When Majeed got possession of this bicycle, he kept it like a trophy. No one dared touch it. His second wife Shahida would quip should the children want a ride on it, ‘Yes, yes, you are not to ride it, because it is Razia Sultana’s horse!’
Mr Carney was a high-ranking officer in the Indian Railways. It was said that he was a close friend of Mr E.T. McCluskie’s and had played an active role in the founding of McCluskieganj. It was he who along with the British government had introduced the CSI line in McCluskieganj. His red armband, that signified his post in the railways, was carefully stowed away by Carney Aunty, only to be inherited by Majeed, along with many other things in due course. When the Carneys had first come to
McCluskieganj, they had stayed at the Highland Guest House. It used to be a grand place earlier, but with the exodus of the Anglo-Indians, it had fallen to bad days. Mrs Carney used to look after the guest house, but soon, with no guests coming, the place fell into a shambles. Though she tried hard, Carney Aunty could not do much for it single-handedly. So she in turn sold it to a Calcutta gentleman by the name of N.E. Gupta.
Soon Mr Carney too passed away. During his illness, his wife cared for him as if he were a child. After his death, for a month, she did not leave the guest house. She only wept in a lonely corner while the families from McCluskieganj sent all the meals for her daily. They would quietly hand them over to Majeed who used to be minding the house. No one dared to approach her personally, so resolute was she in not taking help. But after a month of grieving, when she started cycling around McCluskieganj once again, she went to each and every one and thanked them for their kindness and generosity, adding, ‘What, man! In one month, you have fed me so much that I can burst any moment. I have become double my weight!’
Although Mr Gupta requested Carney Aunty to become the caretaker of the place, the venture didn’t work. And ultimately Mr Gupta sold the place to D.R. Cameron. Carney Aunty was left facing a very difficult financial situation. After much effort, she convinced the railway authorities at Dhanbad to allow her to open a railway canteen in an abandoned railway coach stationed at the platform of McCluskieganj. Thereafter she completely revamped that coach, painted and named it ‘Carney Tea Stall’. From then on, this tea stall became her
life support.
Majeed remembers: ‘My Abba and Ammi both assisted Mrs Carney in baking sweet, fresh bread and cookies for the tea stall. The village children would hang around just for some titbits from the stall, which Carney Aunty would give after loud threats of pure fun. The sweet breads, cookies and tea from this stall were truly magical!’
Once soon after the sale of the Highland Guest House, Carney Aunty fell seriously ill and Majeed’s father told her, ‘You cannot live here all alone. You must come and live with us. It will be very uncomfortable for you, I know, but you will at least be looked after.’ Carney Aunty finally relented. When Majeed came home after his marriage to Sabina, Carney Aunty took off the heavy gold bangle from her hand and, kissing the bride, put it on her hand. Then later, when Majeed married a second time, Carney Aunty was so distressed that she did not eat for two to three days. Then finally she burst out one day, ‘Ek dum doka. What did Sabina lack that you went and brought another wife? You want the wedding songs repeated for you, do you?’ Majeed tried to reason with her that Islam permitted more than one wife. Sabina, unlike Shahida, Majeed’s second wife, loved Carney Aunty very much. When Carney Aunty lay sick in bed, it was she who nursed her. Rumours started floating regarding the fate of Carney Tea Stall in her absence. Majeed was single-handedly managing it. ‘Who will drink tea from a Muslim’s hands?’ Then these mischief makers wrote to the railway authorities, saying that since Mrs Carney was dying, alternative arrangements ought to be made to run the tea stall. When the railway authorities came for inspection, Majeed got the shock of his life. At first he was so taken aback, he didn’t know what to do, then collecting himself, he ran to Carney Aunty leaving the tea stall in his son’s care. He told her the entire episode and then Carney Aunty, sick as she was, said in a very severe voice, ‘Majeed, I don’t know how, but get me seated on my bicycle and take me to the station.’ Majeed replied in a quivering voice, ‘Aunty, you on a cycle? In this condition, drag you to the station, I cannot do this.’ Majeed failed to understand, how a person so ill could even dream of going to the station. Then Carney Aunty roared, ‘Will you bring out my bicycle, or shall I do the needful myself?’ Taking support from Sabina, she staggered, then stood on her feet. Somehow Majeed took her to the station. There all hell broke loose, ‘Look here I am, Mrs Carney, alive and kicking. Are you trying to teach me the law? Oh, man! My husband was a very senior railway officer. This Majeed is my son, he will run the canteen after I am gone. If you write some nonsense in your report, let me tell you, I will spare none of you; I will report you to the headquarters.’ Aunty was shaking with anger. ‘I know who all are behind this mischief.’ The inspection officers also got somewhat ruffled. But Carney Aunty was no slip of a girl. Realizing this and wanting to put them into good humour, she said, ‘Perhaps I have scolded you too much. You will say what a crazy old hag she is. With one foot in the grave, she screams like a banshee. She hasn’t even offered refreshments to us.’ Then turning to Majeed, she quickly added, ‘You gadha ka poonch, donkey’s tail, don’t stand gaping! These officers have come from so far, surely you will arrange for some refreshments for them.’ Then while Majeed went off to make arrangements, Mrs Carney, started with a preliminary round of tea and toasts. This was followed by a proper meal inside the canteen and, as the officers were getting ready to leave, Carney Aunty said with a sad smile, ‘You will never get to have tea from Aunty’s hands again, but give me your word that after me, the canteen will remain with Majeed.’ True enough the officers went back and drew up a proposal whereby the canteen continued to function under Majeed’s management.
Mrs Carney passed away in 1983. Majeed performed all her last rites and fed many people saying, ‘Aunty was always one to feed people. This will surely make her spirit happy!’ Above the cash box in the canteen, Majeed stuck a photograph of Mrs Carney, saying, ‘As long as her picture is there, there will be no shortage of any sort in the tea stall. My Aunty was a person of good luck.’
That Carney Aunty had any relatives was unknown to the people of McCluskieganj. But about fourteen months after her demise, a long letter arrived for her from Australia. Even Majeed was nonplussed as Carney Aunty had never mentioned anyone. This letter was from one Rory T. Joyce, who apologized profusely that this was the first letter he was writing to her. He wrote, ‘I will believe that you have forgiven me only if you visit me in Australia.’ The contents were somewhat as follows, ‘Dear Aunty, Just recently, I saw a documentary on the devastating floods in Bihar and Bangladesh. Since that moment, I have been worried as to how the people of Bihar are coping with it. I am reminded of you all the while. I wonder how you are. Till date I have not seen you. I have only seen your photographs, both in childhood and as a young woman in Mummy’s albums. I am given to understand that my elder brother had also often asked you to visit Australia, but you refused. Why Aunty? Although we are relatives, it seems strange that should we meet in a crowd somewhere, we will just pass by without even knowing each other. Mummy has passed away, but you are still there, Mummy’s sister! Here we don’t lack anything. I have a very flourishing business and a large house. Whatever I have will be laid at your feet, so much do you mean to me. Please come to Australia. I don’t want to hear excuses. There is so much to know from you about our ancestors, our forefathers. Let me know of the expenses you will incur for this. It will be sent to you.’
When postman Tiwari had bared the contents of the letter to Majeed, the latter went directly to Mr Mendez and asked him to reply to Rory, telling him of his aunt’s death some fourteen months ago and that he, Majeed, had performed her last rites.
A few weeks later, a letter came from Australia for Majeed. It said, ‘Dear Majeed, how I rue my fate that Aunty is no more. My w
hole family is very sad. I could not even meet her while she lived. How did she die? How did she spend her last days? Write to me in detail. I feel very hassled. Majeed, you wrote to say that she knew you since you were a child and now you are managing her canteen. Listen, between you and me there is a bond and that is Mrs Winifred Carney. Isn’t that so? Should you have any photographs of her last days, do send them to me. Let me know your plans and if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask. It is my bad luck that Carney Aunty is no more. There are so many questions I wanted to ask her about the family. My mother, Heather Jane Lennox Matthews, was born near Lahore in the small town of Jacobabad. Then Lahore was very much part of India. My maternal grandmother had thirteen children; over and above that she adopted eight more. That makes a total of twenty-one. My Carney Aunty was one of the eight. Majeed, my parents were married in India. I have the original wedding photographs. We were always told that my mother’s parents were Irish, yet my mother, who was extremely beautiful, looked thoroughly Indian. Whereas Carney Aunty’s looks were thoroughly Anglo-Saxon. This had undoubtedly created confusion in my mind. Majeed, could it be that Carney Aunty was my grandparents’ biological child and my mother the adopted one? If that is so, the blood that flows in me is truly Indian. In that case, who are my Indian relatives? Had Aunty Carney been alive, she may have thrown some light on the matter. However, should some of the old inhabitants of McCluskieganj know anything about this subject, do enlighten me.’
But Majeed could make no headway on the subject. No one seemed to know. Carney Aunty had been buried with whatever knowledge she had of her family. She remained a mystery as far as her personal life was concerned. Each morning when Majeed opened his tea stall and his eyes fell on his cash box, he saw Aunty’s smiling photograph. His eyes would gaze at her for a long time. She must have been my mother in my last birth. Look at my religion, look at hers, and yet…
10
Chatti
Dimming memories, like faded nameplates on old houses, still remained with Dennis McGowan.
Robin’s Intermediate exams went well. He was now fully prepared to leave for McCluskieganj, having completed passport and visa formalities. He was drowning in pleasure. This was an old characteristic that Dennis remembered well, this trait in his son. He couldn’t help but smile while going back in time as he saw Robin, a little boy soaking himself, his whole body doused with the juice of the mango, in anticipation of the true delight of eating the fruit. Such was the innocent fancy of children, satiety in its fullness. No city child could enjoy such a sense of abandon. Peeling the mango, then literally soaping himself with it, then delving into the basket for more.
Dennis had written to his father, ‘Papa, this is the first time Robin is visiting McCluskieganj. Please come to Ranchi to receive him.’ Liza too was worried. ‘How will he go all alone?’ But Dennis had reassured her, ‘Don’t worry. This trip will help him develop self-confidence.’ But suddenly one morning, as if out of the blue a phone came from Mr Mendez, who said, ‘Dennis, your Papa is no more. He passed away yesterday. When the milkman knocked on the door and got no answer, he tried the back door. We forced it open and found your Papa dead. He had probably passed away the night before.’ Dennis held the receiver in his hands. They were shaking, and a cry escaped his lips, ‘Papa is no more…’ The receiver was still in his hand, although Mr Mendez had hung up, when Liza came hearing his cry. ‘What’s happened, what’s happened, man?’ she cried. ‘Papa’s no more,’ Dennis answered.
The death of a parent is like the withdrawal of a life support. When Robin came back with his results, he found the house in an eerie silence. When he came to know of his grandfather’s death, he went into shock. All his plans went awry, but despite his disappointment, Robin did not oppose his Dad’s plan of going instead of him to McCluskieganj. Dennis explained that it would be difficult for Liza to manage alone. Moreover, it was imperative that he went, because many domestic issues were involved. He told Robin, ‘You can go later.’ ‘But when?’ Robin thought. ‘Now with grandpa gone, I probably will never be able to visit McCluskieganj. And even if I do, it won’t be the same. There are people who know Papa, but me …? There will be no one to introduce me, to take me around.’
Dennis started preparing for his departure on war footing. Passport, visa, etcetera, but going to his beloved McCluskieganj somehow did not enthuse him any more. On the contrary, the circumstance of his visit had left him very sad. He left the very next day, telling Liza, ‘I will return only after settling everything at home. God alone knows how long that will take.’ On reaching Ranchi, Dennis called Liza and told her that he had arrived safely and would now be leaving for McCluskieganj. The familiar red laterite soil of south Bihar, the mild undulating rocky hills of this Chhota Nagpur area—Dennis took in all the details. The taxi driver was a young man. He asked Dennis, ‘It seems you belong to McCluskieganj, are you an Anglo-Indian?’ Dennis shook his head in assent. He was lost in his emotions, a queer mixture of contrary feelings. On one hand, he felt his father’s loss acutely, and on the other, there was that rare joy, when one’s feet touched the ground of one’s own land.
They stopped at a roadside tea stall. The taxi driver slurped his tea noisily while Dennis watched good-humouredly. It was ages since he had heard that sound. ‘Let’s hurry, I have to reach fast,’ Dennis said. The ride was not exactly smooth but the breeze, the swaying trees, prompted Dennis to lower his panes and breathe in the familiar ambience. Had he not known it all? From childhood to adolescence, to youth and finally now … He felt like shouting out to those trees, ‘If I have grown old, so have you. Just because you are still green, don’t think I don’t know your age.’ Soon after reaching his house, which was hitherto locked, people started to trickle in to pay their respects. The door was opened by Mr Mendez. Brian McGowan had been buried that very morning, Dennis was told. Mr Mendez, Miss Bonner, Mrs Thripthorpe, Mrs Alice Tomalin, Mr Miller and Mr Gibson had all come.
Mr Mendez, while opening the lock, said, ‘Dennis, we thought it would take you a while to get here. The dead body would be difficult to keep as it had already started smelling, hence we buried …’ Dennis, who had controlled himself till then, now broke down and sobbed and sobbed. Leaning his head against the wall, he said, ‘Papa, I could not even see you one last time. I am your ill-fated, luckless son!’ All those present comforted Dennis. Mrs Thripthorpe said, ‘Mr McGowan was very proud of you. In his last days, he would break down while speaking of you. He would often remember Robin and say, ‘If only he would come and visit the village just once.’ Dennis started weeping again. He was accompanied by all his neighbours to the graveyard. The earth where his father had been buried was still soft. Mr Mendez said, ‘We will put up a gravestone with an epitaph some time later.’ To that Dennis answered, ‘Yes, will you write, “Here lies Brian McGowan who despite death still loves McCluskieganj.”?’ Miss Bonner consoled him, ‘Son, all parents have to die some time or the other, so don’t look back, look ahead.’ But Dennis answered, ‘Let the tears flow, Aunty. How often do we get to express such plaintive sentiments?’
That night Dennis could not sleep a wink. The emptiness of the house, its dreary silence, just about drove him mad with restlessness. For several days, Dennis went from room to room, reviving memories: this is where I studied, this where my Mom gave lessons, this was our room, Liza’s and mine; here Robin was born. Then he remembered the letter his father had written him some time ago. ‘You can sell the house after I die. You are my only son. No one else would dare do that!’ Dennis felt revolted. ‘No, I will not sell the house. It will remain as a memory of my father. I will lock the house and go back to Hong Kong but not sell it.’
The neighbours kept visiting through the day. They all had one thought in mind. Would Dennis ever return to his village again? One morning Khushia Pahan and Tuinyan Ganjhu, like a pair of Lord Krishna’s deer, arrived saying, ‘Came to see the deer from Hong Kong, lest he suddenly leap away to oblivion!’ To this their old
friend Dennis replied smilingly, ‘And you two old monkeys, what have you been up to? Khushia, Tuinyan, how have you both aged so much before time?’ ‘Now, don’t compare us to yourself. For us there is only the lightning above and the earth below—a gulf separates us from you. Your food determines your body.’ Dennis waved away their words, ‘Oh! Forget all that, tell me, how about your duets? We are meeting after so long, c’mon, let’s have a bout of singing.’ There was anticipation in Dennis’s voice to which Khushia responded very agreeably. ‘Okay, this evening then! There will be a mahua session at my house.’ Dennis asked him, ‘Is the old jamun tree still there?’ Khushia replied, ‘Those fruits were so large, didn’t even fit our mouths. No, that tree dried up, God knows how.’ Dennis felt disappointed. That evening Khushia and Tuinyan regaled Dennis with their songs. One was dedicated to Liza, left behind in Hong Kong. ‘My beloved lives on the other side of the river, however will I go to her? The river is in spate, however will I go to her.’ It was a memorable evening, on one side the setting sun, on the other a rising moon like a terrestrial lotus. ‘Never sell your house,’ said Khushia after the songs got over.
As long as Dennis stayed, every day Carney Aunty would visit him with freshly baked cakes. She had even introduced the fifteen-year-old Majeed to him, saying, ‘The little manager of my tea stall.’ And Dennis had gone on to say that he had asked his father if he could help her, since she was having to work so hard. But Carney Aunty interrupted, ‘Son, stop, stop, please stop!’ Then she left. Dennis wondered if he had offended her. But the next day, she reappeared with more cakes and referred to Dennis’s offer from the day before. ‘Son,’ she said. ‘You made a generous offer, and I took it. Your Aunty was never poor. I have so much.’ As she spread her hands to show the amount, she revealed the tear in the underarm of her dress. Dear Carney Aunty … Despite her impoverished state, she was still so brave.
McCluskieganj Page 9
