The bus reached McCluskieganj. Getting off, Neelmani asked Robin where he was residing. ‘In Queen’s Cottage,’ Robin answered. ‘Yes, a lot of tourists who visit this place stay there,’ said Neelmani. And Robin responded, ‘Yes, but I have not met any since I have been here.’ ‘So will you be going to Queen’s Cottage now?’ asked Neelmani. But Robin replied that he would not. He said that he would first go to the Chatti to walk her home. Neelmani said, ‘That will be very good, because then you will see our home too and your family furniture too.’ ‘How many siblings do you have?’ Robin asked. And she told him that she was her parents’ only child.
Robin felt a surge of emotions for her. To think that she was struggling against a sea of problems all by herself. ‘Really, life becomes so unbearable sometimes,’ he thought to himself. Then he asked Neelmani what it was that had created so much trouble for her father.
‘Ours is an unbelievable story. We were a small but happy family. The little land we had yielded enough for us to live by. My father himself cultivated the land. He had enrolled me in the school in McCluskieganj. He had plans to send me to college as well. But things slowly began to go out of hand, and today those good days are just like a dream that vanishes when you wake.’
Robin egged her on. ‘And then?’ ‘And then…? You see, Baba was a social activist, forever trying to help our poor brethren. Right from the government officials to our own Adivasi leaders, all were out to exploit our people. The police would arrest them on the slightest pretext and send them to rot in jail. Now take the instance of the forest department. They cut down dozens of trees and sold them and put the blame on the poor people. The same goes for the road construction department and the waterworks department. The local bigwigs loot the money earmarked for the job and say that the Adivasis have pilfered the material. This was what my father fought against. He started self-reliance groups in every village to give voice to these voiceless people. But my father’s guru, Saamu Munda, had warned Baba against opposing the mafia. Saamu Munda had himself fought in the war of independence and had even been incarcerated in the Andamans.’ Robin expressed his desire to see him. Neelmani continued. ‘You see, the mafia wanted to have Baba put behind bars so that they could go on with their loot unhampered. This is what happened then. One day there had been a dacoity in the vicinity of McCluskieganj in which an Adivasi youth had been murdered. They had put the blame squarely on Baba. The main person behind this heinous act was Duti Bhagat. He used to warn Baba, “Join hands with us, and you will reap a rich harvest; go against us and you will be thrown into jail forever. Think it over.”’ Neelmani continued, ‘But the Bagh Bachcha was undeterred and so Duti Bhagat had him falsely implicated and arrested. That is our hut! And in front of you flows the Chatti river.’
In the evening light, Robin saw the Chatti, the River Jordan of McCluskieganj flowing peacefully away from the turmoils of the world.
‘Ma, look who is here?’ Neelmani announced. ‘Who is it, Neelu?’ her mother asked. Robin had crossed the threshold of the hut. ‘Dennis Chacha’s son, Robin Babu,’ said Neelmani with excitement. ‘Come in,’ her mother said, ‘when did you come, see these are your grandfather’s furniture. This bed, this almirah, these chairs.’ In the glimmering light of the lamp, Robin could see them outlined, and for a split second, he felt his grandfather’s hand on his shoulder, as if saying, ‘I am so glad you have come at last.’
26
Planning
Robin met them all—Mr Miller, Mr Mendez, Mr Gibson, Mrs Thripthorpe, Mrs Tomalin, Miss Bonner, and read them the story of Elveden turn by turn. How the Anglo-Sikhs were planning to celebrate the centenary of their last great Sikh, Maharaja Duleep Singh, despite opposition from the local gentry. Miss Bonner remarked, ‘Like Elveden, our little village too was one of trees and flowers, but they are all gone and the few that remain are in their last days.’ ‘No! Certainly not!’ Robin answered with some vehemence. ‘That is the beauty of life—flowers dry up, but from their seeds, new ones bloom. Continuity is the most admirable feature of life. The bird dies, but the song … The song goes on forever. I was thinking why not celebrate 3 November, the Founder’s day of McCluskieganj, with pomp and splendour as well. Let it be the beginning of a new phase for McCluskieganj and its people.’ All the old members of the village were pleased with the idea.
Robin asked Mr Gibson and Mr D’Costa to prepare a list of all the Anglo-Indians who had gone abroad, so that they too could participate in the celebrations and contribute towards McCluskieganj. He asked the elders to prepare a blueprint of the plans and, once ready, he would request all the residents of McCluskieganj to give their opinion on it, so that nothing
was missed.
Miss Bonner asked if he would entrust her with some responsibility as well. Robin said, ‘Yes, you will edit the commemorative souvenir. In this work, you will be assisted by Ilona Ghosh, who as you know worked in publishing while she was still in Germany.’
It was the end of June and the rainy season had come full force. One evening soon after, Robin went with Neelmani to inspect
Mr McCluskie’s dilapidated cottage. ‘This is like a haunted house,’ remarked Neelmani. ‘Don’t worry, we will have all this repaired and renovated before foundation day along with
Mr McCluskie’s fountain.’ Then continuing in the same vein, he said, ‘You have to be very actively involved in the celebrations, Neelmani. In fact, the cultural programme will include some Adivasi dance and song items. After all, McCluskieganj is steeped in Adivasi culture. Yes, another thing, when will you be going to Ranchi? We have to meet Saamu Chacha and tell him of our plans. Also we must ask him to try and obtain Bahadur Uncle’s release.’
The very next day, the two went off to Ranchi to see Saamu Munda. In a broken shack, a bag of bones himself, Saamu Munda, an octogenarian now, sat surrounded by books and magazines. These, Neelmani said, were purchased with his freedom fighter’s pension. Neelmani warned Robin that Saamu Chacha tended to be somewhat moody, so he should judge his mood before embarking on any discussion.
Introductions completed, Neelmani said that Robin was there to write a book on the Adivasi and Anglo-Indian settlers in
McCluskieganj. Who could discourse better on such issues than Saamu Chacha, Neelmani said. ‘Yes! Saamu Chacha, I need your help in understanding the psyche of the people in order to get to the very core of their lives.’
Taking a deep breath, Saamu Munda said with some sadness, ‘What is there to say, Robin Sahib. It is the story of a luckless people who have fought and lost, yet continue to fight. Ours is an endless battle for survival. We have always been a tribe of have-nots, always been the serfs on the master’s land. But there lies the twist. Now take the old story that is almost a legend around this area, Ratu Road. The story of Buddhadev Oraon. He was a labourer in the estate of the Ratu Raja. He was paid meagrely, so much so that the people teased him, “Your name should be Buddhu Oraon, Buddhu meaning foolish. Why do you work for such little money?” But poor as he was, he was happy with the little that he had. Then one day his mother died. Poor man, dismayed as he was emotionally, he did not know how to meet the cremation cost. So he decided to go to his master, the Raja of Ratu. People laughed at his foolishness and told him that he who paid him so little for his work would most certainly refuse to help him meet his mother’s funeral expenses. Nevertheless, Buddhadev went howling into the palace and found the raja in his private chamber. Taken aback by the sudden commotion, the raja said with some consternation, “What has happened?” And Buddhadev answered, “My Lord, my mother has died and she needs to be cremated. But I have no money to buy wood for the fire.” “Go meet the manager and tell him that I have ordered that you may take as much wood as needed,” said the raja. Buddhadev’s faith in his king was restored. From then on, he paid little heed to what people had to say about his master.
‘The purpose of telling you this story, Robin Sahib, is that in the old feudal system, the king, though he did not have direct contact wit
h his subjects, still had their welfare at heart. If the situation demanded, he would show uncommon concern for his subjects. However, with the passage of time, things changed. Earlier the Adivasi kings were all Mundas. Our religion being the same, even though our social conditions were different, our rajas were concerned for us. We could expect generosity from them. But some two hundred years ago, to raise their social status, our rajas embraced Hinduism. That’s when the problem started. A sense of superiority came to prevail. The oneness of our earlier ethnicity got compromised. That was when the seeds of division were sowed. The richer Adivasis exploited the poorer brethren, pushing them through exploitation to extreme poverty. To find a better life than that available in Chhota Nagpur, many Adivasis left with their wives and children to work for the tea gardens in Bengal and Assam. Yet, there too their fate seemed sealed.’ Saamu Chacha paused and then Robin thought he heard him humming. What was Saamu Chacha humming with his eyes closed? Robin wondered. There was a certain stillness in the air as Saamu Chacha went on humming. Then opening his eyes, he said, ‘Robin Sahib, this song is about a sad Adivasi mother who tells her daughter that there is too much suffering in their part of the country, so why not go to the tea gardens of Assam. There they would find work and greenery as well. But in the last stanza, there is only bitterness and pain as the song reveals that though the Adivasis went with hope, once there, their fates continued to be blighted. The overseers continuous refrain was, “Work more, work more;” the manager would say, “See that these labourers don’t run away;” and the white owner of the tea garden would say, “Rip the skin off their backs.” This is our story in a nutshell. Everywhere people want power, and with it comes corruption,’ said Saamu Munda, his face twisted with pain and despair.
Robin realized that he had reached a dead end, but was not willing to accept it. He was sure he could bring about a turnaround.
It was getting late. Robin thought about consulting Saamu Chacha on the issue of securing Bahadur Oraon’s release. But Saamu Chacha said that he had tried every avenue. Duti Bhagat had greased the palms of all the powers that be so well that he just couldn’t edge in with his reasoning. And so the two, Robin and Neelmani, rose and took their leave.
On their way back, both Robin and Neelmani were quiet. Each was lost in thought. When they got off the bus at McCluskieganj, Robin told Neelmani with a fresh lease of confidence in the plan that he had hit upon. ‘There’s no backing out, never say die. You will have to revive Bahadur Chacha’s self-reliance groups. They will have to be revived in every village. We will start a movement, away from dirty politics, for the Adivasis, giving a new lease of hope.’
In the fading light of the evening, McCluskieganj appeared like a flower pressed between the pages of some old book, once vibrant, but now sad and lacklustre.
27
A Comic Interlude Amid Gathering Clouds
Amid the gathering clouds of simmering discontent, an interlude gave comic relief of pure joy and fun.
Mr Gibson’s love had no climate, no terrain, so besotted was he with Babu. When Raniya told him that it was time for Babu, already five years old to have his mundan, the first tonsuring, Mr Gibson said, ‘That’s okay. We’ll call the barber and get his hair cut. Done?’ Raniya was quite outraged. ‘That’s not how it’s done at all. You are all sahibs, you will not understand the importance of the ritual. Moreover, Parvati does not have any other son. She wants the occasion to be such that the whole of McCluskieganj will remember it.’ That was enough.
Mr Gibson, who was very soft on Parvati, agreed that it should be a memorable event. He would do anything for her joy. He went around getting things organized, the pandit, the barber, new clothes for Babu, the works! The whole of McCluskieganj was invited to the celebration. As usual tongues wagged and gossip reached a crescendo. It reached Mr Gibson as well. ‘It’s not Babu’s mundan, it is the old man’s; they have fleeced him good and proper! Wait till his old woman hears of it in Australia.’ And wasn’t Mr Gibson angry to hear it!
When Robin observed Mr Gibson’s generosity and love for Parvati’s son Babu, he expressed his appreciation to Mr Gibson. ‘It’s amazing, your ability to break all social norms and do what you are doing for a poor woman’s child.’ Mr Gibson replied very philosophically, ‘The mango grows on the tree and the fish swims in the water, but have you not observed how they get served on the same plate. What is it that unites hearts, God only knows.’ And so Babu’s mundan took place with much fanfare. Traditionally, the hair cut during the mundan ceremony is supposed to be left in the bamboo bushes. It marks the prosperity of the future generations and this ritual is done by a family member. Parvati’s mother Rania said, ‘Mr Gibson will put Babu’s hair in the bamboo bushes.’ Mr Gibson returned with tears in his eyes.
Soon, however, suddenly as if from nowhere, rumours started flying that the government had leased several villages around McCluskieganj to a private coal company. As a result, the residents of McCluskieganj were deeply distressed. It was said that McCluskieganj and the environs surrounding it were sitting on millions of tonnes of coal. This company was believed to have paid the chief minister crores of rupees for this lease. Mr Mendez told Mr Miller in a shaky voice, ‘There will be no trace of our village.’ To this Mr Miller replied, ‘We are fast disappearing anyway.’ Robin urged Neelmani to mop up resistance against this move. ‘More precious than the coal hidden in the bowels of the earth are the precious lives of those living above. No, we will not let this happen.’
Then for a couple of days, Robin lost sight of Neelmani. He went in search of her to the Chatti and approached her mother. As he went along, he saw the adjacent fields green with the soft paddy plants; he saw the little mud huts of the Adivasis, he could even inhale the smell of the earth and thought that this was the ultimate in man’s life, to be one with the earth, the soil with soul. That was the meaning of homeland.
Neelmani was not at home. Her mother said, ‘I don’t know what has come over her. I have been seeing that for the past few days, she leaves home before daybreak. She is busy rounding up the villagers for the cause her father had started, the fight against the perpetrators of force and exploitation. God knows what Duti Bhagat will do to her.’ ‘Don’t worry. She is doing the right thing,’ said Robin.
The next morning Robin was surprised to see Neelmani at Queen’s Cottage. ‘Where were you?’ Robin asked her. ‘Tomorrow morning, I have called for a meeting of the self-reliance groups near the Chatti river,’ she told him. ‘Okay. I will be there,’ said Robin. He was looking at her. Though she seemed soft, she was really stronger than the rocks of the Kanka hills.
Hundreds of Adivasis with their bows and arrows gathered the next day in a show of solidarity against the government. With new dedication, unrelenting like the lightning, they came together at the behest of Neelmani, who had now assumed the ferocity of a tigress. ‘In the name of Adivasi rights, the leaders of the Jharkhand Mukti Manch have betrayed the Adivasi cause to the powers that be from Delhi to Patna to Ranchi. They are not our leaders, they are the betrayers and brokers of our true cause. To earn and amass black money, these leaders are planning to lease our land for coal mining. We will not tolerate this coal mafia. Birsa Munda too had died for our cause. Bahadur Oraon is languishing in jail for our cause. We pledge today to continue our fight against the perpetrators of our suffering.’ Neelmani’s voice rang out and resounded from the Kanka hills. ‘Neelmani, Neelmani!’ the crowd shouted in appreciation of their new-found leader. But in Ranchi, the restlessness among the officials grew. How would they handle this fast kindling flame?
The news of Neelmani’s inspiring speech had already reached Queen’s Cottage. Mr Mendez asked Robin with an amused smile, ‘What is your tigress up to these days? Looks like the village will be saved after all, and the ringmaster of this tigress is Robin my boy!’
28
In the Cool Autumn Days
The scent of memories, the presence of a healing touch, may have a strong effect on a se
nsitive mind. Neelmani, so to say, rekindled the feelings that Dennis had sown in his son. Robin was most definitely veering towards the rising star, Neelmani, who had assumed a permanence in Robin’s firmament.
It was the end of September. The village was agog with preparations for foundation day. All hands were full, guests had been informed, be it Walter Baba or Asma in New Zealand, Jeffrey and Fisher in Australia. Mrs Tomalin had written to Keith as also Mr Robinson had to his brother in England. Robin asked Mr Gibson if Aunty Gibson had been invited. Mr Gibson handed over her address to Robin, saying that it would be wiser if Robin wrote to her, for she would most certainly turn down his invitation. Mandalji, the postmaster, had never dispatched so many letters to places all over the world. In fact, the surprise of surprises came when Mrs Gibson confirmed her participation. She added that this time she would settle her scores with her husband before every one. Mr Gibson smiled and said, ‘That adds one more item to your entertainment programme, an on-the-spot drama entitled Play Without Rehearsal!’
McCluskieganj Page 20