McCluskieganj

by Vikas Kumar Jha

  Idle chatter aside, the fact was that Mr Rozario had been nominated MLA and he would stay so for the next five years. So a warm reception party was arranged by the residents of

  McCluskieganj for him. However, the rains were an impediment. They were non-stop, and according to Khushia Pahan, westerly winds in July and easterly winds in August were a sure sign of continuous rains. And he was proved correct. Mr Mendez was only concerned about Miss Bonner somehow surviving the rainy season, because he knew what trouble they had had during the burial of Mr Reuben Rafael.

  39

  Ordained by Destiny

  The Jharkhand Freedom Front stepped up its momentum for a separate state. The residents of McCluskieganj and elsewhere became quite certain that within two years the new state would be formed.

  On 30 June 1997, the handing over of Hong Kong to China by Great Britain took place. Both Francis and Victor, those two dear friends of Dennis’s, kept him posted with letters and media clippings. This handing over took place with much fanfare at the Convention and Exhibition Centre in Hong Kong. The Prince of Wales personally represented the Queen and read out the farewell speech marking the departure of the British from Hong Kong. Both Prime Minister Tony Blair of Great Britain and President Jiang Zemin of China were present too. Nothing changed overnight, except that the postage stamp with the Queen’s face on it was withdrawn and the Red Royal Mail Post Box became the Green Hong Kong Post Box. The president assured that for the next fifty years, nothing would be altered, but already there was an underlying tension over the subtle change of policies of the new government.

  In McCluskieganj too, things were happening fast. The date for Robin and Neelmani’s wedding had been fixed. Everyone felt that since the couple were ideally suited to one another, there ought to be no delay. For the last one week,

  McCluskieganj was again on a high. The church had been dressed for the wedding. Saamu Munda came and parked himself in

  McCluskieganj to act as the bride’s guardian and give her away. Neelmani’s mother had warned him against the smallest slip or failing. Considering Robin and Neelmani’s popularity, people from the nearby villages were expected to turn up. It was going to be like a huge convention. Only Mukherji-da of Guhabadi had predicted that the alliance did not bode well, but no one was willing to listen to him. Therefore, he just stayed mum.

  The self-reliance groups would be maintaining order throughout the proceedings. Food and refreshments were aplenty and being personally overseen by the members of Robin’s extended family—Mr Mendez, Mr Miller, Mr Noel Gordon and Mr Amit Ghosh. The services of the youth too had been requisitioned—Danny and Jennifer, Bobby Gordon, Babloo and a host of others stayed on their toes. That evening the church was overflowing. It was difficult to discern the bride’s side from the groom’s. With a silver tiara on her head, and in a white-and-silver sequined wedding gown, Neelmani looked like a fairy, while Robin was looking dynamic in a white suit. A perfect couple at the altar while taking their vows! There was a thunderous uproar of joy and clapping as Robin applied vermilion in the parting of Neelmani’s hair and finished exchanging rings.

  Mrs Bonner passed away within five days of the marriage. Her funeral at the McCluskieganj graveyard was an impressive one and was specially overseen by Michael Parkinson. But within days, Bonner Bhawan became a subject of controversy. Although it was a known fact that Miss Bonner had willed the house to Mariam, it was also true that some years ago, she had sold her adjacent plot of land to the R.C. Mission and had, at that point of time, made a will saying that if the Mission looked after her in her old age, they would get Bonner Bhawan too after her death. However, subsequently she changed that will and made Mariam her sole beneficiary. A legal tussle ensued. Mariam was quite down though not out because of the support that the whole village gave her. Finally it was resolved—it was agreed that Mariam got possession of the upper storey of the house while the lower floor would be turned into a museum.

  Mr Gibson was taken to Australia by his wife, who had set her son Ronald on the task of bringing back his father. Ronald was shocked to see the state Mr Gibson had been reduced to, living as he was in the servant’s quarter of the house which was once his own. It took him just two hours to pack Mr Gibson’s belongings and then he was ready to leave. But Mr Gibson kept at it. ‘No, I will not go … I will die here … Stupid! … Idiot! … You dare force me … No I won’t go!’ The whole village witnessed his traumatic exit as he was bundled into a taxi to be taken to the Ranchi airport. Dennis said, ‘Just for a short while, Mr Gibson. See how far your son has come to take you.’ Dennis saw that his hands that were holding Mr Gibson’s were drenched with the old man’s tears, but he also saw that Ronald too was weeping.

  40

  Birsa

  McCluskieganj was witnessing its best days. Would that its founder had seen this meteoric rise. It had literally no parallel in farming. It was December and the paddy yield had been astounding. The rice mills were working overtime. So many varieties were now available—Jaya, Padma, Mansuri, Vijay, the range was endless. The cultivation of wheat too was mind-boggling. Earlier, where there was only one type of grain, namely Sonalika, now they had Hira Moti, Lal Bahadur and what not. It would not be an exaggeration to say that

  McCluskieganj and its precincts had produced enough vegetable for the whole of Jharkhand. Blooming, McCluskieganj had at last become God’s own village.

  Dennis and Liza were walking on air. The reason was the birth of Robin and Neelmani’s son. It was the end of January and the cold was extreme. Mariam had been commissioned for the baby’s care and she did her work assiduously. She would massage the baby vigorously, turning him up and down, such that Dennis would get alarmed. ‘Mariam, this way you will yank out his limbs!’ Mariam would smile and reply, ‘This is how his limbs will get strong, Uncle,’ and Dennis would resign himself to say, ‘Okay, whatever you think best.’

  Then both he and Liza would lapse into the past, remembering the time when Robin was a baby. How happy his father Brian McGowan used to look playing with the soft and rosy-cheeked Robin! Liza would repeatedly kiss the baby and say, ‘Ditto Robin!’ while Neelmani looked on and just smiled. Mariam would observe and remark, ‘Aunty, the baby’s eyes are like his mother’s,’ to which Liza would add, ‘Yes, that is how it should be.’

  A lot of discussion followed over the baby’s name. Robin insisted they call him Birsa. But his father objected. ‘How can you select such a name? Think of the struggle in Birsa Munda’s life. And his death, that too in the jail. Do you know that names can affect the personality of the individual concerned.’ ‘But Birsa is immortal, Papa. Look at his commitment to society. I salute him.’ Then Dennis could not help but agree, ‘Okay, okay, then Birsa it will be, Birsa Brian McGowan.’ Robin felt a surge of emotion. Holding his father’s hand, he said, ‘Oh Papa!’

  The formation of the new state of Jharkhand seemed imminent. Perhaps the state election of 2000 would be the last one in united Bihar. But something happened at this point. Mr Rozario lost his seat to Mr J.P. Gaulston, who became the incumbent Anglo-Indian MLA. Although many were still against the Jharkhand Mukti Morcha (JMM), they waited with baited breath for their own state, for their own identity and full and final freedom.

  It was 15 November 2000, Birsa Munda’s birthday, and the day on which Jharkhand was born. In one stroke, three new states were formed: Uttaranchal, Chhattisgarh and Jharkhand. Prime Minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee, despite Shibu Soren’s stake for claiming chief ministership of the new state, appointed his own Union minister of tourism, Babulal Marandi, the first CM of Jharkhand. This was a huge blow to the JMM leaders. As a result, the new state went into a tizzy, virtually making it impossible for the new chief minister to function. The JMM gave a call to openly challenge and raze to the ground everything governmental. Duti Bhagat, along with others of his ilk, were raring for action. Law took a back seat as a result. Many criminals who had been released began to roam freely, settling old scores with matchless
vendetta. Crime touched new heights.

  McCluskieganj, however, remains largely quiet and untouched. The schemes founded by Robin and Neelmani, particularly the McCluski Housing Scheme for the Below-Poverty Line (BPL) people, had committed itself to making fifty brick houses for the homeless at a nominal charge. The place earmarked for this work was the Kanka foothills. The plan was to hand over the first lot of houses on 26 January 2001.

  Robin and Neelmani were working day and night to achieve their target. Masons and plumbers were working deep into the night aided by Petromax lights. Throwing caution to the winds, Robin on his motorcycle with Neelmani behind would, at all times of the day, breeze in and out of McCluskieganj for the Kanka foothills. Mr Mendez as well as Dennis would warn him to be careful, but Liza aptly said, ‘Since he has committed himself, we should not put obstacles in his way.’

  In the name of the MCC, a lot of criminals were creating panic among the villagers, and on 23 January, which is also Subhash Chandra Bose’s birthday, Neelmani and Robin were gunned down by hired assassins while driving to the construction site. Neelmani took four bullets in her head while Robin took three, two in the head and one in the chest. They were both lying on the side of the road as the village stood stunned by this crazy act of violence.

  What had those two felt when they were confronted by the assassins? Probably that the sun which had gleamed a minute before for them suddenly turned dark. There were no witnesses except the Kanka, and perhaps some rooks that may have been encircling the sky. Yet two promising, young lives had been snuffed out. And Robin’s parents … Particularly his mother … Liza was getting nervous fits.

  Bad news travels fast. Surely the gunshots were out of earshot, but within hours, a sea of humanity arrived at the tragic spot. Dennis, who had been brought by Bobby Gordon, just collapsed on the ground with a thump. Everywhere people are wailing and crying—Khushia Pahan, Tuinyan Ganjhu, Saamu Munda. Crazy with grief, Shanichar Oraon was shouting hysterically. ‘This is the work of that bastard Duti.’ While Tuinyan Ganjhu sobbed and said, ‘The crown and glory of our village have been lifted.’

  Meanwhile the police arranged to take the bodies for post-mortem. Mr Miller told the police with some consternation, ‘This is a contract killing job and Duti Bhagat is definitely behind it. Please don’t mess up the investigation.’ Neelmani’s mother too reached the spot along with little Birsa. She couldn’t bear to look at the bodies of her daughter and son-in-law, so bespattered with blood were they. Birsa was moving his little hands oblivious of the goings-on. Then suddenly, Dennis took him in his lap and shouted, ‘Long live Robin and Neelmani!’ Then holding Birsa up, he said, ‘Look, Robin and Neelmani are not gone. They are here in Birsa!’ It was cold and a wind had suddenly started blowing; perhaps it was the beginning of a winter rain. But McCluskieganj … It had turned full circle.

  Postscript

  Life is all about finding the difference between myth and reality. That’s where the colour lies…

  Mahasweta Ghosh: What inspired you to write McCluskieganj? Was it an impulse or had you planned it for long?

  Vikas Kumar Jha: It was truly an impulse. The village’s soul filled me up and I couldn’t withdraw. Many years ago, I was engaged with a national Hindi fortnightly called Maya. Bihar was an undivided state at the time. I had heard about

  McCluskieganj being the only Anglo-Indian village in the world, situated in Chhota Nagpur area. So I visited the place once while reporting for the magazine. This village is about 65 miles from Ranchi. When I reached McCluskieganj and met its people, their life ensnared me. The village owned me immediately. Its hills and lakes, the vintage Portuguese bungalows, the rooted Anglo-Indians and tribals coexisting with each other, their love for their motherland—everything touched the writer in me. This village is the paradigm of collective memory and productive nostalgia. It was filled with memories, hope and pounding hearts looking for their identity. The village was a magical portrait in the realistic world.

  A view of McCluskieganj

  MG: How do you look at the novel now? Do tell us about its evolution.

  VKJ: Mark Twain’s Life on the Mississippi, The Cossacks by Tolstoy, or even a novel closer home, like Phanishwar Nath Renu’s path-breaking Maila Anchal made me feel that social reality, imagination, history, and the cultural factors that contributed towards the greatness of these works, were all present in

  McCluskieganj as well. When my novel received the Katha UK Award at the House of Commons in London in the year 2011, the people of McCluskieganj celebrated as if there was a festival. Their little village had suddenly come alive on the global map. There was a buzz of exuberance among the people; they believed I had given a world tour to McCluskieganj. It had, like a phoenix, risen from its own ashes to a new life. I could relate to the rising, as many a time in my own life, I too have risen from ashes. The faith in survival and fighting for your identity is what connects me to this village. This novel marked a new beginning for me and the renewal it set off in my life hasn’t stopped till date. That village is a family to me now. Many a time, they address me by the name of Robin, the main character of my novel. What more could I wish for? This embodiment of my own protagonist and the rare village of McCluskieganj enthuses me even today.

  Mr E.T. MCluskie, Founder of McCluskieganj

  c

  MG: What kept you busy before this novel?

  VKJ: As I said, by profession, I am a journalist. Drawing on my work, I had written two books before the novel: Bihar: Criminalization of Politics and Satta ka Sutradhar on the political history of post-Independence India. However, I must declare that McCluskieganj remains the closest to my heart. It’s much more than just a novel to me. It changed my literary career and gave me as much love as I gave to it.

  Bonner Bhawan of McCluskieganj

  MG: It took you almost two decades to write this novel. Did you encounter any apprehension or subconscious fear regarding its completion?

  VKJ: I had no doubts regarding its completion, but I did not let the novel get affected by my journalistic work. It was quite a challenge to squeeze out time from my busy mainstream journalism routine and escape into a different world. To sustain the spirit, to maintain it evenly throughout the writing of the novel, I regularly visited the village, carried out extensive research, connected with the people of McCluskieganj, all the while keeping a finger on the pulse of the village. I shared their dreams, stories and their hope. That’s what made the novel what it’s become. It paints an honest picture. Most of its characters are real while some are imaginary. But it is up to the readers to decide what’s real and what’s not. That’s where the thrill lies. Many writers and books have time and again mentioned this village, but none of them thought of living its life. For instance, the well-known Bengali writer Buddhadeb Guha went to the extent of buying a cottage there, but no one thought of creating a novel about the village. The theme of the village became a challenge for me, because I didn’t choose it—it was the other way round. As they say, what you seek is actually seeking you.

  Mr Denzil Borowd

  MG: Any special memories of McCluskieganj you recall in the process of your long research that you’d like to mention…? Some of the characters float amid reality and myth … How did you balance that?

  VKJ: The memories are countless. Every day McCluskieganj was a story in itself. The people, the houses, the nature, the lanes, the colonial imprints, the fascinating anecdotes, the innumerable random faces, their choices, their struggles, fill me with so many reminiscences … like an old trunk filled with beautiful memories. Whenever I open it, it takes me back to those times.

  Mrs Denzil Borowd. She moved to an old age home in Kolkata after

  Mr Borowd’s death.

  The village is a tragicomedy in its own right. Most of its characters are still a part of my life. For instance, the character of Mr Gibson from my novel is a real character, and when he left McCluskiegunj and went to Calcutta to live in an old-age home, I went to visit him
quite a few times. Kitty memsahib, the Anglo-Indian lady who sold fruits at the station, is another significant character, among many more. And a writer earns so many relationships on the way that it is tough to let go. These are the relationships we choose to nurture and keep in our lives. Life is all about finding the difference between myth and reality. That’s where the colour lies…

  A cyclist on the road in front of Highland Guest House

  My Ganj family is still intact in my memory. My first encounter with Kitty Memsaab at the station when she was excited to respond to my query saying, ‘Everybody knows me! If you want to ask about me, go ask Queen Victoria and Lord Curzon.’ I can’t forget that meeting and I have mentioned it in the novel where Robin meets Kitty for the first time.

  An old tree in McCluskieganj

  I still remember Mr Miller’s cottage in the village. Another memorable moment was when the Palamu Express was allowed a five-minute stoppage at the Ganj after I tried really hard convincing the Rail Ministry. When the train stopped at the

  McCluskieganj station for the first time, the entire village had turned up, and Mr Miller had brought a basket of mangoes to greet the engine driver.

  Mrs Carney’s adopted son, Canteen Majeed, till date, remains a very dear friend, and in any crisis, he calls me first in the whole world. Miss Bonner is no more, but Mariam who served her until her last breath still lives in Bonner Bhawan, and whenever I go to the Ganj, she takes me to her studyroom and says, ‘Mrs Bonner always talked of you and remembered you every day.’