bath, bed, wardrobe and a writing desk. The only problem was the absence of regular electricity. Dinner was served by Jack in the room and Robin enjoyed his meal in the quiet of the night. The windows being open, Robin could smell the fresh garden air, of summer flowers, something he had never experienced before in Hong Kong. Jack advised him to sleep after locking the door, the windows he said could be left open. Lowering the lantern wick, Robin retired for the night.

  He dreamt of birds, birds of a myriad hues. They were flying all around him. The room was warm with the feel of their presence, their colour, their sound, their chirping and twittering. Then he awoke with a happy start. It was still dark. He went towards his window, breathing in the presence of the trees, he could hear and feel the morning restlessness of the birds. He could not see them, yet their muted twittering and fluttering told him that they were all waiting for daybreak to burst into chorus. And then suddenly, with great speed, the sun spiralled up from behind the Kanka hills. It was a gorgeous sight. Perhaps these were the reasons that had prompted

  Mr McCluskie to pick this area.

  Mr Miller and Jack could not possibly be up yet. Feeling lazy and still tired, Robin stretched out on his bed and fell asleep once again. It was on Jack’s knocking that Robin woke to receive a cup of warm cheer. ‘I would have brought in your tea much earlier, but Mr Miller asked me to let you rest,’ said Jack. ‘He has gone for his morning walk.’

  16

  By the Lantern Light

  When Mr Miller returned, Robin saw that he was accompanied by another elderly gentleman. Introductions completed, the person was none other than Mr Mendez who spread his arms to enfold Robin and said, ‘Welcome, my handsome,’ and Robin replied, ‘Uncle, so nice of you. I was thinking of visiting you right now. Papa never tires of speaking about you!’ Then Mr Mendez retorted, ‘You bad boy. First of all, I will have a boxing bout with you. Why didn’t you come straightaway to my place? Why this rest house?’ Mr Miller interrupted, ‘Whatever do you mean,

  Mr Mendez? Do you think I am going to charge this boy? I have told his father as well that no such thing shall be done! He shall have the comforts of his own home here.’ Robin changed the topic by asking, ‘Mendez Uncle, will it be possible to see my grandfather’s old house and his grave today?’

  Mr Mendez answered, ‘Your grandfather’s grave does not have a gravestone. It is covered with so much overgrowth that it will be difficult to locate. You see, Robin, your father came after your grandfather’s burial and soon went away. So there is no gravestone nor any headstone. I am sorry!’ Robin appeared a little crestfallen, but Mr Mendez assured him that he would definitely take him to his old house, which was now a guest house under a caretaker. He would also take him to visit

  Miss Bonner, Mrs Thripthorpe and others. ‘Come over to my place when you are ready,’ so saying he went away.
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br />   When Robin emerged from his bath, he found Jack bringing his breakfast tray with the grace of an acrobat. Afterwards, taking the address, he went over to Mr Mendez. Both

  Mr and Mrs Mendez insisted that Robin eat breakfast, but Robin declined saying he had already had his. However,

  Mrs Mendez whom her husband referred to as Queen Victoria would have none of it. ‘You must at least try these gulab jamuns I made yesterday.’ Mr Mendez piped in, ‘Great one! People bring offerings to the Queen and here she is offering you something. Don’t miss this opportunity because I too shall stand to benefit along with you.’

  Reaching the old house, Mr Mendez called out for the gatekeeper who lived with his family in the outhouse behind. ‘Anyone there, brother? Dil Singh! Hey Dil Singh!’ The latter came in leaps and bounds and wished him. Mr Mendez explained the purpose of Robin’s visit. And Dil Singh opened up the place for them. The doors and windows creaked to suggest that they had not been opened for long. When

  Mr Mendez told Robin, ‘Come in,’ Robin stood a little perplexed, lost amidst broken memories. Mr Mendez’s voice sounded like a distant echo and Robin couldn’t help thinking—come in where? Step inside memories? Can one just step into a photo frame and thus re-enter the past? Mr Mendez’s voice droned on, ‘This is where … that is where…’ while Robin, a mere mute spectator felt strange. So much must have been witnessed by these rooms. Robin felt as if he was encapsulated in time, witnessing the past, which, though not his, breathed the presence of his forbears. An atavistic presence. There next stop was the house of Miss Bonner, which Mr Mendez said, the Adivasis referred to as the ‘Fort of Bonner Mem’. It was a very beautiful house and rather English in appearance. When Mr Mendez cleared his throat at the gate hoping to catch the attention of one of the servants, an Adivasi help by the name of Mariam responded. Mr Mendez asked Mariam where her mistress was and she said, ‘In the reading room’. Miss Bonner was delighted to see Robin. ‘My Robin. Why, he is as tall as that West Indian fast bowler, Michael Holding!’ They both embraced and conversation followed. Miss Bonner was quite old now, maybe seventy-five or eighty years of age. She was very fair and, though big-built, she was quite frail, her golden hair almost grey. She kept looking disbelievingly at Robin who still held her hand. Then she said, ‘You were still in Liza’s lap when I last saw you.’ And Robin said, ‘My parents remember you so often, I hope you are well.’ Miss Bonner replied in a voice that had at once the pathos of falling autumn leaves, ‘It is my age which is now a burden, son. I feel as old as the hills that surround me. Still one must enjoy what one has till the end.’ Then changing the topic she said, ‘Your father had written to say that you intend to write a novel on the village. But, son, what is left here to write about?’ Robin continued, ‘I have to get all my facts from you. Who else but you, a repository of information regarding the village, can help me?’ Mr Mendez made eye contact with Robin to suggest that they ought to leave. Just then Robin noticed a framed photograph on the bookshelf beside a lamp. ‘This must be her. How beautiful she was! The Miss Bonner of the past and that of now … only the eyes remain the same,’ thought Robin.

  As they rose to go, Robin couldn’t help asking, ‘Is that photograph yours?’ Miss Bonner broke out in a coy smile and said, ‘Guess?’ ‘Undoubtedly you,’ replied Robin. ‘Had I been there in your time, I would have been madly in love with you. You were no less than Helen of Troy or Cleopatra.’ Mr Mendez gave an appreciative laugh, ‘Excellent, excellent.’ Miss Bonner giggled a little as he continued, ‘Even at this age, you have found an admirer.’ Then they both got up to leave and Robin said, ‘I will be coming back to visit you. We will have many sittings. You will be my cicerone in my venture of the novel.’

  Once outside, Robin asked Mr Mendez, ‘Uncle, why did Miss Bonner not marry?’ ‘Oh! That’s a long story, son,’ replied Mr Mendez. ‘She used to work for the ITC, i.e., Indian Tobacco Company, and was madly in love with one of the honchos of the company, a Bihari gentleman who was married with wife and children. He too was in love with her. What a handsome man he was! He told her many times that he would make his wife agree to his second marriage. But Miss Bonner would have none of it. She said, she could not destroy that which she loved. And so she did not marry. A remarkable lady! He used to visit her off and on, but he passed away some years ago and she lives in utter loneliness.’

  The two had arrived at Mrs Thripthorpe’s by then and as they stepped on to her verandah, Mrs Thripthorpe, hearing their footsteps, asked her daughter to see who had come, ‘Mendez Uncle,’ replied Judy, as she motioned for them to sit on the chairs set outside. Then she went inside. ‘That was Judy, Mrs Thripthorpe’s daughter,’ said Mr Mendez to Robin. Parting the curtain, there appeared a thin, fair English-looking lady in a green nightgown. Mr Mendez, who was still standing, said, ‘Miss Thripthorpe, look, Robin is here.’ And Mrs Thripthorpe exclaimed, ‘Oh, Robin! I have been waiting for you since yesterday!’ Once again, the warmth and affection of the people of this village touched Robin. So much love for the son of a family that had long left and settled elsewhere. Robin found it bafflingly overwhelming.

  Mrs Thripthorpe said to Mr Mendez, ‘I cannot tell you how fond I was of Dennis. You see his mother had passed away and I was like a mom to him. I remember him in shorts and shirt, full of mischief; and this Robin is his son! My grandson.’ Robin responded, ‘You are my grandmother!’ ‘Some relationships in life are even more meaningful than blood relations,’ said

  Mrs Thripthorpe.

  Then suddenly Robin noticed the two eucalyptus trees.

  Mrs Thripthorpe asked, ‘What are you looking at, son?’ Robin said, ‘At those eucalyptus trees, Papa has told me so much about them.’ Mrs Thripthorpe spoke at length on the aromatic quality of their bark and leaves. Just then Judy came in with a tray of tea and savouries. Introductions aside, Robin mentioned how lovingly his parents spoke of Aunt Judy. His mother always remembered her when she saw a film of Judy Garland’s. She’d say, ‘Dennis, look your sister Judy…’ Aunt Judy blushed a little with embarrassment and then straightaway withdrew inside with a smile. Mrs Thripthorpe went on to say that the cakes and juices had all been made by Judy. After the refreshments, Mr Mendez said that since Robin was there for a long visit, he would come back again.

  While sauntering back to Queen’s Cottage, they spoke of Judy. Robin asked, ‘Uncle, did Aunt Judy ever have a job?’ ‘No,’ replied Mr Mendez. ‘She has always been a housewife, she lost her husband quite young. He was a teacher in a school in Daltonganj. Ever since, she has lived with her mother along with her two sons, Ashley and Clayton. Her mother worries no end for Judy—“What will happen to Judy after me?”’ ‘Then,’ Robin continued, ‘then what?’ Mr Mendez replied, ‘Now her boys are somewhat grown. Then yes, I must mention there is a retired navy officer here by the name of Captain Clement Mendonca. He is a Goan and since 1987 has been residing here.’ ‘So what is his connection with Aunt Judy?’ Robin questioned. ‘Clement Mendonca lost his wife some years ago and his only son, also a captain in the Navy, lives in Goa with his family. He is quite attached to Mrs Thripthorpe and has proposed marriage to Judy as a companion for his old age; but Judy is very tight-lipped about the whole thing. Perhaps she fears her sons’ response.’

  It was almost three in the afternoon when Robin returned to Queen’s Cottage. Jack remarked, ‘Your lunch has gone cold, Robin Babu. I will just warm it up and give it to you. Have it, then rest a little.’ ‘I am not used to an afternoon siesta,’ said Robin, ‘But this summer heat is very enervating; it is not at all like Hong Kong here,’ replied Jack.

  That evening while waiting for Mr Mendez, to take him to visit more people, Mr Miller asked Robin, how he was liking his visit to McCluskieganj. Then slowly he added, ‘Robin, you are planning to write a novel on this village. I think there is something that you must set your eyes on, right from the start. This village stands apart from other villages, how and why? This is what you must fully comprehend—one thing for instanc
e is that although our community is so far away from England and we have no truck with our so-called forefathers, who anyway keep us at arm’s length, we are not able to get rid of our thralldom of the English. We take great interest in the goings-on there, especially with regard to the royal family. It is very amusing. Prince Charles’s and Camilla Parker Bowles’s long-term affair for instance was very closely watched by our brethren here. Not only that, British politics that is Conservatives versus Labour finds place in our everyday political discussions, despite our being shunted and marginalized by both the Indians and English alike. What is tragic is our own community too had abandoned us as if to say, ‘Since you chose to miss the bus, stay back and fend for yourselves.’ Perhaps, the years ahead will enable our children to join the mainstream Indian life and integrate themselves into it.’

  Meanwhile Jack came and lit the lantern and Robin wondered, ‘This lantern, is it not a symbol of hope?’ Even today, if we exclude the villages and small towns, the lantern and candle still come in handy in big cities during power outages. This flame of hope still burns for us.’ In the dim light of the lantern, Mr Miller appeared like a shadow and the voice from that shadow spoke on as if to reassure Robin that all was not lost. That despite petty, internal politics, great and good people did emerge from among them. People like Dr Henry Gidney and Mr Frank Anthony.

  17

  MLA Brown Sahib

  The chirping of the birds, singing of summer in full-throated ease, and the general air around was suggestive of … what was it suggestive of?, Robin wondered, and then, of course, peace and tranquility, the sort that one finds in Beethoven’s ‘Pastoral’. Robin remarked with exuberance to