McCluskieganj station had a quirky tree in its precincts. It was a strange sight, a graft of a mango and a jamun tree. They both intertwined very suggestively and yielded the most luscious fruits. Such a strange combination of golden mangoes and dark purple jamuns, it became like a metaphor for the village. McCluskieganj fell in the area of old Lapra village. People referred to Lapra jokingly as ‘laphra’, a complication! This area was infamous for its innumerable affairs and dalliances. Mr Gibson’s proximity to Parvati had all of McCluskieganj buzzing. Yet, he had been a denizen of McCluskieganj for so long that his odd activities had more or less been accepted. He was over seventy and definitely a son of the soil. Yet there was more than met the eye. Mr Douglas Gibson was no la’penny-tuppenny. His was a rich lineage. He originated more or less in Hyderabad. His grandfather was Lt Colonel Peter Lawrence Gibson, an officer in the Nizam’s army. He was of an intellectual disposition and was the founder of the Hyderabad Bulletin newspaper. His grandmother was related to the last Governor General of India, Lord Mountbatten. She was exquisitely beautiful and yet there was, according to Mr Gibson, a hint of Indianness lurking somewhere in her features. Although very fair, her fairness was tinged with a smoky hue. That was why Douglas Gibson was convinced that perhaps down the line there was some Indian blood in him. Interestingly, Mr Gibson was also aware of his antecedents from his maternal side. His maternal great-grandmother also had Indian blood because her grandfather Mr David Booth had been known to have married into a Muslim family of Awadh. Mr Gibson had researched his genealogy and come to the conclusion that Mr David Booth, the principal of Nizam College, was married to one Diana Bailey Booth. The latter’s father was Brigadier Sir Richard Sale, famous for his role in the Afghan war, who in turn, despite having a wife in England, had married a Muslim girl. He had several offspring, but he did not give them his name. These children became the godchildren of his very good friend Colonel Bailey. It was Bailey’s name they inherited. So they were actually Sales, but they wrote their name as Sale Bailey. It was Mr Gibson’s father who came and settled in McCluskieganj after he retired from the Nizam’s court. Till date Mr Douglas Gibson, attached as he was to McCluskieganj, could think of no other place in the world which he would exchange it for. In fact, when his wife June Gibson, brainwashed by her three children, now already settled in Australia, announced that she too would go to them, Mr Gibson, mild as he was, vehemently said, ‘You go wherever you want to, June, I am not going. I belong here and whatever fate decrees will prevail.’ This whole plan of emigrating had been plotted by his daughter Vanessa who had earlier worked as a PA to a manager in a tea company in Calcutta. Her husband too worked in Calcutta, but one day after some deliberation, Vanessa announced that she was no longer enamoured of Calcutta and was looking to move to Australia. Vanessa convinced her mother to go along with her, the real reason being that she had two small children and she needed someone to manage them. Mrs Gibson also thought that her going would facilitate the future of her sons as well. Not once did she think of her aging husband. But Mr Gibson had actually seen through his daughter’s game. He, in fact, had told his wife that she was becoming a pawn in Vanessa’s hands. ‘She is taking you as a nanny for her children,’ he had said.
Mr Gibson had turned quite emotional at the time of his wife’s departure. Yet, he realized that it is in the gums of the toothless that the hardest seeds get embedded. His only solace was his eldest son Minto and his wife Rosy, who had refused to join the bandwagon that left for Australia. Minto would, he had said, prefer to be by his father’s side. Although this decision had antagonized his wife as well as his mother, who believed he had taken after his father. They worried as to what future McCluskieganj would offer Minto. But both Minto and his father were patriotic individuals to whom their motherland meant more than mother and wife. Mr Gibson had witnessed the struggle for Independence. He had seen how the people of India had struggled to free their motherland and realized that the feeling or the pull of one’s own land was stronger than all the comforts one could avail in a foreign land.
It was a known fact that some members of the Gibson family had migrated to Australia earlier. Mr Gibson’s sister Ida D’Cruz had naturalized herself there some years ago. Being a member of the parliament, she had a lot of political clout there. Mrs June Gibson received a lot of support from her sister-in-law once she reached Australia. Being used to luxury, June Gibson found Australia very comfortable. In fact, soon after getting there, she became the catering-in-charge of the Edith Cohen University.
June often ruminated on the strange ups and downs of her life. Her story went back several decades. Her father was Lt Colonel Tariq Ali. He was an influential man in Hyderabad and her uncle Sir Mehmood Ali was also well known. He was the governor of Uttar Pradesh. She remembered her college days in Hyderabad. But it all ended when she was consumed by the magic of a young handsome Anglo-Indian. This young man was an accomplished horseman. His horses proved unbeatable in the races of the time. In the Calcutta Turf Club races, when the horses of this young jockey, namely Dynamic Boy and Blue God, ran with him as their mount, all the papers whether Bangla, English or Hindi were agog with his news. This youth was none other than Douglas Gibson.
Mrs Gibson tossed and turned all night, remembering the episode of her marriage. How her parents, who were of such remarkable stock, had to yield ultimately to her decision of an inter-religion marriage. The marriage that was solemnized according to Islamic rites was indeed a grand occasion, but soon after, as per her husband’s wish, Zaheeda Heena embraced Christianity and changed her name to June Douglas. As such her family would have preferred Douglas Gibson to convert, but since their daughter chose in favour of her husband’s religion, the Ali family accepted the change.
Gibson still continued with his obsession for horses. At first he opened a stud farm in McCluskieganj over eighteen acres of land, calling it the Hill View Stud Farm. He also took up the management of another stud farm in Hazaribagh. Eventually the venture proved to be a loss. Mrs Gibson then ordered the stud farms to be shut down. With so much failure, Mr Gibson had to finally get rid of his horses. Then began the guest house business. But Mr Gibson could not forget his racing days. Whenever he earned well from the Peacock Guest House, he would take off for Calcutta much to the irritation of his wife. The past splendour of Mr Gibson was still recalled by many at the Calcutta Race Course. Mrs Gibson realized with bitter pain that there was no changing one’s nature and one’s signature. For weeks together, while her husband had been busy gambling, she would singly man the guest house, which established itself admirably within a short period of time. Every time the business picked up, Mr Gibson would get the old itch to gamble. He had come to know that one Michael John Griffith along with his wife had started a stud farm in Gumla which was also in Chhota Nagpur. Mrs Griffith, like Mrs Gibson, was also Muslim in origin, her name being Fiona Imtiaz Tayabjee Griffith. She was the niece of Hyderabad’s Sir Akbar Hydari. As a result of the old connections, Mr Gibson soon became quite intimate with the Griffiths. However, with the frequent visits to Gumla, the alarm bells started ringing in Mrs Gibson’s ears. If she so much as mentioned her husband’s frequent visits to Gumla there would ensue bitter quarrels between them. Despite opposition, Mr Douglas did finally buy the derelict stud farm, although Mrs Gibson went on a hunger strike for days
on end.
For some time, the stud farm proved lucrative as the horses were being sold in Madras for racing purposes, but in 1986, the chief minister of Tamil Nadu, M.G. Ramachandran, shut down racing altogether in his state. The result was devastating. The stud farm at Gumla had to be sold for a song to Col. Bhim Singh, the owner of Vikram Green Land’s Stud Farm. The result was that the Gibsons had to turn their attentions to the Peacock Guest House. While leaving for Australia, Mrs Gibson told her husband, ‘Now you will understand the meaning of responsibility.’ She was offended by the fact that her husband did not go with her to Australia. But the plain truth was that Mr Gibson could not live anywhere other th
an McCluskieganj. Once he did go to Australia but returned post-haste. He came to McCluskieganj because that was like his estate and he its Nizam. He was known for his generosity, which was why when Raniya’s husband was jailed, people told her that there was only one person who would help her out: Mr Gibson. Raniya’s husband, who was a caretaker in the residence of Col. Amarjeet Singh, had been arrested by the police on the pretext of a slain body found behind the said residence. He was the sole bread earner and his arrest totally threw the family out of gear. These Ahirs or Yadavs were excellent farmers, and Parvati’s grandfather had in his time large tracts of land. But all that was a matter of the past. Today the family had been reduced to penury. Parvati’s mother Raniya, with four children to support, was quite distressed. People advised Raniya to meet Mr Gibson and ask him to give shelter to her daughter at least. The two sons would easily fend for themselves.
Thus Parvati came to be in the Peacock Guest House. Being well fed and cared for resulted in her growing up soon. She looked good for all to take notice. Not just managing the guest house, she dedicated herself to caring for Mr Gibson; his diet and meals, his medicines, etcetera, all became her concern. Also to keep a check on his drinking and smoking. Mr Gibson gradually became dependent on Parvati, who had matured considerably by now. Mr Gibson’s son Minto too seemed to like her. But Minto’s wife, Rosy, never took to her. She would hint at some clandestine goings-on. Hinting one evening at this, she took her husband to her father-in-law’s room and, from outside the door, watched the proceedings. Parvati was massaging Mr Gibson’s legs through his pyjamas. ‘One day we will get into trouble, the old man has totally lost his senses,’ Rosy said to her husband. That night Minto accosted his father while Parvati looked on frightened from one corner. ‘She is like your granddaughter. What the hell are you doing?’
Mr Gibson shouted back, ‘Yes, she is my granddaughter. Can’t my granddaughter serve me?’ Seventy-year-old Mr Gibson became upset and emotional. He thought later that this was the doing of Minto’s wife. Looking back at those bygone years, Mr Gibson could not help rue his fate. There was a time when many beautiful women fell for him, but he never staggered, never took advantage, except once in his life and that was with Zaheeda Heena, who was equally in love with him, whom after a period of courtship he made his wife. But that life should take such a turn and that too in old age was beyond belief! Sometime when Khushia Pahan would come to the guest house, drunk, Mr Gibson would sit and chat him up with some more cherry brandy. Khushia Pahan would then break into the song that was Mr Gibson’s favourite. The song about the mynah which flew away after a cage to house it was made. Mr Gibson did not know where to look for his mynah that had flown away so far. On those nights, he would be so inebriated that his main solace, the songs of Cliff Richard and Frank Sinatra, would be rejected in preference to the pathos of Khushia’s tunes. Sometimes he would wonder: Have I really fallen in love with this small dark girl, Parvati? I can’t bear to have her out of sight. Black Rose is my loving name for her. Probably there is good reason for my son and his wife to object. Yet, they don’t realize that the caregiver, especially to the old, will always be special. Sometimes I kiss her out of happiness, but then, don’t we kiss our children and grandchildren? Then why this stigma? Minto’s mind has been poisoned against me! My Minto who refused to leave me for Australia, when his mother had pleaded for him to go. My Minto who loved McCluskieganj so much. And now people are whispering all around!
Mrs Gibson heard all this in Australia and returned post-haste to take stock of the situation. She cried to Minto, ‘Surely someone has cast a spell on your father.’ The final outcome of this fracas was that Mrs Gibson decided that Parvati should leave Peacock Guest House. It was with a heavy heart that
Mr Gibson agreed to it. He hoped that at least now his wife would not leave him. He was even pleased because Raniya assured his wife that she would get Parvati married. But one evening, no sooner had Mrs Gibson started making plans for her departure than her husband was nowhere to be found. He had apparently gone for a walk, but Rosy decided at that opportune moment to drop the bomb. ‘Papa often goes to meet Parvati. If you don’t believe me, go and see for yourself what he is up to at Parvati’s shack.’ Minto was quite disgusted by his wife’s attitude. Still mother and son went to spy on old man Gibson. Sure enough they found him in a very jovial mood, with Parvati sitting on the cot beside Mr Gibson, who froze when he saw his wife arrive, and like a robot followed behind. Parvati gazed after them, stunned into silence.
‘You bastard, you have some pathological problem, do you? Will you or will you not leave this habit?’ Mrs Gibson screamed the moment they arrived at the guest house. ‘What does that whore have to offer you?’ Rosy caressed her and said, ‘Please, Mummy, you’ll get sick. Don’t be so angry.’ That night no one ate dinner. The next morning, Mrs Gibson had to catch her flight from Ranchi. While getting into the car, Mrs Gibson had red eyes from crying all night. Then Rosy said surreptitiously, ‘You are leaving, but Parvati will definitely return to Peacock Guest House from tomorrow.’ Suddenly Mrs Gibson asked the taxi driver to wait a moment. She hopped off the car and dashed to her statue-like sombre husband and, taking his hands lovingly, pulled him into the room locking the door. Then dragging the old man to her breasts and subsequently kissing him violently on the lips, she wept like never before. Her voice was choking and her lips quivered as they both remembered their favourite song from the 1970s—‘They said you found somebody new’. ‘You must promise me one thing: Parvati must never return to Peacock Guest House. If you really give her up I will definitely return.’ Then she withdrew, but Mr Gibson caught up with her quickly and added, ‘You too must promise something, Junie, that you will let Raniya work. They are so poor they will just die without employment.’ Mrs Gibson agreed and left while McCluskieganj started its new whispers regarding Raniya and Mr Gibson. Meanwhile Parvati’s marriage was on the rocks. Gossip had reached her drunk husband about her so-called relations with Mr Gibson. She was frequently harangued by him and, although pregnant with his child, he thrashed her black and blue in his drunken state one night. It happened that while he was asleep, Parvati fled her home in the darkness of the night. She ran to McCluskieganj where her mother acquainted Mr Gibson of all that had befallen Parvati. Mr Gibson took her to the Mander hospital for her confinement. There she delivered a lovely male child who was named Babu. From then on, Parvati and her son lived in Peacock Guest House, much to Rosy’s consternation. She lost no time in writing to her mother-in-law about the developments.
Mr Gibson meanwhile had built a beautiful cottage for the return of his wife. In the face of Rosy’s tattling, his proposal of the cottage turned out to be a total failure. Mrs Gibson wrote her husband such a stinker refusing to ever return that Mr Gibson, realizing the source of the mischief, turned upon his son and daughter-in-law like never before. It was the truth, Rosy was the driving wedge in Mr Gibson’s life. It was she who had given a totally wrong colour to his affection and sympathy for Raniya, Parvati and the child. Mr Gibson was no lecher. For the first time, he reacted violently and asked Minto and his wife to leave his house instantly. They had no choice but to go to Jamshedpur where Minto found employment in a school. And Mr Gibson, well into dotage, veered around to Parvati and her lovely boy Babu, whom he hoped one day to turn into an impressive army officer.
9
Love at First Sight
Once again it was spring. The trees were slowly but steadily bursting into bloom. First this then that, all in sequential time. The flowers of the red silk cotton. Then those of the mango, remotely resembling the bride’s bouquet and then the flowers of the sal, Shorea robusta. McCluskieganj was intoxicated with their perfume. Khushia was drunk on their smells and burst into a song ever so often. Mrs Alice Tomalin was busy with the preparations for a party at her house, to which the who’s who of McCluskieganj had been invited. No one seemed to know what had occasioned it. It was a secret from all save postman Tiwari who handled the deli
very of the letters of the entire village. But he too had been vowed to secrecy. Three or four times a year, Bhola Tiwari would have occasion to reach post to Mrs Tomalin. He had noticed her getting lost to the world on receipt of her mail. Mrs Tomalin’s son Keith who was settled in New Zealand had occasion to send her mail twice or thrice a year, and once at least he would send her money sufficient to last her the whole year. Mrs Tomalin had often told her son not to bother. She was a self-respecting lady and believed she could manage her single life with the little that she had. This last time, two or three days ago, when Bhola Tiwari delivered her letter, she beamed on opening it. ‘Just wait a minute.’ Then going in, she returned with a plate of cakes. ‘I have had a granddaughter! This is in her honour. Keep this a secret, let no one know about it. It will be my surprise for McCluskieganj by way of a party.’ Bhola Tiwari was quick to understand that Keith’s letter was like a breath of the easterly for his mother.
Keith had written to say, ‘Though you have refused to visit me in New Zealand, I now have my own version of a tiny Alice Tomalin.’ Mrs Tomalin wept with joy, thinking that she had misunderstood her son all the while. And all the while I thought that my Keith did not want to return to McCluskieganj. Now she wanted to celebrate the occasion. Even if I am gone, my granddaughter will visit McCluskieganj someday proving this village to be a wonderland, which in fact it was!
She had given a similar party when Keith had married a Spanish girl many years ago. People in big cities paid little attention to such small events even if they were the most lavish parties. But in villages! Well, it was different. People didn’t easily forget the care and supervision that went with such celebrations. Mrs Tomalin had requested for the services of Mr Miller’s cook, Jack, as well as Kitty. Both of them were engaged in the preparations for the party. The house had turned squeaky clean, the garden and grounds had been cleared up by Adivasi labourers.
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