Robin did not have to search for the telephone booth. There was a long queue in front of it. But gauging from Robin that he probably had to make an overseas call, the phone booth operator approached him with alacrity. Determined to impress Robin with his smattering of English, he asked, ‘Where do you have to call?’ Robin answered in perfect Hindi, ‘I have to call Hong Kong.’ The mouths of not only the booth operator, but the others present almost fell open in wonder. ‘An Englishman with such good Hindi!’ The booth operator offered Robin the chance to complete his call first, but Robin preferred to be in line and await his turn. It mattered little if he had to wait, after all the others too had been waiting. All this was again said in Hindi and once again Robin impressed those present. Robin sat on a plastic chair and couldn’t help reflect on the strength of the spoken word. A pleasant exchange of words in any language could take people so far, communication was such a big step towards helping people bond!
Then came Robin’s turn. The phone connected immediately. Robin was profuse in his apologies to his mother and told her how he had got caught up in the new scenario. Liza said, ‘You can’t imagine how your father and I have spent the last forty-eight hours. Your Papa is in the press. Do call and speak to him.’ Then she continued to express her concerns regarding Robin’s stay and meals. ‘There must be a lot of mosquitoes, don’t forget to use a net.’ And Robin answered, ‘I have not forgotten any of your instructions.’ ‘Fat lot,’ his mother answered, ‘if you had remembered my instructions, you would have called from Ranchi the moment you landed there! Your friends too have been making inquiries about you. You have gone so far away, that is why we are worried. Call up every eight to ten days and try to come back soon.’ After this, Robin hung up and asked the operator to connect him once more, this time to his father’s press. Dennis was delighted to hear his son’s voice. ‘Call your mother first, Robin. She is sick with worry,’ and Robin answered, ‘I am calling you after speaking to her.’ Robin laughed and said, ‘Mummy said exactly the same thing, that you are sick with worry. You see Papa, one gets a little disoriented in a new place and it takes some time to find your bearings again.’ Then Dennis gave Robin the low-down on the latest developments on Hong Kong’s politics. Chris Patton had demanded that before the handing over in 1997, the democratic system that existed there ought to be strengthened so that the communist regime of China would not pull down the existing political fabric of Hong Kong. As a result, communist China was coming down with a heavy hand on the incumbent British secretary, Douglas Herd. Before Robin put the phone down, Dennis said, ‘Don’t hesitate to ask for money should you require it. And all the best, son.’
Robin put down the receiver and asked for the bill. Surprisingly, it was very reasonable. He thanked the operator profusely and sauntered away, thinking that he would make all his future calls from the same booth.
Robin looked at his watch, it was getting on to 2.15 p.m. Miller Uncle had told him that the return bus from Ranchi left at 3.30 p.m. Jack had fed him such a hearty breakfast that he did not feel the need for lunch. But he noticed several kiosks selling cold drinks. The vendor of the one that Robin approached was dozing. The heat of the afternoon was at its peak. The vendor started as Robin addressed him. Then taking his cold drink in hand, Robin wondered whether he should engage a rickshaw to the bus stand. But he would rather walk because anyway the heat would be about the same. So paying for his cold drink, he began to walk. Walking always enabled one to get to know a place. He wondered about the bad roads, the innumerable potholes, and thought of what his father had said about Ranchi being Bihar’s summer capital. Such a sweet little name, but nothing by way of development. It took him some time to find his way to the bus station after a few inquiries. He entered the bus. The bus would depart in about ten minutes. He thought about what Ranchi meant once again, and just then, he saw the Adivasi girl in the parrot-green sari and red blouse. She cast a glance at the passengers and saw him seated.
19
Open Eyes
That day Binda Oraon of Kwar Patar went for his usual morning ablutions to the edge of the stream. His body broke out into rivulets of sweat at the sight before him. A cry escaped his lips. In the bush before him, he saw the bodies of two children smothered under a huge rock. To be confronted by such a vision of death was beyond his imagination. Somehow completing his job, he ran distraught towards Oraon Tola, his heart pumping like the bellows of Pancham Lohar, the ironsmith.
Taking along some three or four people, Binda Oraon returned to the spot of the gruesome deed. ‘Who could have dealt so cruelly with these innocent babes?’ he wondered. He was tortured no end by the happening. All those who went with him approached the bush and saw that the bodies were of two children aged about eight and ten. They were of a boy and a girl. Their mouths were badly battered. Had he got his way, Binda Oraon would have extricated the bodies from under the rock, but he was prevented by the rest of the group who said, ‘This is a police case and we should not even touch it. We will inform the Khalari police station the moment the sun rises.’ The children were bespattered with blood, their bodies appeared dark with congealed blood and their eyes that were open had turned opaque.
The news of this brutality spread like wildfire through the village of Kwar Patar. The moment Sadhanu Oraon heard of it, he exclaimed, ‘Could they be the grandchildren of Ishaq Mian? They have been missing for the past two days. He has been going mad with worry. I met him at the station only a day ago.’ Sadhanu Oraon who used to sell fruits and vegetables at the station narrowed his eyes in consternation and said, ‘They are surely Ishaq Mian’s. For some time past, his daughter and son-in-law have not been getting along. This is a fallout of their personal tension.’
At sunrise, Binda Oraon and the rest of his group set off for the Khalari police station. Sadhanu Oraon returned with the police, telling his grandson Manjhi to run off to McCluskieganj and inform Ishaq Mian of the incident. ‘Run fast,’ said Sadhanu Oraon, who was very proud of Manjhi’s cheetah-like speed.
Like the young monkey god Hanuman, Manjhi ran almost in one breath to Mr Thorpe’s house where Ishaq and his family lived. He told Ishaq, ‘Please come with me to Kwar Patar immediately and identify the mutilated bodies of two children. Only you will be able to do that.’ Hearing the news Sobarati, Ishaq’s wife, screamed out inconsolably, ‘Oh! my Shabana, oh! my Afzal’; the white bungalow resounded in early daybreak with her wails. Ishaq Mian tried to quieten her with a mild admonition, ‘I don’t like your outburst. You layer the ground with your tears even before ascertaining facts.’ But Ishaq himself was sick with grief inside his manly exterior. Fortunately, his daughter Amna was out at that hour. She had gone towards the station to try and locate her missing children and that was just as well. In the past few months, Ishaq Mian had been troubled by the deterioration in the relationship between his daughter and son-in-law Dilawar.
Seeing the bodies of the dead children, Ishaq broke down completely. He just collapsed on the wet ground. If Abraham, the prophet of the Jews, had been there, he would have just taken him into his lap. ‘Control yourself, Ishaq Mian. If you buckle down, what will Amna do?’ said Sadhanu Oraon, but Ishaq Mian lay prostrate next to his grandchildren like a third corpse. Thoughts rushed through his head, ‘No one but Dilawar could have done this. I feared something like this would happen the day, when after fighting violently with Amna, he had threatened to kill both the children.’
After quarrelling with Amna continuously for some time, Dilawar ran away one day from McCluskieganj. Both Ishaq and his wife had thought then that he would return once he calmed down. Sobarati had asked her husband to make inquiries about his whereabouts. But Ishaq Mian had replied, ‘Where do I get the CID from to set upon him?’ The fact was that Amna had married Dilawar against the wishes of her parents and now he was probably being influenced by his family to abandon her. Ishaq Mian believed that he was probably hiding somewhere nearby. But no one, not even Amna, could have dreamt that her husband would ever
commit such a heinous crime.
When the Khalari police station cops came and lifted the bodies, Ishaq Mian said, ‘I am now a headless body.’ On the basis of the FIR lodged by Ishaq, the Khalari police filed a case against Dilawar. They sent the bodies for post-mortem and expedited the entire probe. Still it was evening by the time Ishaq returned with the two bodies. This news of the gruesome double murder spread like wildfire in McCluskieganj. Amna was getting fits and in his bid to prevent her from biting her tongue, Ishaq Mian’s finger got badly bitten by her. He had never approved of the alliance. Parents could give everything to their children other than their fate. After all, Dilawar belonged to the Kurmi caste. His name was Dilip Mahto, but he converted to Islam so that he could marry Amna.
Jack too had gone to Mr Thorpe’s bungalow to ascertain what had happened. He returned and filled Mr Miller in with the details. Mr Miller told Robin, ‘This was bound to happen one day. There was tension all the time between the two families.’ Tuinyan Ganjhu corroborated,‘Yes, there was “defect” between the two since a long time!’
Dilip Mahto had been married into his own caste once before, but the marriage had not worked. Then, in course of time, he began visiting Mr Thorpe’s bungalow to meet Amna. Ishaq Mian strongly disapproved of their proximity. The entire village was agog with gossip, ‘A young Muslim girl openly having an affair with a Kurmi boy! These unmarried girls are always a curse for the family.’
When these rumours had reached a crescendo, one day at dawn, Dilip eloped with Amna. For four years, they absconded, and no one knew of their whereabouts. Dilip had fled with Amna to a town in Madhya Pradesh where he lived with her, working as a labourer to make ends meet. It was there that their nikah was solemnized. Dilip converted to Islam and changed his name to Dilawar. After a lapse of four years, when the memory of the people in McCluskieganj had begun to fade, the couple arrived one day to the shock of them all. Dilip’s father, Ram Prasad Mahto, forbade his son from entering his house, but Ishaq and his wife after a while reconciled with their daughter and gave her as well as her husband a room to stay in Mr Thorpe’s bungalow.
A year later, the couple had a boy and Ishaq named him Afzal. Dilawar’s parents showed open disapproval of their son. Dilawar too was remorseless. For the first few years, things went smoothly. Dilawar earned enough to support his family, but slowly tensions rose regarding his earnings and both he and Amna began to bicker every so often. Amna’s concern for her growing children and their requirements for which more money was needed reflected in her attitude towards her husband. She wanted him to be more serious about his work.
Once after a serious fight, Dilawar left Mr Thorpe’s bungalow and went to the station master whom he knew. The station master offered him some painting job. Dilawar went with him and stayed in Patna for a while after which he returned to
McCluskieganj with about three thousand rupees. But some time later, both he and Amna began to quarrel once again. This time he went to the station where he ate at Suresh Gupta’s hotel and slept on the platform. Dilawar never crossed the railway line to go towards Mr Thorpe’s bungalow again. The railway line was like a ‘Lakshman rekha’ or the warning line beyond which he would not go, as a crossover would mean entering Amna’s territory. He had decided against having anything to do with Amna.
Seeing the estrangement between his son and Amna, Ram Prasad Mahto and his family were secretly very pleased. Could it mean that Dilawar would once again be weaned back to his Hindu lineage? Eventually Dilawar did revert to becoming Dilip Mahto again. The murder of the children took place soon after. Meanwhile Amna continued to spend sleepless nights, weeping for her lost babies.
20
The Womb of the Earth
To just know about things is not enough. To correlate your experience with your knowledge is more important. Nothing is worthless in this creation, there is a reason behind every aspect of existence. As a result, the woof and the warp, the why and the how become the subject of man’s eternal quest.
Outside Mrs Tomalin’s house, next to the gate a boulder of immense size lay embedded in the earth. Grass grew around it; in fact, the rock was covered partly by moss. How had that rock come there? The curiosity that some things around us arouse in us can itself become an exciting mental adventure.
When Robin arrived at Mrs Alice Tomalin’s house first thing in the morning and knocked on her door, her dog Cindy’s bark in response echoed throughout the place. Robin announced himself and Mrs Tomalin, in a dark yellow frock with small red flowers, opened the door and said, ‘You’ve been here long? And you’ve only thought of me today! I had begun to wonder whether Dennis had even spoken of me to you. Who knows, Dennis may have thought that old Alice may be dead and gone.’ But before Robin could offer explanations, she had taken hold of his head and was kissing it. Cindy meanwhile went round and round encircling Robin. Mrs Tomalin scolded Cindy playfully, ‘Don’t be silly,’ and Robin said, ‘Don’t scold her, she is merely acquainting herself with me.’
Mrs Tomalin said, ‘Just give me two minutes, I’ll make you a cup of tea while you are playing with her.’ But Robin followed Mrs Tomalin to the kitchen and said fondly, ‘Today I’ll make the tea. Believe me I can make reasonably good tea.’ And Mrs Tomalin affectionately answered, ‘Robin, you have offered to make the tea, that is enough for me, just think that I have drunk it. I am not yet so useless that I can’t make my Robin some tea, or prepare him a meal with my own hands. Yes, when I become a total invalid, you will be most welcome to do these things for me. But then, you know Robin, I will be regarded as a burden and you may very well remark, ‘God knows until when I will have to feed this fat old woman!’ She laughed so much that her belly began to shake. Robin felt that the whole universe was contained in that womb. There was something so timeless, like the mother earth, about Mrs Tomalin. While she was straining the tea, Robin looked at the forest of trees that was visible from the kitchen window. The scene was picture perfect and Robin continued to look on.
And then, there was Cindy who was in a quandary. Her expression was one of curiosity. After all, who was this creature who had followed her mistress to the kitchen? No one was allowed beyond the drawing room. In fact, neither the vegetable vendor nor the milkman was permitted beyond the verandah; and this man had crossed the threshold inside the very house, above all the sanctum sanctorum, namely the kitchen. As Robin seemingly admired the woods, Mrs Tomalin understood that Robin was lost in the natural beauty of the place and she broke his reverie saying, ‘I am quite fed up of this forest. Even yesterday a pair of dhamins entered the house through the kitchen drain.’ Robin was surprised. ‘What are dhamins?’ Mrs Tomalin paused a little. There was a touch of excitement in her voice and manner, as if she were about to embark on some magical adventure. Robin pressed her, ‘Tell me, tell me,’ and Mrs Tomalin explained, ‘Dhamins are what are known as rat snakes in English. They are about seven to eight feet in length and usually move in pairs—the male and the female. But should they feel threatened, they can entwine themselves around the legs of animals or even human beings so tightly that the resulting squeeze can be very painful. Then they hit with the tail. One day unknown to me, a pair of dhamins had entered through the kitchen drain as usual, and lo and behold, Cindy had probably caught sight of them. She tried to attack them with her paws, but one of them wound itself round her and whipped her hard with its tail. Cindy cried out in anguish, but by the time I came, they had slithered away the way they had entered. I just managed a glimpse of the pair through the kitchen window while Cindy was yelping in pain.’
It was fortunate that Mr Mendez, the good Samaritan that he was, always ready to help, managed a taxi for Mrs Tomalin and Cindy to be taken to Ranchi. That was the closest where one could find a vet. It had so happened that some tourists had arrived in McCluskieganj that day and as the taxi was going back empty, Mr Mendez fixed it up for Mrs Tomalin. The veterinary doctor administered an injection and prescribed some ointments to Cindy, telling Mrs Tomalin that
there was no danger or threat to the dog’s life. That day Mrs Tomalin had prayed to Jesus fervently, to restore Cindy, her only companion in life. She said that Mr Mendez had appeared then as the emissary of Christ. So saying, she made the sign of the cross.
On the drawing room wall, there were some old, framed photographs. Robin noticed that there was one of Mr and Mrs Tomalin. Mrs Tomalin was quite young then and very attractive too. She had long golden hair. Robin found that strange, because most Anglo-Indian women wore their hair short. That was the fashion back then, and Robin knew that the ladies of this community were very trend conscious. At a time when Indian ladies hardly wore any make-up, the Anglo-Indian ladies always used lipstick, rouge, eyeliners and foundation.
‘You must be wondering about the drastic change in me,’ said Alice Tomalin. Her voice was soft now and the photos on the drawing room wall all shared that softness. Robin asked, ‘Why is it that unlike other Anglo-Indian women, you wore your hair long?’Mrs Tomalin answered, ‘My husband liked long hair, like our Indian counterparts. He liked me to make buns, wear gold jewellery and saris. He used to think that such things enhanced a woman’s looks. However, the Anglo-Indian ladies did not agree; they preferred dresses and accessories. But after my husband passed away, Robin, I lost interest in my person. All I look forward to is my disappearance into the earth of
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