Mr Miller, ‘Uncle, this village is our nest,’ and Mr Miller agreed, ‘Undoubtedly, literally as well as figuratively. Wait until the rains come from June to October, you will see hordes of lal muniyas! They are such pretty little things, bright red beaks and backs and tiny dots of white all over.’
Now it was dark, and still there was no sign of
Mr Mendez. Robin thought, he ought to go across himself but procrastinated. The atmosphere suffused him, he had felt nothing like this in Hong Kong. The birds now jostled for their own space on the branches like passengers on a train. Their clamour had disturbed the cuckoo. Indian poetry often romanticized it calling it piyu kahan, where is my love, while funnily the British more aptly referred to it as the brain-fever bird. Yes, and now since the birds had finally settled, the cuckoo resumed its call. Then Robin’s thoughts turned homewards. It was more than two days since his arrival and he had not yet called his parents. ‘Won’t they be worried,’ he thought to himself and also told Mr Miller about it.
Then with slow steps, Mr Mendez appeared. ‘Uncle, you are late. I have been waiting for so long,’ said Robin. ‘Yes, I am sorry, I just fell asleep,’ replied Mr Mendez and Mr Miller interrupted Mr Mendez, ‘Sit down, let me get you a special cuppa. Jack’s speciality, pure Darjeeling.’ Mr Mendez inquired, ‘So Mr Miller, any news?’ ‘Yes, Mr Brown, our MLA, has written to say that he will be addressing our water problems and also get some of our roads repaired as he had done earlier from his MLA fund,’ replied Mr Miller. Then making a face, Mr Mendez said, ‘It seems that Mr Brown has finally managed a break from his duties in Hazaribagh.’ ‘That was mean! Mr Brown lives in Hazaribagh after all, and his first commitment is to his own town and to the few Anglo-Indian families living there. We in McCluskieganj come second to them. You must appreciate that he has to divide his attention equally among the members of the community he represents; whether it be us in the Chhota Nagpur area or even the civic requirements of the Anglo-Indian schools in Patna.’
Seeing the two old gentlemen getting animated, Robin chose to interrupt. ‘But who is this Mr Brown? And how does he wield this clout?’ ‘Oh, that’s an old story!’ said Mr Mendez. ‘All this goes back some decades. Remember what I had said about two of the leaders of our own community, Dr Henry Gidney and Mr Frank Anthony? The latter had convinced Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, our first prime minister, that the Anglo-Indians in all fairness should be represented, both in parliament as well as the state assemblies. As a result, Pandit Nehru incorporated Mr Frank Anthony’s proposal in Article 79 of the Constitution of India, whereby one member of this community would be nominated to every state assembly and two would be nominated to the Lok Sabha. So you see, this is how our very own Mr Hector Angus Brown is the present incumbent of this very privileged office.’ Mr Mendez continued, ‘He does occasionally visit McCluskieganj and you might get a chance to see him while you are here. I have seen him in the Bihar assembly on several occasions. It was funny to say the least. He is about seventy-two years of age, very tall, well-built and exceptionally fair. The village folk, dehatis, who come to meet the MLAs of their constituency, mistaking him for an Englishman, were quite taken aback. “Who is this angrez and how has he obtained this seat of honour in independent India?” It is truly a repeat of Alice in Wonderland. Mr Brown rarely opens his mouth as he can hardly articulate in Hindi and the English of the Bihari MLAs is totally incomprehensible. As a result, not much dialogue takes place. Should Mr Brown have something to say in the assembly, he usually says it in English.’
Mr Miller then said, ‘During the British times, Mr Brown used to be the settlement officer in and around Muzaffarpur, Buxar and Hazaribagh.’ To this, Mr Mendez added, ‘Before retirement, he became the district magistrate of the Saharsa district. He was unmarried and somewhat eccentric in his habits. Mr Brown was known to be an introvert. You understand, he did not particularly like mixing. Once, while on a trip to Patna, I visited his flat for some work. I found it padlocked, so I went away and returned an hour or so later. I found it still locked. Looking around, I saw his servant coming towards me and asked him if Mr Brown was out of town. He answered, “Sahib is inside. Whenever I go out on some errand, he makes me lock the house from the outside so that visitors won’t disturb him, so shy is he of meeting people.” Not only that,’ continued Mr Mendez, ‘the MLAs are entitled to a personal phone connection, but perhaps Mr Brown is the only member who has never availed of it. Even as a government officer he never had a phone installed. He used to say, “This telephone box is the most useless invention of modern science, it creates more problems for life than it offers solutions.” Each MLA is entitled to a quota of funds for the upliftment of the place or people he represents. That way we are very lucky because our community is extremely small and Mr Brown is very kind in doling out funds for our various requirements. Yet, unfortunately, the Anglo-Indian community is laid back and so indifferent to changes that they have not availed of the facilities the government provides them. They seem to be crushed by their sense of distress and as a result are themselves decimating themselves.’
Jack had told Robin that in May the sky sometimes got dusty and often there were dust storms sometimes followed by a light rain. This helped to clear the sky on which the moon then appeared clear and pristine. The night in question was such a night, but a mood of quietude bordering on the sombre prevailed on the three seated on the verandah of Queen’s Cottage. Neither Mr Miller nor Mr Mendez, not even Robin, spoke much. They were lost in their own thoughts until Mr Mendez broke the silence with, ‘What are you thinking, son?’ ‘Nothing much,’ answered Robin, then turning to Mr Miller suddenly said, ‘McCluskieganj was a strange concept, it succeeded as long as people were committed to it. It can succeed still if we renew the commitment?’ Mr Miller with the sagacity of his years said, ‘Yes, everything is possible. But our lives are already wrecked. The few of us left here are old and just biding time.’ A dark sadness had descended on the verandah. Mr Miller once again spoke, ‘If there is dedication, everything is possible. But palaces are not made from rubble. Once this crop consisting of people like us pass away, all that will be left are memories, a graveyard of Mr McCluskie’s dreams. The end of a cursed race.’
As it was late, Mr Mendez decided to leave and asked Robin to retire early so that he could be ready on time to take the morning bus to Ranchi. Robin went to his room while Jack brought his dinner, which he was asked to place on the stool as Robin had arranged his writing paraphernalia on the table. Robin was now mentally all set to start his novel. Robin said, ‘Jack, please wake me up early tomorrow. I have to go to Ranchi.’ Jack nodded and said he would wake him up at five
o’ clock.
Robin thought this world, this universe was in a continuous momentum, yet despite its motion and flux, deep within it, there was an abiding spirit, a faith or truth that held all things together. Robin seemed preoccupied, Mr Miller’s last words resounded in his mind. After dinner Robin lay down, but he was restless still and could not sleep. He felt as if he was having a bad dream. He had come to this village to write its story, but what confronted him was something entirely different. Where was the story? He thought about his parents who were apprehensive about the handing over of Hong Kong. He could not understand why. Why could they not return to
McCluskieganj? He had suggested this to his parents. Perhaps they were too old to adjust to village life. No, he would first have to save this one and only village of the Anglo-Indians. His heart began to beat fast. He got off his bed to go to Mr Miller. He would shout and tell him, ‘Never speak of our race as cursed, Uncle,’ but he held back. He decided that he would remain here. He would live in McCluskieganj for all times. A rare sense of satisfaction filled him.
He went to the table and, then gently pushing the chair, he sat down to write. The smell of henna flowers calmed his tumultuous spirit as he began to write. The imprint of the emotions within him found expression in words with ease. He ran his eyes over the first paragraph, th
en the next and then the next. That same faith filled his heart: ‘The glow of the lantern is blackened by soot yet the wick continues to burn,’ Robin thought to himself.
18
Black Rose
At five in the morning, Jack stood next to Robin’s bed and woke him. ‘Robin Babu, Robin Babu, wake up, it’s going to be five.’ Robin, still half asleep, answered, ‘Just getting up, Jack.’ Then Jack continued, ‘Last night you forgot to lock the door. There is no fear of thieves and dacoits as such, but yes, there is threat from wild animals. Just recently a wild elephant had entered Danny Meredith’s compound, and then last winter a leopard was found in Dr Govind Goswami’s garden.’ Robin feigned fear, but Jack reassured him that it was not so bad, although it was always good to assert caution. Then Robin remembered that the taxi driver too had warned him against wild beasts.
It was getting on to 5.30 a.m. Robin quickly went in for his bath and returned wearing a pair of blue jeans and a red T-shirt for himself. Just then Jack walked in with the breakfast tray, ‘Too much,’ Robin exclaimed, seeing the elaborate breakfast. ‘The tea is OK, but I am not used to such an early breakfast.’ Then Jack admonished him, ‘There is no certainty where you will eat during the day in Ranchi. You may not be back by lunchtime, which is why you should eat what I have prepared for you.’
After breakfast, Robin took his wallet and, glancing at himself in the mirror, left the room. Outside in the verandah, Mr Miller was sipping his tea and listening to classical music on his transistor. He said, ‘Leaving already? It’s still two-and-a-half hours for the bus to arrive,’ and Robin answered, ‘It’s okay, Uncle, I will walk around a little. Should be back before evening.’ Mr Miller said, ‘Go straight to Mrs Tomalin’s house. The bus arrives there at 9.30 a.m., just motion for it to stop. The fare is six rupees for Ranchi.’
Robin sauntered along the road that wound to
Mrs Tomalin’s. On the way, he noticed mango orchards on both sides. The trees were all laden with fruits. Jack had told him that although the trees were full of mangoes, they still needed a few showers to ripen. Robin had always loved mangoes. When they appeared in the fruit market in Hong Kong, Dennis was always the first to get them for Robin. But these orchards were spectacular in themselves. Dennis used to say that the fun of plucking and eating mangoes and guavas, straight from the trees was a treat in itself. Robin moved along, observing as he went. He saw largish red ants burrowing in and out of the twigs and branches of the trees while the mangoes swayed gently, like the full breasts of attractive Adivasi girls. By now Robin had reached Alice Tomalin’s house opposite which stood Dr Govind Goswami’s residence. Robin figured that he would have to meet them soon.
By then the sun had got quite strong. The laburnums were reflecting the heat, hanging as they were like a million lanterns. And although they offered no umbrage, they had covered the road with a yellow carpet. Yet there were other trees that afforded shade, but Robin for some reason preferred the amaltas. Robin waited, but there were no other passengers. Robin thought that perhaps that was how it was on certain days. Maybe he would be the only one today. There still remained some ten to fifteen minutes for the arrival of the bus. ‘Why not visit Mrs Tomalin,’ thought Robin. But then he retracted. ‘Maybe I will overstay and fail to board the bus. No, I would rather wait here.’ Just then he heard the crunch of fallen leaves on the road and, swinging around, he saw a young woman in a parrot-green sari approach him. ‘Maybe she too has come to catch the bus, who knows!’ thought Robin.
The girl came up closer, her green sari and red blouse seemed electrifying in the bright sun. Robin thought to himself, ‘This dark girl with chiselled features must surely be an Adivasi. I am certain I have seen her somewhere. Where? Surely not in Hong Kong!’ He almost laughed aloud at his own stupidity. Yet it was strange, thought he, that everything in McCluskieganj should appear familiar.
The girl too looked around and then decided to stand in the shade of a huge peepul tree whose leaves shimmered in the sunlight. The bus was late by more than ten minutes, thought Robin and just then he heard the rumble of an approaching ramshackle vehicle. To give further credence of its arrival, the driver honked and the horn sounded like the clamour of wild ducks. Robin was rather amused by the slow yet threatening noisy arrival of the bus. He stepped out on to the road from under the laburnum tree and so did the girl. As directed by Mr Miller, he put out his hand for the driver to see and rightly as expected, the old, discoloured bus slowed down and came to a screeching halt. The bus attendant, khalasi, jumped off the vehicle, but before that he thumped the side of the bus with a loud yell: Roko, stop! In an effort to gain on lost time, he urged the passengers to climb on fast. Both Robin and the girl were standing next to the steps. Perhaps the girl wanted Robin to have the right of way since he was first in line, but Robin motioned to her to go. No sooner had they mounted than the khalasi, a twenty-four or twenty-five-year-old bird-like, beady-eyed young man, once again took his position next to the door. Again he thumped on the side of the bus, which was Robin realized a signal for the driver to start. Such a singular method of signalling, he thought.
The ladies seats were practically full, there was just enough place, a trifle tight perhaps, for the Adivasi girl. Robin himself was directed to the one seat that was left behind the driver. It was not a comfortable seat at all, but being adjacent to the window, he found it cool considering the speed at which the day was warming up. Slowly, he noticed some of the extremely funny instructions and notices printed all around the bus. ‘DO NOT SPEAK TO THE DRIVER WHILE THE BUS IS IN MOTION.’
How strange that this journey to Ranchi should be spent in utter silence whereas, while coming to McCluskieganj, the driver had told Robin so many interesting things about people, places and so on. While getting on the bus, Robin had read warnings: ‘BEWARE OF PICKPOCKETS, GUARD YOUR OWN PERSONAL THINGS, SMOKING IS PROHIBITED.’ Next to the ladies seats, Robin saw strange cartoon-like illustrations of women, perhaps supposed to indicate that these seats were for women. ‘Poor illiterate ladies!’ thought Robin. ‘Perhaps,’ thought Robin hesitantly, ‘art did precede articulation.’ Then he noticed, that just above the windshield there was a picture of a Hindu god with locks on whom hung a paper garland with a caption below—Jai Bholenath. Outside, the heat was searing hotter perhaps than the day he had arrived. Inside the bus, the conductor got busy collecting the fares from the passengers. He motioned to Robin and Robin gave him ten rupees. Surprisingly, the conductor returned him two rupees instead of the four that Robin had expected. Robin paused a little and then summoning courage asked if the fare had gone up. The conductor replied, ‘It’s been two months. Where were you? Look how the prices of petrol and diesel have gone up.’ The conductor had obviously felt affronted. He continued grumbling, ‘These Anglo-Indians from McCluskieganj visit Ranchi once in three months and then ask such profound questions.’ Then the bus entered Ranchi. Robin caught sight of some of the landmarks. There was definitely more traffic all around than there had been the last time. The bus had slowed down on entering the town and although the passengers had been quite patient until then, suddenly their restlessness grew. Neither the bus driver nor the conductor had given any signal for the passengers to get off, but they were already arranging themselves and their bags. Robin could not help smiling. He had noticed this while on his flight to Ranchi as well, that although the seat belt sign was on and the aircraft was still taxiing on the tarmac, the passengers were ready to deboard with their hand baggage. There seemed a sudden impatience to get off. Then the bus entered the stand located on Ratu road and parked itself in its allotted bay. Although many buses were parked over there, there wasn’t much activity.
Robin noticed the girl in the parrot-green sari. She was standing in line to disembark. Her plaited hair swung a little as she got down with unhurried steps. Then Robin too moved as his line progressed. He remembered the advice that
Mr Mendez had given him. ‘There are innumerable STD and ISD booths near Firaya L
al Chowk. They will connect you to Hong Kong instantly. However, should you have any problem, just go to the telephone exchange.’
Outside the bus station, several rickshaws had lined up to take the passengers to their various destinations. Robin noticed that these rickshaw pullers had stretched themselves out on the passenger’s seat and, with their legs up on the puller’s seat, were quietly puffing at bidis. Seeing Robin, they straightened themselves, hoping that the foreigner would hire one of them. One of them got off and asked Robin, ‘Where?’ Robin was pleased as a punch and said, ‘Very good’, then in Hindi, he continued, ‘Take me to Firaya Lal Chowk near the statue of Albert Ekka.’ The rickshaw puller was baffled by his flawless Hindi. Robin had by this time perfected this gimmick. It had worked beautifully with the drivers at Ranchi airport. It worked here again at the bus station. Then other rickshaw pullers were as if stricken with disbelief. Robin asked the rickshaw puller, ‘This is the most relaxed means of transport, isn’t it?’ The rickshaw puller agreed wholeheartedly, ‘Yes, sir. No diesel, petrol, it is our body that provides the fuel, therefore it’s pollution free! In Calcutta, the pullers or drivers run with their rickshaws, they become like horses. Their hearts seem to burst with strain, and in one hand, they have a bell to signal their arrival. I too had been a driver of rickshaws in Calcutta, but I ran away from the strain. There are many such drivers from Bihar.’ Robin liked the use of the word ‘driver’, it seemed to lend a sense of self-esteem to the man. Then the rickshaw puller asked, ‘Do you belong to Ranchi, sir?’ And Robin answered, ‘No, I have only arrived a few days ago.’ ‘Why, sir, why do you fool me, sir? You speak Hindi so well and know all the areas. I have ferried many foreigners, but none have been as well-spoken as you.’
By then they had arrived at the Chowk. Robin asked how much he should pay. The rickshaw puller said that he normally asked for anything between forty and fifty rupees for this short distance from foreigners, but for him, who spoke Hindi so well, he couldn’t do that. ‘You give me whatever you wish, sir. Perhaps four rupees would suffice.’ Robin was touched. He paid him ten rupees and thought of the far-reaching connection that language provided. ‘Language binds people in a unique way,’ mused Robin. The rickshaw puller assumed an expectant look, as if to say, ‘Should I wait?’ But Robin, realizing this, said that he may take long to finish his work, so he should go on with other passengers.
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