by Mark Shand
‘Chain her front legs, Gokul,’ I said.
‘Chains? No chains. Raja-sahib forget,’ he squeaked. ‘Wait, Gokul fetching.’
I stood beside her, holding on to one flapping ear. She looked out at the tempting flat surface of the lake and with almost an apologetic shake of her head, she whirled round and ran squealing into the water, surging across it like a stately liner, much to the annoyance of the ducks who took to the air in a flurry of beating wings.
‘Come back you bloody nightmare,’ I yelled. ‘Come back at once. I feed you! I spoil you! I honour and praise you! and still you insist on making me look a fool. When I get you out of there things are going to change.’
Grabbing the ankush, I plunged into the water and swam out towards her. I circled behind her, jamming the ankush hard into her fat bottom. ‘Move, you tub of lard,’ I spluttered, treading water frantically. Whereupon she disappeared. Moments later I felt my backside being prodded. I whirled around and managed to clamber on her back, holding tightly by both ears. With a squeal of delight, as if I was now her new playmate, she dived, and I found myself being bounced along underwater as she tiptoed along the bottom of the lake. My ears began to pop. Remembering what Bhim had told me about an elephant holding its breath for the same length of time as a man, I somehow held on. Just as I thought my lungs would explode, we surged upwards, taking great gasps of air.
‘You see, fatso. You cannot …’ and before I could catch my breath, down she went again. This time I had to let go, spluttering to the surface. She popped up a few yards ahead and looked mischievously at me. ‘All right, Tara, enough’s enough. I’m going for help.’
I swam to the shore. She followed me closely. As I climbed out she looked sad that the game was over. Shaking with rage and cold I marched into the camp where Aditya and Indrajit were having breakfast.
‘The all powerful mimosa,’ Aditya crowed, and both of them collapsed in laughter.
‘Where’s Bhim?’ I demanded. ‘He’s coming with me. And so are you.’
‘He can’t swim,’ Aditya remarked, ‘so what the …’
‘I’m quite aware of that,’ I replied icily. ‘I’m going to use my lilo. He can lie on it with the spear and we can push.’
It would have been an odd sight anywhere, but on a remote lake in the middle of Bihar, it was a miracle. Drunken Dussehra celebrants shook themselves from roadside ditches and haystacks, rubbing their eyes in amazement, as if their hangovers could not possibly account for the sight. Passersby stopped and stared, and I heard the church bell tolling as if gathering people to see this unusual spectacle.
Bhim was decidedly sceptical about the lilo. He prodded it suspiciously, but I convinced him that it did float. Lying down gingerly, he held the spear firmly ahead of him, and we pushed out into the middle of the lake. Tara came whizzing over, fascinated by this new arrival. Poking the lilo, she flipped her trunk underneath it tipping Bhim into the water. The old mahout disappeared in a wash of bubbles. Aditya fished him out and, ignoring his protests, rolled him back on. With Bhim as the central attack, we closed on Tara, in a kind of ‘V’ formation, jabbing the spear continually into her legs and backside. At last we began to force her towards the shore.
‘Boat sinking,’ Bhim shouted anxiously. Indeed it was, and water began to lap over the sides.
‘Hang on, Bhim,’ I yelled. ‘Just a few more yards.’ Tara, perhaps realising that this was no longer a game, lumbered out of the water and raced at full speed towards the camp.
‘Leave her to me,’ I said firmly, following her. For the next two hours we played a kind of cat and mouse game. Unable to resist the large chunks of gur that I held enticingly in my hand, she would trot forward and slowly push out her trunk. I would remove the gur and with the other hand, in which I held a thick piece of rope, whack her as hard as I could. She would rush off squealing, bursting through the camp, scattering tents and pots and pans. In the end, her greed proved greater than her patience and, with a look that said ‘the game’s up’, she stood meekly while I chained her front legs together. As I locked the final link, a bedraggled Bhim reached over my shoulder and punched her on the trunk.
‘Now Bhim shoot Mummy!!’ he raged. ‘Like soldiers shoot great tusker, Ganges, dead, in water!’
We managed to calm him down, but it was only after he had finished the better part of a bottle of rum that he finally told the story.
The elephant, a big old tusker called Ganges, belonged to the Maharaja of Puri, the Gajpati – The Lord of Elephants. Ganges was a splendid, gentle animal, cherished by the family, being used only for the most important ceremonial occasions. The town of Puri is situated on the coast of Orissa, and early each morning the elephant’s mahout, dressed in a red uniform, rode him to the beach where the fishermen would be unloading their night’s catch. The mahout would make a selection for the palace kitchen and then Ganges would carry the fish back in his trunk. At the beginning, Ganges had clearly indicated his displeasure by refusing to perform this task. Being a herbivore, the stink and slime that cloyed his sensitive organ would have been most distasteful. However, being a disciplined elephant, and, no doubt goaded by vicious jabs from the ankush, he eventually carried out his duties punctiliously. One day, his dignity badly bruised, Ganges decided he had suffered enough. Throwing down his noxious burden, he charged at a tree, intending to smash his mahout in the overhanging branches. Somehow, the mahout survived the impact and hung in the tree until the elephant moved away. Ganges returned to his stable in the palace, where the Rajmata, the Maharaja’s mother, as was her habit each morning was waiting to feed him. Alarmed by the absence of the mahout, she called for help. Obviously very disturbed, Ganges broke away before he could be chained, and rushed through the heavily populated streets of the town, where, amongst the crowds, he singled out and attacked passersby who were wearing red. Fortunately, only three people were killed and he finally came to rest in a nearby lake. By now, his mahout had returned, announcing that the elephant had gone mad. Acting on his recommendation, orders were issued to destroy the elephant immediately. As Ganges wallowed happily in the water enjoying his bath, a squad of soldiers lined the banks and emptied their magazines into him.
‘Not tusker’s fault,’ Bhim said, his bloodshot eyes watering. ‘Bad mahout,’ and curled up next to Tara to finish his rum.
‘How far is it to Ranchi?’ I asked Aditya.
‘About eighteen miles.’
‘Right,’ I said, climbing on to Tara. ‘No stops. We’re going straight through.’
Having perhaps sacrilegiously drawn a skull and crossbones with a white sunblock on her forehead, I dug my toes viciously behind her ears, rattled the ankush against the howdah and set off.
As elephants can sense fear in a human being, they can also sense anger. Perhaps it was this that vibrated through my body, transmitting itself to her, so that she finally realised I could no longer be exploited and began to respond accordingly. Gone were the days in which she would amble from side to side, travelling at her own convenience and pace. We fairly swung along. She misbehaved once, grabbing a handful of paddy from a passing cart. It was the last time she did it. Automatically, I stuck the point of the ankush sharply behind her ear. As she trumpeted in pain I winced, horrified by my actions. I felt instantly sick. Blood welled from where I had spiked her and I watched, mesmerised, as it spread over the side of her head.
‘Good, Raja-sahib,’ Bhim shouted from where he was walking behind. ‘Now Mummy listen.’
Terrified that I had injured her seriously, I drew both my feet back into her neck, a trick that I had seen Bhim perform many times. Surprisingly she stopped dead in her tracks. Bhim inspected the wound.
‘Not problem, not problem,’ he consoled me. ‘Not need medicine.’
But I was beyond consolation. After cleaning the wound with Dettol I stuck a large patchwork of Elastoplast over it, which she inspected suspiciously with her trunk before ripping it off, and throwing it on to the road. The blood had
already dried, and I spent the rest of the day anxiously brushing away the flies.
We climbed steadily, up the southern fringe of the Chota Nagpur plateau. Cultivation surrounded us. There were no trees. This area had never recovered from the ruthless exploitation of the timber demands during the Second World War. We made camp under a large iron-girder bridge a short distance from Ranchi, the major city of this region.
The next day Aditya and I left by jeep to visit Ranchi, accompanied by a young crime reporter who had come out to meet us. He told us it was a relief to discuss elephants rather than murders. Bhim and Gokul in the meantime would make their way slowly around the vast town’s outskirts towards Pisca, near where we had been invited to stay with the sister of a friend from Delhi.
In earlier times, the salubrious climate of Ranchi had induced many Europeans to settle, and going by the sumptuousness of the former Government House, they were determined to live well. About four hundred labourers and two hundred masons were employed in the construction of Government House. The woodwork was executed by Chinese carpenters. Portland cement was used as mortar. The floors and ballroom were lined in teak and the card-room in marble. The gardens, designed in an Italian style, were filled with imported plants. Once a town of great character, Ranchi was now almost completely industrialised, with the dubious honour of having the highest crime rate of any city in India.
We called on one of Ranchi’s most venerable characters, a charming old Anglo-Indian lady called Marie Palit. A wildlife expert for thirty years, she had observed tigers from a tree-house she had built in the jungle. Now a sprightly eighty-five years of age, she told me she had started life in London, where she had studied to become a beautician and hairdresser in an establishment called ‘Dolls’, before marrying one of India’s most eminent surgeons who had received the OBE. Her house was named ‘Cobwebs’. When she had first moved to Ranchi some seventy years ago, the track leading to it was a tunnel of silken threads and she had been loath to disturb the occupants. Over tumblers of sherry she dreamily recalled a misty morning when the Duke of Gloucester, ‘a charming man on a beautiful horse’, had ridden over from nearby Government House to breakfast with her. A keen shikari in her day, she had shot everything except a hippopotamus and a man.
In the meantime, Bhim and Gokul were nearing Pisca. When we caught up with them, Tara was meandering from side to side, occasionally giving a small lurch as she tripped over one of her legs. Both Bhim and Gokul were asleep on top of the howdah – Gokul spread out on the back with a happy expression on his face – Bhim with his head on his chest, snoring loudly. As I got out of the jeep, Tara greeted me with a happy, lopsided grin and sneezed loudly. A blast of distinctly alcoholic breath hit me in the face. They were all drunk, having been to a roadside party. Bhim explained that the hot sun had made her thirsty, and it was impolite to let her drink alone.
Through some pretty, stone park gates, we could see a drive lined with jacaranda and wisteria bushes, at the end of which we could hear the sound of laughter and chinking of glasses. We had arrived at Tikratoli Farm. Our hostess was sadly in hospital, but her son was there to greet us.
On the lawns, surrounding a picturesque ornamental pond filled with rare species of water birds, a group of well-dressed men and women sat in easy chairs, chatting and draining the last of the pre-luncheon cocktails as if at some country weekend in England. We felt we were entering a dream as the scene was so alien to the vagabond life that we had led until now.
‘Good afternoon,’ I said as normally as possible, taking off my sweat-stained turban, as if I had arrived by car with my suitcases in the boot. I yanked hard on Tara’s ear to stop her helping herself to the abundance of carefully planted shrubs.
‘Welcome, Aditya and Mark,’ he said expansively. ‘Everything’s arranged. Park your elephant over there,’ he pointed to a suitable tree. ‘Your boys’ quarters are all prepared. Would you like to wash before lunch, or just get stuck into the drink?’
We spent an idyllic two days eating off china plates, using silver knives and forks, drinking out of pre-chilled beer mugs and bathing in big porcelain baths filled with piping hot water. Our travel-stained, filthy clothes were freshly laundered. We began to feel almost human again. Tara was utterly spoiled by the children of many friends who came to meet us, and the boys had an opportunity to have a rest and check out our paraphernalia. The jeep was stripped down and tuned. Tara’s pack gear, which was coming apart at the seams after the endless days of travel, was repaired and patched up for the final part of our journey.
Our host arranged a press conference. Apart from one journalist who thought I was an ‘exploiter’ rather than an ‘explorer’ and another who was amazed I had not been at school with Rajiv Gandhi, it went off well. The State Bank of India presented me with a banner which read THE STATE BANK OF INDIA APPLAUDS THE SPIRIT OF ADVENTURE. I was delighted. My association with these institutions has never been amiable.
Lured by the comforts of Tikratoli Farm and the superb hospitality of our host, I was tempted to stay longer, but I could feel complacency setting in. It was time to move on. McCluskiegunge, Hazaribagh, the vastness of the Indo-Gangetic Plain, and the mighty Ganges lay ahead.
14
McCluskiegunge
Our Homeland At Last. A Wandering Homeless Community Will Now Have A Real Home. The Land Of Our Dreams Is Now A Reality. Our Proud Possession Where We Can Get Together And Build Our Very Own Farms And Vineyards, Our Towns And Suburbs And Grow To Be One Of The Peoples Of India.
THESE WERE THE stirring words of E. T. McCluskie, an Anglo-Indian engineer from Calcutta, in the Colonisation Observer of 1933, after he had leased ten thousand acres from the Maharaja of Chotanagpur to build the first independent community where Anglo-Indians could make a life and grow into a nation through unity and co-operation. In its heyday, just before the war, three hundred Anglo-Indian families had settled in the colony, living in style in splendid villas surrounded by extensive farmlands. They brought with them every modern amenity; a departmental store, a club, a dispensary, a nursing-home. There were schools and churches. Hockey, football and cricket were played. Lavish balls were thrown, where the ladies rustled in the latest fashions from London and Paris, while gentlemen in black ties drank their chotapegs of whisky on the manicured lawns and discussed ‘home’, some of them never having been there. When the war came many able-bodied men, especially of the younger generation, joined the armed forces, never to return. Others fled in fear of reprisals from the Indians when the country was on the threshold of independence.
All that remains today are a few of the original families, possibly twenty-five, still living in their mansions, full of pride and spirit, cherishing memories of better times.
P. D. Stracey, himself an Anglo-Indian, wrote a somewhat harsh, but accurate, account in Elephant Gold of what the Anglo-Indian represented:
I was a typical product of British Indian stock and western upbringing, an Anglo-Indian or Eurasian, as a person of mixed descent is known in India and further east. My community had evolved as a distinct entity among the many races of India and came to occupy a particular little niche in which traditions and respectability of a smug British pattern kept us aloof from the country in which we lived and earned our bread. We had once been of great service to the conquerors of India in building up the various strata of administration at a time when it was impossible to find enough people for the jobs which call for toughness and enterprise, but suddenly we had fallen on evil days. Still, we were the second line of British power, always at call to suppress unrest and disorder and to prop up authority during the period of India’s struggle for independence. We were ‘little Britishers’ largely unconscious of the anomaly of our position, completely unaware of the indifference with which we were treated by the Europeans on one side and the Indians on the other, although, no doubt, in the eyes of the world, a tragic product of British rule in India.
Before 1946, the colony was for Anglo-Indians only and the land co
uld only be sold to them. Subsequently, this restriction was removed, with the result that settlers sold their land, usually for a very low rate, to entrepreneurs who, over the years, have developed their own small businesses into thriving factories. When the wind blows from the north-west, the fumes of the largest open-cast coal mine in Asia blows its filthy, choking, smoke over McCluskiegunge. The mine is spreading greedily, and if nothing is done to preserve this unique settlement it might well become part of this monstrous pit.
McCluskiegunge, or the ‘Gunge’ as residents call it, spreads over nine square miles of heavily wooded, undulating hills, through which the Calcutta–Delhi railway line runs. In the old days, McCluskiegunge was filled with retired railway personnel and was a main stop on this line. Now the station is but a watering halt for the coal trains heading north.
Perhaps the term Anglo-Indian represented what I was when I rode into McCluskiegunge, an Englishman on an Indian elephant. For two days I found myself going through a series of mixed emotions: nostalgia, sadness and anger but, above all, admiration for the spontaneity and honesty of these people, who went out of their way to make me feel at home.
I passed white gateposts bearing the names ‘Greenacres’, ‘Park Grange’, ‘The Nest’, ‘Honeymoon Cottage’, ‘Mini-haha’ and ‘The Gables’, which led up carefully tended driveways in which labradors and terriers bounded down to greet me with their vigorous barking.
‘Come here, Flossie, sit.’
‘Jungo, you bloody dog, get down.’
‘Sorry you weren’t here a few days ago, you’d have met Podge, he got bitten by a cobra. Still, old Eva’s bitch has just had a litter.’
‘Come in, come in. You must be hot. I’ve just made some fresh lemonade, or perhaps you would like something stronger. Not a bad vintage this year. You can have guava, mulberry or elderberry wine. I suggest you try guava. It’s got a bit of a punch.’