Then there was Mrs Mary David. She evoked a feeling of sadness in Dennis. One morning she came with a bag full of dambha lemons. ‘These are for Liza, take them back to Hong Kong, you won’t get the like of them anywhere else,’ she said. Dennis was amazed to see, how this lady, who was such a beauty in her heydays, had been reduced by poverty to early old age. ‘Time the magician,’ Dennis thought, ‘can wreck us beyond our imagination.’ He felt as if he were witnessing a drama unfold before him.
And then finally there was Kitty, Kitty who was once Dennis’s heart-throb, who appeared like a setting star, lacklustre. Dennis thought, ‘Fate truly is a blind woman.’ One evening Kitty came to his house. At first Dennis did not even recognize her, so changed was she. Before going back to Hong Kong, he visited Kitty. He met her four children, Babloo the boy and the three girls—Sylvia, Evelyn and Linda. He couldn’t take his eyes off Sylvia. She was just Kitty, all over. The same blue eyes, the same blue frock, and her hair too was tied with the same red ribbon. Dennis tried to reach out and get Kitty to talk, but other than a faint smile, Kitty refused to communicate. Perhaps her grief was too deep for Dennis, for where was this friend at her hour of need. All she asked was, ‘Will you now sell your house?’
Dennis replied, ‘Let us see.’ Then Kitty flashed as if in sudden anger, ‘What is there to see! Most of the Anglo-Indians sell their homes after the death of their parents, you too will do the same.’ Then they parted and Dennis was confronted with this new dilemma: would he, wouldn’t he, would he, wouldn’t he, sell the house? How could he just lock it and go away to Hong Kong? If Dennis wished to retain his house, he would need to employ a caretaker for it. But what was the problem? The answer stared Dennis in the face, yet he did not see it. Kitty was leading a miserable existence, in a desolate area of McCluskieganj. Why did it not cross his mind that she would be the ideal person to take care of it? But a person’s compulsions may be many. It is difficult to pass a judgement. After all, Kitty was a woman married with children. Dennis too had his family in Hong Kong. What if his gesture was misunderstood? This thought of what Dennis would do with his house was foremost in everyone’s mind. Yet, no one dared express it. ‘How would he feel being asked this question, so soon after his father’s death?’ Mr Miller, Mrs Thripthorpe and Miss Bonner all were in agreement that it would be too premature to ask. As for Dennis, he was waiting for someone to suggest, someone to make a proposal. The days passed in quick succession. Everyday his meals were at the homes of different friends. Dennis hardly got time to think, but through all the engagements, that particular question needled him constantly. No one suggested that he sell his house because they knew that if Dennis did so, their community would be further depleted. Only Kitty’s words rang in his ears: ‘You too will sell your house. Most Anglo-Indians sell their homes after the death of their parents. You too will do the same.’ It was then that Dennis thought to himself, why not resolve this issue with Liza’s help? The very next day, Dennis took a taxi to Ranchi and called Liza. On receiving his phone, Liza immediately started accosting him, ‘When will you return, man? Are you planning to stay there for the rest of your life? The work at the press is proving to be very tough. Robin too is in a lost state, he is depressed about not being able to go McCluskieganj.’ Dennis interrupted, ‘Listen, Liza, listen to why I have called you. I would return to Hong Kong this instant, but what do I do about the house? I am distraught, Liza.’ And pat came Liza’s decision, ‘What is there to do? What is wrong with you, man? Dithering—that is your old problem. Man, you don’t like me to say as much, but there you are. Who will look after the house? There is no sense at all in keeping it. Be done with it as quickly as you can, yaar, and don’t discuss this with all and sundry there. They will all try to dissuade you with their useless talk of
McCluskieganj being decimated, with all the Anglo-Indians leaving. All that emotional blah-blah, claptrap! But let me tell you we are not the only ones responsible for the continuity of that goddam village!’ When he hung up, a sense of relief overtook Dennis. Liza had definitely pulled him out of the mire of indecision, peeled off the skin of illusion and left him facing the truth. But Dennis’s return ride on the taxi was disturbingly surreal. He felt as if the forest trees were pointing their fingers, their eyes accusing him of treachery, their leaves rustling as if beating their breast. ‘Look at him! He has decided to sell his father’s house. Is there no one to stop him?’
When he returned, the house was in a shadow. It looked so sad. Dennis was once again restless that night. Then suddenly he remembered. Chatti … Chatti river, his Chatti. It was a moonlit night and Dennis thought how beautiful it must appear tonight. In these last ten or eleven days, he had visited all the people he knew, all the places that held warm memories for him, but the River Chatti? He rose from his bed, unlocked the door, but then again he changed his mind. He locked it once again and lay down. ‘I’ll go tomorrow,’ he said to himself, ‘I must also look up my old friend Bahadur Oraon.’ That night sleep eluded him and he lay winnowing his thoughts like bales of cotton. Women perhaps were the more practical of the two sexes.
The next morning saw Dennis march off to Mr Mendez. Mr Mendez was, in fact, quite surprised to see Dennis at that rather early hour; his sixth sense had probably alerted him to what was in store. ‘I want to sell my house,’ Dennis blurted with suddenness. There was no mincing of words and Mr Mendez had heard right, heard what he and the rest of the village had for the last ten days waited for with baited breath. ‘Please find me a buyer,’ Dennis said. Mr Mendez quietly, without any argument, replied, ‘There is a businessman by the name of Ghanshyam Agarwal in Ranchi. He has been looking for a house here for a long time. Wants to make a rest house. He will pay you well too. I shall go to Ranchi tomorrow itself.’ In a matter of minutes, the whole village was agog with this latest bulletin. Most of the people shrugged and said without any acrimony or sarcasm, ‘It had to happen. It would have been astonishing if it had not.’ Nothing more. And so accordingly, the next day, Mr Mendez, along with Dennis, left for Ranchi. However, when setting off, Mr Mendez told Dennis, ‘Take the papers of the land and house,’ Dennis was startled. He had not thought of that angle. He immediately went and opened his father’s old almirah. The house file was kept right in front, a red file, and Dennis felt strange, like a thief, taking possession of it. He felt as if there were eyes gazing at him, his father’s eyes, and it seemed his lips were parched with pain. Dennis broke out in a stream of sweat.
The two had to stay in Ranchi for two days. The nitty-gritty of the deal was worked out. There was absolutely no hassle. Ghanshyam Agarwal, a well-known businessman of Ranchi, had an equally well-known laugh. Whenever Dennis expressed some anxiety about the deal, he responded with Hoho! ‘Dennis Babu, why should there be any problem? You want to sell and I want to buy. What remains is the matter of price. A little more or a little less. Moreover, there is good Mr Mendez between us, so what is there to worry about?’ Ghanshyamji even came back with them to see the property for himself.
Ghanshyam Agarwal had several contacts in the registry office and the transfer and fresh registration of the house was easily done. Then when he asked Dennis when he intended giving possession, Dennis answered, ‘I was waiting just for these formalities and now since they are all done, you can take possession tomorrow by ten.’ Ghanshyamji replied, ‘I will send my munshi by car to you at ten to take the keys from you. But what about the things you have in the house?’ Dennis hadn’t thought of that, but at the spur of the moment it struck him that he could just distribute the few items among his acquaintances in McCluskieganj.
On their way back, Mr Mendez was very quiet. And Dennis was thinking what he would do with the few furniture left in the house. And then suddenly the memory of Bahadur Oraon flashed before him. His childhood friend, how like a squirrel he would race up the trees! He hadn’t yet met Bahadur. So Dennis decided, ‘Yes, I will give everything to Bahadur. They will come useful to that poor man.’
Ghansh
yam Agarwal’s driver dropped the two at
McCluskieganj. On getting off, Dennis asked Mr Mendez, ‘One Bahadur Oraon used to live near the Chatti river, does he still live there?’ And Mr Mendez answered, ‘You mean Bagh Bachcha? Yes, you just have to follow the railway track, westwards!’ Then Dennis said, ‘That means he still lives in his old hut.’ And Mr Mendez replied, ‘But what makes you inquire after Bahadur?’ Dennis said, ‘He is my childhood friend, I just want to meet him. What does he do nowadays? This is the first time I am coming since I left for Hong Kong. I don’t know where all my erstwhile companions have gone.’ Mr Mendez answered with a knowing smile, ‘Your friend has become a leader of the local Adivasis. He is actively spearheading their cause, always on the go from village to village. Go and meet him.’ ‘Okay, I’ll meet this leader friend of mine and twist his ear,’ Dennis replied. Then Mr Mendez added, ‘There is yet another friend of yours, who too is a leader, though a wicked opportunist and a blackmailer—Duti Bhagat. He is the secretary of the Jharkhand Freedom Front. Of course, there is no comparison between Bahadur and Duti; the former an honest simple person, the latter a crook through and through!’ Then Dennis remembered how Duti had got them all into trouble, when they were kids, when in one of his mischievous moods he had set the straw rick on fire, for which they all had been spanked and punished.
Then Dennis turned to go towards the railway line. He could see the palms lining the Chatti river, glimmering in the setting sun, and sensed an immediate feeling of peace. The Chatti, always peaceful and quiet, instilled a sense of tranquility not only in him but Liza too. Paras flowers were strewn on the roadside. Dennis had never forgotten this site even in Hong Kong. It lived in the recesses of his memory and he knew it would do so for all time. Oh, these Adivasi villages, so green, so clean, with neat little huts, their mud walls covered with paintings of birds and trees and rivers. Although the population of the village seemed to be more than before, peace prevailed, but where was Bahadur’s hut? Dennis was wondering about its whereabouts when a little girl, some thirteen or fourteen years old, came skipping along. She was wearing a pink frock. Dennis called out, ‘Little daughter, will you come here once?’ The dark Adivasi girl stopped. Dennis noticed the sharp eyes, the chiselled nose, and said to himself, ‘Surely, this is Bahadur’s daughter—this scampering squirrel can be no one else’s!’ Then he asked, ‘Can you point out Bahadur Oraon’s house to me?’ ‘I am his daughter, but my father is not in at the moment,’ the girl answered. So this was the girl for whom Bahadur had dared even a tiger. He asked, ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Neelmani,’ the girl answered. ‘What a lovely name! When will your father return?’ ‘He will return any moment, he has just gone to a neighbouring village,’ Neelmani said. ‘Okay, then I will sit in your house and await his return. He and I are childhood friends. We used to play together, run and scale trees, just like you must be doing with your friends now,’ Dennis smiled and said. By then they had neared the hut where a broken old cot lay. Dennis sat down on it. Neelmani disappeared inside, probably to inform her mother of the visitor’s arrival. The voice of a woman from behind the door said, ‘He should be here any moment.’ ‘Bhabhi, I am Dennis, don’t you recognize me?’ Dennis said, and the woman covering her head with her sari came out. She said, ‘Dennis Babu, after so many years!’ By then Neelmani had presented Dennis with a shining vase-shaped glass of water. The glass was a large one and Dennis wondered if he would be able to drink all that water. Nevertheless, he took the glass from the girl’s hand. Then he remembered the times when he and Bahadur, tired after playing, would come to this very hut, and Bahadur’s mother would serve them refreshments in a brass plate and water in this very glass. Dennis drank from it. The taste was truly sweet. Just then he heard a sweet familiar voice calling, ‘Who has come to visit us?’ Bahadur sounded so happy, so proud to see Dennis. The two friends embraced and Bahadur said, ‘I was planning to meet you today. I knew you were here and that you are leaving tomorrow. Why didn’t you meet me earlier? I thought that you had forgotten me. I was present at Brian Uncle’s burial.’ Dennis replied, ‘I reached a little late’. Then Bahadur asked, ‘How are you, Dennis, and how is Hong Kong?’ Dennis answered, ‘I’ll tell you, but tell me, I was told that you have become a leader of the Adivasis! Since when have you become so politically active, man?’ Bahadur replied sadly, ‘Dennis, where do I have the means to indulge in politics. I remember how hard you had to struggle to obtain your degree. Every day you would spend two hours trying to reach Ranchi by bus. The condition of this village and the villagers is abysmal. From Delhi to Patna, the politicians only talk, of the development work that is going on here, but in fact it is all on paper, nothing in reality! All the money that is coming in, in the name of upliftment, is just being looted by the so-called netas. They are hungry to grab money, to grab our wives and daughters, literally pillaging our lives. Several projects for industries too have been drawn up so as to create avenues for employment for the Adivasis, but all to no use. It is this lack of job opportunities that has driven many Anglo-Indians to sell their properties and seek greener pastures elsewhere. But we poor sons of the soil, where can we go? Where is the wherewithal? No Dennis, we are ill-fated. We will live and die here.’ Those past years flashed before Dennis. Bahadur had read only till class nine because his father Bagun Oraon had said, ‘I cannot manage the affairs of the house by myself alone.’ Bahadur had left studies and joined his father in his small-scale farming. Dennis again got lost in thought. Every word of Bahadur was burning and scalding him. Perhaps Bahadur too had heard that he had sold his house. Dennis broke out in a sweat at what Bahadur had said, and a silence followed. Both were lost in their own thoughts. Then Bahadur broke the silence, ‘Where are you lost?’ To which Dennis replied, ‘Oh nothing, just…’ In the darkness, it was easy to hide one’s emotions. Then Bahadur’s wife brought a small lamp and kept in a tiny niche in the wall; it felt like a lone ray in the darkness. On her heels came Neelmani, with a brass plate of roasted gram, and Bahadur asked her hesitantly, ‘Only this much for your uncle?’ Poor little girl, with doubtful eyes she looked up at her father as if to say, ‘What else is there?’, and Dennis quickly said, as if on her behalf, ‘What more does one need? Really, yaar Bahadur! Go child, don’t bother!’ Then they fell to munching with great speed. Where on earth could one grab gram by the palm like this in Hong Kong? This was a different kind of enjoyment and Dennis just loved it. In Hong Kong, like all the others, he too was subjected to the rigours of convention—fork, knife, spoon and what not! Then Bahadur asked, ‘So, what’s the programme? Are you definitely leaving tomorrow? What about the house?’ This query made it somewhat easy for Dennis to answer without himself having to bring up the subject. ‘I have sold it, Bahadur.’ His friend gave a little gasp of surprise, ‘To whom?’ ‘To a gentleman from Ranchi.’ Once again the prevailing darkness helped Dennis break the news to his friend. ‘Tomorrow, at ten in the morning, Mr Agarwal’s munshi will come to take possession.’ ‘What about the articles in the house? Will you take them back with you?’ Bahadur asked, and Dennis, somewhat harassed by his naivety, replied, ‘Really, Bahadur, how can I? I plan to leave those possessions, which include bed, chairs, almirah, etcetera, in your safe custody.’ Bahadur was quick to cut in, ‘Possessions, Dennis. What possessions? The only possession that is yours is your body and soul. Pray, in whose custody will you be leaving that?’ Bahadur’s eyes were charged with frenzy. Even in the glimmering darkness, Dennis could see that and his words had momentarily sliced through his mask. The mask that the sophisticated urbane are often known to wear. Bahadur was reluctant to accept the responsibility that Dennis was forcibly bestowing on him. He protested, ‘Please, Dennis. Try to understand that I lead an uncertain life. Moreover, where is the place to keep all these things? My family and I barely fit into this small hut.’ But Dennis would have none of that. ‘Do what you please with it. If you have any feelings for me, you will keep the stuff. I will send them through some hired labourers
tomorrow morning. Please be here when they come, and yes, we must meet once before I leave.’ So saying, Dennis got up and, with long strides, left. And Bahadur…? He was so overwhelmed that he could not even get off the cot to bid his friend adieu.
Early next morning Dennis managed to catch some passing labourers. He called them and asked them if they would reach the items in question to the house of Bahadur Oraon, near the Chatti river. They agreed and the charge too was fixed,
Rs 300 on delivery. When the stuff had been reached, Dennis, on second thoughts, gave them Rs 50 more by way of tips, and they were so delighted. It was about eight in the morning and as there was still time, Dennis locked his door and decided to quickly visit Bahadur before leaving. When he reached, he found Bahadur sitting quietly on his cot, the items still lying outside. Dennis shook his hands very warmly. Bahadur wanted to say something, but stopped short. To this Dennis said, ‘Perhaps you wanted to say something.’ ‘What more is there to be said?’ answered Bahadur. ‘I have just left them in your safe custody.’ So saying, Dennis took leave of his friend.
At home, all the Anglo-Indian families of McCluskieganj, with the exception of Kitty, had gathered to wish Dennis goodbye. ‘In just half an hour, I will have said goodbye to all these wonderful, loving people of my beautiful village. But can I ever forget
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