McCluskieganj

by Vikas Kumar Jha

  Mr Tomalin used to work for Dunlop India and, a few years before retirement, he came and settled in McCluskieganj. He had, along with his wife, enjoyed the scenic place for some years before he suddenly passed away as a result of a massive heart attack. Mrs Tomalin, however, continued to live here on the strength of her husband’s memories. Despite repeated requests from her son Keith, who had come one last time after his father’s death, to go back to New Zealand with him, she had refused. Mrs Tomalin firmly believed that the Anglo-Indian community would definitely survive in McCluskieganj no matter what problems cropped up. Khushia Pahan had also supported her, ‘Fikar not, even if not the original Anglos, at least the watered-down, thrice-removed ones will definitely survive.’ By that, he meant the Bijju Anglo-Indians or ‘the weeds’! Mrs Tomalin’s face contorted with resentment at this sobriquet. Danny Meredith and James Pentoni belonged to this latter category. The fact was that their fathers had both married tribals, hence their nutty complexion. It rankled Danny no end, perhaps that is why he never put up a photo of his Adivasi mother who came from Madhya Pradesh, although his father’s portrait still remained in his house. Danny’s wife Jennifer too realized that her mother-in-law was a sore point in her husband’s life. Most of the young men of McCluskieganj had left in search of greener pastures abroad, yet Danny continued to remain there with his family.

  Late Adley Pentoni’s son James Pentoni’s wretched condition was witnessed by Alice Tomalin. His only inheritance was a dilapidated shack of a house. Being as good as illiterate, James could avail no job for himself. All he could get was an overseer’s work at a brick kiln, for a meagre one thousand rupees a month. At least it provided some succour for his family. His Adivasi wife Susan told Mrs Tomalin with sadness, ‘Aunty, God has made our lives as hard as bricks!’ Yet James Pentoni, despite his impoverished state, had never thought of leaving McCluskieganj to seek his fortune elsewhere.

  Mrs Tomalin admired his dedication. But maybe she was wrong. It was perhaps imperative that such people ought to have left

  McCluskieganj, which was fast turning into a bog drawing all into its gargantuan belly, slowly killing them. For any community to survive, there must be a sustainable opportunity for growth, and McCluskieganj was sadly deficient in this. Mr D’Souza’s son Peter was a case in point. He was Duti Bhagat’s sidekick and had immersed himself in a life of crime for money.

  Mr Miller often called Peter gulab ka kanta, the thorn in the rose. In direct contrast, there stood Walter Thorpe, who had immigrated to Australia with his family after his father’s death. However, he still retained his roots. His father’s cottage stood well looked after by a concierge. And Walter and his family would come once in a while to see it. It was a happy homecoming each time and Mrs Tomalin never failed to chastize her son on this score. ‘Son, you need not return to your village but never forget your roots, the fact that this ultimately is where you belong.’

  Then there was the case of Mrs Mary David. She had no children, yet she loved her village and was happy with the endless pleasures of village life. She, along with her husband Ram Sevak, lived in their dilapidated cottage, surrounded by innumerable trees. Theirs was a strange union and created ripples in the whole village. When Mary and Ram Sevak decided to tie the knot, the latter’s family openly condemned it. They behaved as if they had been bereaved, so much did they weep and beat their chests. They said, ‘That this should happen and we should continue to live, is it possible?’ The villagers too put in their two bits. ‘The beauty and the beast, the princess and the ploughman.’

  Ram Sevak came from an old Sahu family of the Baniya caste. He had served in the military as a gunner, but because of his low salary, he decided to quit in 1958 and return to his village to join the family business. But then God knows from where this romance with Mary surfaced, ending his life in his own home. He soon converted to Christianity and started living in his in-laws’ house. He became the subject of snide remarks and sarcastic banter. ‘Having married Mary Mem, Ram Sevak, servant of Ram, has now a new identity Mr Mary Sevak alias Mr David.’ He had no trouble adjusting with his wife’s family. They welcomed him into their fold. Although Mr R.G. Sparks, Mary’s father, had at first objected, Mary’s mother reminded him of his own decision to marry her. After all, he too, hundred per cent British as he was, had fallen in love with her while in Kanpur, and she was an Ahir, albeit from a well-to-do and educated family.

  Eventually Ram Sevak David managed to get a plot for himself through Acharya Vinoba Bhave’s Bhoodaan Society. The plot was overgrown with lantanas and paras trees and there Ram Sevak built a simple tiled cottage. But the Sevaks had one big void in their lives; they had no children. Mary often cursed her fate but Ram Sevak would console her saying, ‘Mary, your own children are not your own these days. Just pray that we become one with the soil of this village. Look at Mr McCluskie. He didn’t have any offspring, yet he established a little world for all of us here. Remembering the past, imagining the future, these are the thoughts that will sustain us and our lives. The five elements of earth, air, fire, water and space, they are our beginning and end,’ he would say with a twisted smile.

  However, McCluskieganj, though sadly it offered nothing by way of progress, had a magical quality that endeared itself to its denizens. Truly it was a case of love at first sight. Take the instance of Noel Gordon. He would himself break into a smile, when he described how his father Mr William Gordon came to settle here. ‘My father came here to cure himself of severe gastric problem. My father built our house in 1946. He used to work for a well-known jute mill in Calcutta where he was the chief electrical engineer. We lived in Calcutta for many years, but then father was offered a more lucrative job in Dhanbad, so we moved. I still recall being told that there was a time when Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose, although briefly, used to live in the same house at one point during the freedom struggle.’ That was why Mr Noel Gordon was a great admirer of Subhash Chandra Bose and strongly believed that he was still alive.

  The fact was that Mr William Gordon had suffered acute gastritis for many years, rumblings in the stomach, acidic eructations, heartburn and what not. In Dhanbad, someone suggested that he take a few weeks change of air and water in Ranchi. He went there and was told of McCluskieganj; so he visited McCluskieganj, and sure enough the place worked wonders. In just eight days, Mr William Gordon threw away all his medication. Truly the place cured him miraculously. Perhaps it was the presence of suitable minerals in the water that worked wonders. And so in 1958 after retirement,

  Mr William Gordon came to live with his family in

  McCluskieganj. Noel Gordon was about seventeen years old at the time. He completed his schooling but could not go beyond as there was no scope for college education; moreover his father could not afford it. But William Gordon, who had studied electronics abroad, personally trained his son. As a result of this, Noel Gordon started working as a maintenance hand in the cinema halls of Ranchi. Along with Captain

  P.F. Reynolds, who was an architect, he started building cinema halls in nearby Hazaribagh as well. But of late, unable to bear up under the demands of cinema hall work, Noel Gordon turned homewards, in order to lead a more relaxed life of radio repair, etcetera. In fact, he taught this trade to his only son Bobby Gordon, although Bobby had a diploma in X-ray and ECG (electrocardiogram) from Kerala. Bobby could find a living anywhere in the country, but as his sister Nelly would mischievously say, ‘My family can never leave McCluskieganj. Do you know why? Because our family has an obsession with gastritis. We dare not leave for fear it may return to torment us all over again.’

  Such are the stories that have regaled generations in the lovely village of McCluskieganj. There is the example of

  Mr T.E. Robinson whose father was in the railways and, like Mr William Gordon, had been posted in Dhanbad. Yet after retirement, he too came and settled here and Mr Robinson who was always musically inclined began to teach music in the nearby schools. He was exceptionally gifted and creative. To ma
ke music popular with the students, he taught music which can be described as ‘fusion’, like classical combined with pop, like English songs set to contemporary Hindi tunes. His music room resounded with songs like ‘East or west India is the best’ or ‘Come from England, come from Scotland … if you are looking for a glorious holiday, then come to Bombay, Bombay meri hai, Bombay meri hai’. The last stanza would evoke such jubilance from the singers that it truly roused ecstasy. And yet, after the 1992 Bombay blasts and the riots that followed that ripped through the fabric of that city, this song was never again sung. Someone had asked him for that particular number one day and he had declined saying, ‘Some other time.’

  Miss Bonner was particularly fond of Mr Robinson’s songs. Whenever she wanted to hear him, she would call him over for dinner and ask for her special song: ‘Learn to be lonely, learn to find your way in the darkness. Who will be there for you, comfort and care for you. Laugh in loneliness, learn to be lonely…’ Such depth of feeling and pathos! So universal in its appeal! Miss Bonner would cover her moist eyes under the pretence of wiping her spectacles.

  And Miss Bonner’s house? Well, it was regarded as the best in McCluskieganj. Miss Bonner’s fort, as it was referred to, was located on Nehru Road. The name of the road had been selected by none other than Miss Bonner herself. According to her, there was none second to Nehru in being the perfect gentleman with a superb mind and overwhelming dignity. Bonner Bhawan had a beautiful garden as well as a well-stocked library. Being there was liking visiting the Valley of Flowers, what with its ladies lace, love in a mist and so many other flowering plants. Miss Bonner had retired from the Indian Tobacco Company after twenty-five to thirty years of service and come to settle here. The most distressing factor that troubled her from time to time was why the very Anglo-Indians for whom E.T.

  McCluskie had moved mountain and earth should have started an exodus. Once it was rumoured that her house was up for sale and a businessman from Hazaribagh even dared to come and appraise it for himself. She had called him in and asked, ‘How much do you plan to offer me?’ He answered, ‘Three lakhs.’ ‘But man,’ she cried, ‘the price of my gate itself is three lakhs!’ Then the mask of play-acting slipped and fell and she shouted, ‘Get out!’ The businessman fled as fast as he could. Bonner Bhawan in other words was priceless. This was in direct contrast to the likes of Dennis McGowan, the Atkins, the Cabarals, the Castelleris and so many more, who had left the village almost at the drop of a hat.

  In fact, when Mr Robert Castelleri was planning to move to Australia, a physician from Calcutta, namely Dr Govind Das Goswami, and his wife Anima were visiting McCluskieganj on holiday. They had come at the behest of their friend Mr Rajeev Dasgupta, but when they saw this place, they liked it so much that on hearing of Robert Castelleri’s plan to sell his house, they immediately sought to purchase it. Dr Goswami had asked Anima, ‘Is this not love at first sight? Considering that we have travelled all over the world—Ghana, Nigeria, Great Britain.’ And then again, Amit Ghosh’s German wife Ilona strangely repeated a similar phrase—‘Ich liebe McCluskieganj.’ Amit Ghosh kissed her and said, ‘Ich liebe McCluskieganj, that is, I love McCluskieganj, Ich liebe Lolo.’ He lovingly called Ilona, Lolo.

  Amit Ghosh had spent many years in Germany and had married a German girl. They both had a dear little daughter, Rebecca, and though from Calcutta, they had liked

  McCluskieganj so much, it reminded Ilona of her own little village of Valvez in Germany. The Ghosh’s decided to build a farmhouse there. They built a beautiful cottage surrounded by trees and flowers. This they named Shanti Niketan. Thereafter, Ilona started a small-scale dairy farm. She was so enterprising that she soon succeeded in starting a guest house too. That brought them a good income as well.

  What was it that made McCluskieganj so special? This question came up again and again in the minds of both who chose to stay there as well as those who went away. Dennis McGowan himself became an example for thinking like that. Perhaps it was the ambience of the place, a wholesome symbiosis of man and nature. Can the pursuit of materialism and wealth give joy and peace? Not really. McCluskieganj had a certain warmth that endeared itself to its populace. People cared for each other, although the place itself lacked progress, being sleepy and laid-back; still it was comforting to live there. But the crisis came when that very atmosphere got vitiated with the arrival of the so-called forces of development.

  The numerous Adivasi tribes of Oraons, Mundas and the outcast Ganjhus mingled freely with the families of the Anglo-Indians, albeit as their workers. Take the case of Khushia Pahan, at this point of time, when he was almost seventy years of age and still got drunk on mahua in the evenings, he would begin to blabber his little smattering of English. ‘Order, Huzoor … I am ready, sir! … Huzoor … Good morning … Good evening, Memsahibji. I going home, sir. Thank you, sir. Thank you, sir!’ Khushia doubled down in respect … Some of the village folk poked fun at him saying, ‘The spirit of Mr Parkinson has got into him; he makes him say all these things.’ Yet neither Khushia nor his son Parasnath were bothered by these comments. For Khushia, Mr Parkinson was an immortal soul. When his two sons Jeffery and Fisher had settled in Australia, Mr Parkinson went to Calcutta and adopted a male child whom he named Michael. Both Khushia and his son Parasnath referred to Michael Babu as Mr Parkinson’s Bal Pos, that is, adopted son. But was Khushia too not Mr Parkinson’s adopted son. Mr Parkinson had a heart large enough to be father to so many children, not necessarily biologically.

  McCluskieganj could claim to have that generosity and largesse of heart and the country is poorer for its passing into oblivion, poorer for the loss of that haven of innocence.

  However, to continue, when Mr Parkinson passed away, his sons came and handed over the affairs of their property to their foster-brother Michael Parkinson, who worked in the CCL (Central Coalfields Limited) in nearby Dakra. Despite his age, Khushia made it a point to visit the Parkinson house every couple of days, because he otherwise got totally disoriented. He had to go and wish the portrait of Mr Parkinson in the drawing room with a ‘good morning, sir!’ To him, Mr Parkinson was like a god, the light of his life.

  Parasnath had never seen Mr Parkinson, but his father’s adulation of the latter had somewhat fine-tuned him to the tenderness of Khushia’s devotion. Parasnath was a farmer, yet curiously he had inherited a predisposition to the occult sciences from his paternal grandfather. Parasnath’s grandfather had not even seen him, he had passed away before his birth. Parasnath had therefore not received any mentoring in the art. His teacher was a schoolmaster, by the name of Jagdhirua Munda. This Jagdhirua Munda was like a magician. He could, by the flourish of his hand, produce anything from the air. Some of these qualities Parasnath had imbibed from his master. Moreover, he was a remarkably gentle and patient son. When Khushia would return teetering in a drunken state, blabbering broken English phrases, Parasnath would humour him saying, ‘Thank you, thank you. Siddown, siddown’, and Khushia would sink to the floor in childish obedience.

  Khushia’s story is many moons old. His uncle Kangla Oraon worked as a coolie in the station. Mr Parkinson had retired as an officer of the Indian Railways. One day, he called Kangla to his bungalow and asked him, ‘Can you get me a small boy to help with the house work?’ and Kangla replied, ‘Yes, huzoor, I have a small nephew.’ The nephew was soon produced before Mrs Parkinson. She looked the boy up and down and smilingly said, ‘Kangla, tumko thank you. Aisa hi mafik ladka mangta tha. Seven rupees monthly dega isko. Kyon, hai na theek? I will pay him a salary of rupees seven a month. Will that be okay by you?’ Kangla nodded devotedly in agreement.

  At first Khushia, some ten or eleven years old—there’s no knowing the exact age of children in the villages of India—was scared stiff. So fair-skinned were his master and mistress, and Khushia was just the opposite. Yet gradually, the love and affection of both Mr and Mrs Parkinson opened him up. The very first night, he had dreamt of his father asking him with angry eyes, ‘Why boy?
You are working to earn?’ And Khushia wept and wailed until Mrs Parkinson, hearing the hullabaloo, came and consoled him, stroking his hair and his cheek. Then once he had fallen into the commode in Mr Parkinson’s toilet. The point was that this object had aroused little Khushia’s curiosity. ‘How do these sahibs defecate in this white, round container? How do they sit on it? It must be so difficult to position and perch oneself on it.’ All these thoughts flit through his young mind. Then one day when the cottage was somewhat empty, Khushia silently entered the toilet. He just closed the door, did not lock it, which was just as well. Then he climbed on to the pot and squatted only in the way Khushia and his like would do. He had just started to urinate when both his feet slipped into the pot and got stuck there. How he screamed, afraid that this was his end. His yells drew Mrs Parkinson’s attention and she came running. ‘Save me! Oh, save me!’ he cried in anguish. Seeing his abject condition, Mrs Parkinson could not stop laughing. She then pulled him out and asked, ‘What in heaven’s name were you doing in this?’

  ‘I was trying to see how you people sit on this pot?’ replied Khushia. Mrs Parkinson said, ‘Like this!’, and she sat on the commode with a thump. ‘But it’s not for the likes of you. Never attempt it in future,’ she said affectionately. And when her husband heard of it later, he asked Khushia, ‘Why? Will you attempt sitting on the pot again?’ Sometimes when Khushia’s mother would come to look him up, the Parkinsons would assure her, ‘Don’t worry for Khushia, we will keep him like our son.’

  Khushia’s stories vis-à-vis the Parkinsons are endless. From the songs he would sing for the Parkinsons, to the many daily incidents, Khushia’s life was one long story. That was what made McCluskieganj special, that deep abiding sense of loyalty between friend and friend, and between servant and master. Speaking of the latter, it is strange that the servants then used to feel they belonged, not in the feudal sense; because in the feudal sense, there came in an element of bonded labour, the feeling of being tied to the yoke. No. The interaction was of give and take, of love and duty. Today that very class of servants has disappeared. The new ones are constantly job-hopping. They have no sense of loyalty, because their driving force is lucre. Look at Carney Aunty and her abiding affection for Majeed, who too reciprocated. Small as she was, Carney Aunty was a force to reckon with. Very laborious, very upright, always on the move on her tiny bicycle. Carney Aunty was an institution in herself.