Between 1937 and ’39, tempers were running high. The British fanned communal tension in large parts of India which Mahatma Gandhi tried to douse. Elsewhere abroad, in Europe, the rumbling of World War II had begun. Germany had invaded Poland. Britain was keen to join the fray against Germany. The world scenario was changing fast. By 1940, the anti-British movement got a fresh impetus, though thousands of freedom fighters were being incarcerated. This movement had its repercussions on the people of McCluskieganj. The locals were keen to know the views of the sahibs. But most of the Anglo-Indians were wary of expressing their true feelings. Their personal opinion on the trend of politics was hard to guage. In 1942, when the whole country was seething, Bhukhla Ganjhu was arrested and taken into police custody. There were rumours going round in the circle of locals. One such rumour-monger said, ‘Poor Bhukhla Ganjhu, do you know what these half-breeds have complained to the Ranchi Police? That Bhukhla is a Congress supporter who abuses Queen Victoria at every corner!’ Whether it was true or not that the Anglo-Indians had actually complained against Bhukhla, the fact remained that he did enjoy abusing the British, often unprovoked. One morning when Mr Kitson was returning from his morning walk, Bhukhla had accosted him with his habitual expletives. Mr Kitson had gently chided Bhukhla saying, ‘Why do you sully yourself? Does the queen, who is long dead and gone, hear you at all?’ Soon after that he got arrested. Some of the Adivasi boys had gone to Mr Kitson’s house to get even with him. But the wiser villagers intervened to bring the situation under control. One morning, Aklu Mahto’s calf had wandered into Mr Toker’s compound and started to graze. When Mr Toker saw this he went inside, got his gun and shot the calf dead. When Aklu Mahto got to know this, he took the calf dripping with blood to the Budhmu police station. The police inspector was an Englishman. When he saw what had happened, in all fairness, he arrested Mr Toker and had him imprisoned for three months. Gradually, tensions eased and misgivings disappeared. Some of the senior villagers tried to smooth out the ruffled feelings of the sahibs. ‘Huzoor, it is not for you to be irritated. New shoes are known to pinch, but when our people are convinced of your real intentions, they will be willing to die for you.’
As the Anglo-Indians began to participate in the daily ups and downs of the villagers, the bitterness between the two slowly disappeared. When the first tube well was sunk in the village the locals were so impressed, they thought the settlers were magicians to have taken out water from an iron pipe.
On 15 August 1947, whatever little ill will remained between the Anglo-Indians and the tribals was gone.
McCluskieganj witnessed celebrations all evening and through the night. The Highland Guest House was illuminated with candles and lamps. The festivities continued till midnight, when Pandit Nehru announced the proclamation of independence on All India Radio, and even later.
Remembering that night made Dennis McGowan go dizzy with joy. Mrs Wood played all night on the piano to the intoxicated pleasure of the village folk who notably regarded the instrument as a curious kind of harmonium. Tony Arnold had arranged for a band in a jiffy. Dennis was about seventeen years old at the time and recalled the details of the songs.
Our Motherland, we call her India.
If we are one, we can succeed.
We can succeed and build a bright tomorrow
In this land of ours
We call her India.
The tribals contributed their special song of blood and gore:
The tricolour flies in the sky,
The rivers are bloody with those who have died.
What a battle! What a battle!
We fought till they ran for their lives.
Those firangs, those jawans.
Those foreign tribes…
There was a special celebration that year on 3 November; it was Mr McCluskie’s memorial that day. Frank Anthony, the all-India chief of the Anglo-Indian Society, made it a point to visit
McCluskieganj. He stayed at the Highland Guest House and, in a moving speech, said, ‘Let us always remember that we are Indians, that this community is Indian. It has always been Indian. The more we love it and are loyal to India, the more India will love and be loyal to us.’
Dennis could see that Robin was in a reflective mood. ‘Where are you lost, son?’ he would ask. But Robin would only smile. It was in such an enchanted mood that Robin said, ‘I was thinking that a story could be written about our village. You are really very fortunate. People like me who have grown up in big cities are so unfortunate that despite all conveniences of life, they appear so unnatural to us.’ Robin would relapse into thought and then again ask, ‘Why, Papa, why did you come away? If only I had spent a few years there, my life would have felt so much more complete.’ What was it that made Robin so attached to a village that he had never seen? Was it some element of the collective unconscious? ‘Yes, we really enjoyed our childhood. You know, those bungalows in
McCluskieganj, which had a profusion of fruit trees, were always our special targets. We rogues would creep into the orchards and our friend Bahadur Oraon, who was specially adept in climbing trees, would, like a squirrel, be up on the highest branches. Although we too were daredevils, we never dared attempt such a feat. From above the trees, Bahadur would throw handfuls of guavas and mangoes. Once in Mr Norman’s bungalow, where there were cashew trees, Bahadur and I had partaken of unripe greenish-red cashews. And afterwards all hell broke loose because raw cashews burn the mouth. They are not to be eaten before ripening. Oh, how our mouths burned. Bahadur’s parents administered loads of honey to lessen the burning. How they loved me!
‘In the area of Lapra, the population comprised mainly of Munda aborigines whereas in Kanka, the locals were mainly Ganjhus. They looked alike, but the Ganjhus were in fact called outcastes. The Ganjhus were great thatchers. Although they were untouchables, their services were frequently required. The Oraons were also present in good numbers, they inhabited the area that stood at the corner of the road leading to Chatti river. The Oraons were farmers and mainly grew rice, wheat and vegetables. They also reared goats and poultry. Many of the Oraons of Mahuatand, another part of this area, were Christians. In Mahuatand there was a school for Adivasi children under the Roman Catholic Mission which had been there for over a hundred years.’ Robin noted, ‘It is interesting to know about this separate existence of Mundas and Oraons.’
Dennis said, ‘The Oraons were essentially non-vegetarians. Child marriages were known to be common among them. Bahadur was married when he was barely nine.’
‘Did you meet the little wives of your little friends?’ Robin asked with a smile.
‘Yes, of course, a Tom Thumb of a boy with his Thumbelina-like wife. I used to meet Bahadur’s little wife off and on. Small as she was, she would dance around her mother-in-law helping in whatever she was doing. The chief religious festivals of the Oraons were Sarhul and Karma. Actually the Oraons, both men and women worked very hard in the fields. For them work and celebration went hand in hand.’ Dennis could visualize the dancing of the men and women during festivals, ‘Oh Robin! I can’t explain to you the beauty—how they would be covered in flowers and sway to the music.’
Dennis continued, ‘Do you know how the Oraons select their names?’ Liza interrupted sarcastically, ‘By the days of the Hindustani calendar, like Soma for those who are born on Monday, Mangru for Tuesday, Buddhua for Wednesday, Sanichara for Saturday and so on. Your father was born on a Wednesday, so Dennis is actually Dennis Buddhua McGowan.’ Liza doubled up with laughter, but Dennis was quick to cut in, ‘Robin, your mum’s name is Sanichara Devi because she was born on a Saturday; how’s that, Robin?’ Dennis’s guffaw drowned Liza’s laughter. Robin interrupted, ‘Then I am Somra, am I not? But tell me how Bahadur Oraon got his name.’ Dennis answered, ‘Bahadur’s father Bagun Uncle used to say that when Bahadur was born they noticed the mark of a bow and arrow on both his arms. That signified a brave child. This was why Bahadur was christened so.’ ‘Did he really have such a mark, Papa?�
� Robin inquired. ‘Yes, son, though not a prominent one. When he grew to be a young man, an incident took place that the village folk were very proud of. Bahadur Oraon was going with his little girl to meet a relative in Latehar. While he was crossing a forested area, he saw a tiger in the nearby thicket. He quickly changed his course to avoid a direct encounter, but the tiger had already seen him. It overtook him and, grabbing the child, tried to leap away. But Bahadur acted like lightning. He sprinted behind the animal and, catching it, twisted its neck. The tiger released the child from its jaws, but mad with anger, it attacked Bahadur who responded instantly by shoving the length of his whole arm into the throat of the tiger until the creature got asphyxiated. The result was that it left its prey and ran for shelter into the forest. From that day onwards, the village renamed Bahadur as Baagh Bachcha, that is, tiger cub.
‘Among the Munda and Oraon, there are a few, namely the Pahans, who practise black magic to drive evil spirits away. Innocent locals believe in them. Besides Bahadur Oraon, there were other lads as well with whom I played. They consisted of Khushia Pahan, Tuinyan Ganjhu and Duti Bhagat. The first two were older than me, but they too participated in all our youthful exploits. Khushia’s father knew a good bit of the so-called black magic or tantra. That is why the McCluskieganj folk gave him the title of Pahan. However, with the passing of Khushia’s father, his uncle left Khushia as a servant in Mr Parkinson’s house. From time to time, in order to play with us, Khushia would play truant. Both Khushia and Tuinyan could sing very well. However Duti Bhagat was the wicked one. He had once pushed Tuinyan down from the guava tree, as a result of which, poor Tuinyan had been badly injured. Still those were our halcyon days. Son, you were right, the artificiality of this city can never compete with the freshness of our lives in
McCluskieganj. One evening, one of Papa’s friends from the post office had come visiting our house on his bicycle. Some of us children playing outside noticed a bag hanging from the handle of the bicycle. We felt the bag and found it to contain a large number of juicy, ripe mangoes. Instantly we devoured them. Afterwards we put in the bag a whole lot of stones, carefully so that it looked whole again. It was such fun! But what happened next wasn’t funny at all. When Papa came home next day, he boxed my ears; obviously his friend had complained! It was our constant preoccupation to decide what mischief to do next! On another occasion, we had thrown a lit matchstick onto a straw stack. It instantly went up in flames. This was Duti Bhagat’s plan. He was the devil incarnate. It took the efforts of the entire village to douse the fire. That day we had been thrashed black and blue.’
Robin expressed disappointment at his father’s leaving
McCluskieganj, but Dennis said that it was his mother’s wish to move to Hong Kong. At this Liza flew like an arrow, ‘Oh man, did I forcibly carry and bring you to Hong Kong? Hey, you foolish Dennis McGowan! If we had stayed back, you would have regretted it very much. We would not have had any of the comforts of life. It was undoubtedly a beautiful village. But just sitting idly would not have got us anywhere. Would it?’ Liza had this peculiar habit, whenever she got angry with her husband, she would address him by his full name. Dennis made no objection to Liza’s outburst. In fact, he quite agreed. One has to make decisions in life no matter how hard they may be. Dennis remembered that day so clearly, when he had to decide in favour of going to Hong Kong in order to make a living. This decision of Dennis’s spread like wildfire in the whole village. It first turned into a joke and then into a song: Dennis McGowan will go to Hong Kong and will become King Kong. Ha ha ha! The fact was that no man from
McCluskieganj had gone to Hong Kong till date. They knew no one in that city—how would Dennis cope? Mr Greg Norman, a senior member of the community visited the McGowans one evening. Mr Greg Norman heaved a deep sigh and sitting down said, ‘What is this I hear? The village is agog with Dennis’s plan to depart for Hong Kong. What has happened to our boy? No one has yet gone to Hong Kong from this village. Who will help him, should the need arise? And to add to it, he is taking his wife and child along.’ To this Mr Brian McGowan replied, ‘Dennis is a grown man, his decisions, right or wrong, are his own. He expressed his desire to go abroad and that I should help him this one last time. So I have given what little I have, for the purchase of his tickets. The fact is, there is no work here. How long can he remain idle? Let him go wheresoever he wishes, so long as he works honestly and diligently.’
Liza had sowed the seeds of this venture because there really was no source of income for Dennis in McCluskieganj. With the birth of Robin, Dennis realized the gravity of the situation and, although still reluctant, he came round to Liza’s view. Therefore he decided to go abroad, but where? England he knew was not kindly inclined to Anglo-Indians. Australia and Canada would probably be the best places for immigration. After all, several of the younger people had moved there. But Dennis preferred to walk an independent road. He had thought of Hong Kong as a possible alternative. And why not? Had not he read in newspapers and magazines about Hong Kong being a unique destination where one could establish oneself almost instantly. Although Hong Kong was a British colony, still it was different. Dennis believed he could work hard and find his footing there. If business succeeded he would touch the skies, so full of opportunities was Hong Kong.
The day Dennis and his family were departing, a taxi had been commissioned from Khalari. While the luggage was being loaded, all of McCluskieganj’s Anglo-Indian community had come to bid them goodbye. Some whispered to each other, ‘Will Dennis ever return? None of those who had left earlier had done so … they sent only letters and cards…’ Mr McGowan was teary-eyed as he held Robin who blabbered baby talk. His tears rolled down. Dennis gripped his father’s shoulders and assured him that once he reached, he would write and once settled, he would make it a point to come home at least once a year. But Mr McGowan was aware of the vortex that drew in people and from which there was hardly a chance of escape. Then the taxi slowly drove off and the people receded in the distance.
Hong Kong was one mad rush. Liza and Dennis were swept off their feet in their day-to-day effort to keep pace with the speed of work. How different it all was from McCluskieganj! But Liza did not agree. Life was one big battle, a constant challenge. One must engage with it with heart and soul. And Dennis…? Today the scene had altered. Hong Kong now awaited its new fate, and its citizens did the same, with bated breath.
5
Moment of Grief
From August to October, McCluskieganj was inundated by the rains. Just a month after Mr Raphael’s death, Bahadur Oraon’s arrest created great distress amongst the villagers. It was the end of September, the Hathiya Nakshatra, that is, a configuration of the heavenly bodies. In this case, the thirteenth lunar mansion was at its peak and brought with it dark clouds and heavy rain. The paddy plants were ripening to perfection, the karanj or Pongamia glabra dropped its flowers softly in a liquid flow like the old Mahua flowers or Bassia latifolia.
On such a night, five or six police jeeps were found negotiating the undulating hilly roads of McCluskieganj in single file. In the inky black darkness, the beam of their headlights seemed to tear through the shards of rain and caught Mr Mendez’s attention. Mr Mendez was looking out of the window when he got startled by this stealthy convoy and said to his wife, ‘At such a late hour, so many jeeps?’ Seeing her husband’s tall, hefty figure pacing about in an agitated manner, Mrs Mendez called out, ‘How can you, in this darkness, say that they are police cars? Oof, you are being absurd.’
‘Please keep quiet! It seems something serious has occurred in Khalari, nothing of consequence had occurred here until evening at any rate,’ Mr Mendez replied. ‘Oh God! Even if something has happened, why are you getting so worked up? You know these policewallahs, they go wherever they want, whenever they want. Come on, stop bothering yourself and come to bed. You have no compassion for me—I, who have to get up early morning and work myself to a frenzy throughout the day. But why on earth should you bother
? You have your newspaper, your radio, your friends, along with innumerable cups of tea, and last but not least, the problems of the world on your shoulders.’ Mrs Mendez spewed on with renewed vigour, ‘Are you at all bothered about the leaking roof of our kitchen.’ But Mr Mendez cut short his wife, ‘Stop your rot, man. Only he who is interested in the world around him will empathize with the goings-on. What do you know? You never even pick up the newspaper!’ Muttering to himself, Mr Mendez turned down the lamp and got inside his mosquito net, yet lying in bed, he could not help but think that something was seriously amiss; perhaps the next day would reveal the night’s secrets.
Jack too had seen the jeeps. Just before turning in when he had gone to the verandah to lower the oil lamp, he had seen them moving towards Station Road. Mr Miller, however, was lost in deep sleep in his bedroom. In the shadow of the lantern, Jack stood perplexed in the dark like a ghost for a long time. It seemed like the repeat of an incident, when the police had gone, a few months ago, to Mahua Milan to arrest some terrorists. Who knows? Standing there Jack felt irritated with Mr Miller as well. When it rained, his snoring got louder. Khushia Pahan always insisted on comparing these Anglos to the red silk-cotton flower. Although they were kind in appearance, they were insensitive to the things going around. What kind of insouciance was this? To sleep on irrespective of things collapsing around. The next morning Mr Miller would take an avid interest in the night’s happenings. ‘Yes, so what happened last night, Jack?’ And Jack had decided on his answer already, ‘How does it matter when you are only concerned with your sleep,’ Jack muttered to himself and slowly retired to his room.
The police parked all their jeeps in the compound of the station. The small tin shed of a station was steeped in silent darkness. The station master’s small room too had a padlock hanging. No trains were expected to arrive at that hour. The Shakti Punj Express, which would halt briefly over there, was yet some hours away. Wearing their mackintoshes, the police jawans moved rapidly along the railway tracks and towards the west of the Chatti river, which had the Oraon settlement. The huts of the village that were made of mud and leaves seem to converge in the darkness and rain. The police appeared to be in the know of the exact location of Bahadur Oraon’s house. They surrounded the house from all sides very quickly so that none of the villagers got a whiff of it. But when they forced open his door and sprang on him, his wife shrieked as if a hot lantern had shattered on her and in a trice the whole village was up as if in response. The villagers gathered all the arms they could lay hands on, spears, bows and arrows, sticks, etcetera. Shanichar Oraon was the first to arrive, shouting, that brother Bahadur’s house had been raided by robbers. The otherwise crazy Sugwa Oraon, finding nothing to arm himself with, hung a little kettledrum round his neck and started chanting wildly, ‘Dhum dhum dhum, surround them, beat them, dhum dhum dhum.’ Within minutes, the settlement managed to fortify itself very effectively. That night there would have been a bloodbath in
McCluskieganj Page 4
