McCluskieganj. However, one concern remains and that is Cindy. What will happen to her after me? My only son Keith, who did his schooling and college in Calcutta left for New Zealand so many years ago. He used to ask me to go live with him after his father’s death, but he stopped asking after I refused to be forthcoming. He came only once after his father’s death, and actually why should he? Keith has no attachments to
McCluskieganj. He never connected with this place. Still he does write occasionally.’ Robin reflected on Mrs Tomalin’s condition. Cut off from her son, with hardly any relatives, she was now literally living for Cindy. It occurred to him that perhaps there could really be a connection between Mrs Tomalin and the huge rock outside. Mrs Tomalin interrupted Robin just then, ‘You know, Robin, old age means that time has stopped, all you have are memories of the past. Every morning I get up and look at the mirror and see that my wrinkles have increased. And what are these wrinkles? They are the lines of memories etched on our faces.’
Robin changed the topic saying, ‘Cindy has got very bored with our humourless conversation.’ ‘Yes,’ answered Mrs Tomalin, ‘Cindy wants me all to herself, that I should be running after her alone.’ ‘She is thoroughly spoiled by your love,’ said Robin, patting Cindy. ‘Cindy has got me quite chained to her. I cannot leave her and go anywhere else. Son, this is the great chain that ties us to life. Love, the need to love and to be loved or perhaps, the need to be needed,’ said Mrs Tomalin as Robin rose to take his leave.
Outside, Robin once again saw the huge rock next to the gate. The wild flowers around it needed it as much as it needed the flowers. Mrs Tomalin’s words encircled his thoughts over and over again as he walked back to Queen’s Cottage.
21
Mary, Ram Sevak and Others
Mary David spent sleepless nights. Her tossing and turning prompted her husband Ram Sevak to ask, ‘Aren’t you sleeping?’ Mary answered, ‘Yes, I am sleeping.’ ‘You sleep like a hen, Mary.’ She said, ‘I am keeping a watch, man, so why don’t you sleep.’ Ram Sevak smelled his wife’s fears and tried to comfort her back to sleep.
In this part of McCluskieganj called Hesalung, in an arbour enclosed by barbed wires and lantanas, there was an orchard of mangoes, berries, guavas, jackfruit and what not. The Davids had spent many years of quiet and peace in their small, tiled cottage. But due to Ram Sevak’s persistent level of high sugar, the doctor at Ranchi had given an ultimatum, ‘Ram Sevakji, there is no more to be done. Diabetes has totally blinded your left eye. It will have to be removed.’ Mary’s rosy cheeks had overflowed with tears on hearing this. Their bad stars had, she felt, once again encircled and blighted their lives. Issueless, her husband meant everything to her. When for several years following their marriage, the Davids did not have children, Mary visited all the places of worship, Christian as well as Hindu, begging God for his mercy to grant them a child. She consulted doctors and holy men alike for the purpose but to no avail. They had told her that it was she who was barren. She would ask Ram Sevak to marry again. But Ram Sevak would only say, ‘So what if we don’t have children?’ ‘There will be no illusions and worldly pursuits for us,’ Mary would observe in a detached way. Even though she was an Anglo-Indian, she well understood the implication of the Hindu concept of maya, the concept of illusion, of life as make-believe. Often she wondered what would become of Ram Sevak should she predecease him. Who would look after him? Certainly not his brothers, who never spoke to him, who considered him a pariah since he married her. When the doctor removed one of Ram Sevak’s eyes, the village folk came in turns to inquire after his condition but not his brothers and nephews. If people asked Ram Sevak whether his family had come to see him, Ram Sevak would let the matter pass by saying, ‘They are busy with their work.’
But life throws up endless surprises. One can even eat stones and digest them so to say, but a good piece of gossip must be shared, even as they float and do their rounds. So it came to Mary’s ears that Ram Sevak’s younger brother had said, ‘As you sow, so you reap! Arre, the loss of one eye is just the beginning, slowly that mem will eat him wholly. My father, when alive, had remarked that Ram Sevak, who had been blinded by love figuratively by Mary, would literally be blinded by her’. Mary knew of these comments, but she chose not to speak of them to her husband. The doctor, after the removal of the eye, had given Ram Sevak dark glasses. How strange he looked, like the blind bard Surdas, and how Mary had wept. Seeing her distress, Ram Sevak had remarked,‘Why are you upsetting yourself, my dear. It’s just one eye that I have lost. I still have the other.’ And then with his military humour, he would add, ‘Oh! it is my blind, crow-like look that puts you off.’ Mary, wiping her tears with the sleeve of her dress, smiled and replied, ‘Yes, your toad-like look.’ She never wept again before her husband, fearing that if she did, he would lose confidence in himself.
Ram Sevak had diabetes and Mary arthritis. Yet who would have thought that an active man like Ram Sevak who worked ceaselessly in his garden would get a disease normally associated with a sedentary lifestyle. Mary’s father, Mr Sparks, had arthritis, so when Mary started getting pain in the joints, it came as no surprise, the disease being assumed to be hereditary. The couple resigned themselves to their physical fates; they would have to live the rest of their lives with them. Ram Sevak had fixed in bank deposits whatever money he had received from the sale of his family land. This monthly income from the bank and the income from the sale of fruits that grew in his orchard were enough to sustain the couple.
Yet even for bare sustenance, one needed money. When Ram Sevak had asked his younger brother for his share of their family inheritance, his brother and his nephews had all got very angry with him. Ram Sevak remembered the day when he had married Mary in the church and converted to Christianity. His father was livid. He had said, ‘I have no son by the name of David. I had a son named Ram Sevak, but for me, now he is dead. You have humiliated me in front of the society. Now I will disinherit you.’ Ram Sevak’s younger brother had gloated over this decision of his father’s, but the fact was that Ram Sevak’s parents, though hurt and humiliated by his decision to convert and marry an Anglo-Indian, had never legally denied Ram Sevak’s rights as a son.
Ram Sevak and Mary had got this present piece of land from the Bhoodan Committee, but after the passing of his parents. Ram Sevak, realizing the growing need of money, had approached his brother saying that he wanted his share of their property. He had assured his brother that he had no children of his own, his brother and nephews would be the legal heirs to whatever was his and his wife’s.
However Ram Sevak’s nephews did not like his proposal. ‘How do we know that you will not carry all your earthly possessions on your head to heaven?’ they had said poking fun at their uncle. ‘No, what I can carry I will, the rest you will bring on your head for me when you follow,’ Ram Sevak was quick to reply.
The tension over property matters continued for some time, until Mary, seemingly disgusted, said, ‘Leave them, man. I knew they would never give up even an inch of land for you. Why bother? After all, have we not managed with whatever little we have?’ But Ram Sevak’s hackles were raised. He was not willing to acquiesce easily, he had decided therefore that he would not relent on his rights. Again he accosted his brother, ‘Have I ever inquired about the produce from my share of cultivation?’ Seeing that the case was getting murkier, the elders of the Baniya community intervened on Ram Sevak’s behalf and finally resolved the matter.
Ram Sevak David often wondered about the irony of his life, of the course his marriage to Mary had followed, how despite having his family of brothers and nephews settled in
McCluskieganj none spoke to him. In fact, he was treated like a pariah, an outcast. This was in such contrast to Mary. Her sister Ivy lived in Australia. She had lost her husband some years ago and was paralysed after a stroke. Being bedridden, Ivy was looked after by her only daughter, Annie, who was unmarried and worked as a schoolteacher. It was Annie who had touched Ram
Sevak with her warmth. She had seen her Aunt Mary only in photographs in her mother’s album, still she connected with her so well. She wrote with a certain regularity, always insisting that both Mary and Uncle Ram Sevak come to Australia and live their remaining days with her. These letters served as an elixir for Mary. They would lift her flagging spirits and then she would fantasize and say, ‘Come, let’s go to Australia.’ And Ram Sevak, looking at his trees, would answer, ‘But what about our children? Who will care for them?’ To this Mary would reply with resignation, ‘Okay, maybe not Australia, Ram Sevak, but a day will come when our orchards, our simple cottage will be bereft of us.’ ‘Oh no, Mary! Then I’ll keep a watch from a tree in the form of a crow and you will assume the shape of a yellow bird and keep a watch over me!’ ‘What will you achieve by becoming a crow, my dear, for by then fat rats will be ruling the roost here.’
The reference to rats upset Ram Sevak no end. They were his bête noire. They attempted to thwart his every move in planting fruit trees in his compound. Now take for instance the incident of the amrapali mango saplings that Ram Sevak had selected with such care in the Ranchi nursery. No sooner had he planted them than these monsters just ripped through the roots of the saplings. Each time Ram Sevak planted new trees, the rats would destroy them. He was at a loss as to what to do. As regards Mary, these rats didn’t spare her either. One of her lower teeth had been replaced by a clipped-on denture by the dentist practicing in Ranchi. Often at night while going to sleep, Mary would just leave it on the shelf in her room only to find it gone the next morning. For some time, Ram Sevak would, along with his monthly provision list, mention this item as ‘tooth—1 piece’, until Mary became more careful and began to keep it safely in her drawer. Ram Sevak would say jokingly, ‘Mary, your clip-on tooth must be of great use to the old rats,’ and Mary would answer, ‘God has put thieving into the very blood of these rats!’ Then Ram Sevak would say, ‘At least thank heavens that we have only these small thieves to deal with. We have never had to face real thieves and burglars.’
That very night, as if he had spoken too soon, dacoits raided Ram Sevak’s cottage. There was something so bestial, so monstrous and inhuman about these people, who are an ugly mark on humanity. Khushia Pahan’s muse was on a high the next morning. The moment he heard of the ugly incident, he ran along to Ram Sevak’s for first-hand details. The couple, already a diminutive, non-interfering sort, were cowering in fear, a shadow of themselves, when Khushia got to them. The dacoits came in the guise of MCC members with guns, revolvers and other ammunition, as if they were raiding a fortress and not a small shack. So when the dacoits entered, falsely calling themselves the MCC, Ram Sevak , discovering who they really were, dithered in handing over the keys. They threw down the couple to the ground, who lay prostrate until the bandits decamped with whatever little they could lay their hands on. After all, what would the Davids have in their house.
That night the dacoits also looted late Mr Henderson’s house, which was locked as his wife lived in Calcutta in an old-age home. Mrs Henderson’s caretaker lived in the outhouse and did not hear the dacoits enter. Here they decamped with whatever memorabilia they found, vandalizing showcases, almirahs and furniture. Khushia Pahan told Mr Miller, Mr Mendez and Robin that MCC workers were respected by the general public. They were always allowed entry into their houses. Again and again the same question came up as to what the dacoits could have found at Ram Sevak’s cottage. Khushia Pahan corroborated, ‘Mary Mem did have some gold jewellery and a little cash in hand. Is that not a lot for poor people to lose?’ Khushia was visibly outraged. In fact, the whole village was outraged. These were ominous signs of the bad days ahead. Lack of employment was driving these erstwhile innocent people to theft and burglary and that too under the guise of the MCC. Such was the fate of a state and its people whose leaders lacked practical vision.
But then, like elsewhere, life went on in McCluskieganj. Look for instance at the scene in front of Bonner Bhawan. Miss Bonner was using a marvellous fusion of Hindi and English expletives. People had stood far and near amused at the goings-on. You see like all other evenings, Miss Bonner has just opened her letter box to check her mail when out dropped a baby mouse. It first landed on her chest and then ran on to her hand. Holding her walking stick, Miss Bonner got the shock of her life. She screamed and almost lost her balance, and had it not been for Mariam, her young Adivasi maid, she would have most certainly gone for a toss. ‘You dogs, you offspring of a pig,’ she yelled venomously from sheer nervous anger. Miss Bonner did not know the perpetrators of this mischief, but Mariam smiled knowingly. It was Jerry Pinto and his gang of local Anglo-Indian boys as well as a few Adivasi lads who from time to time thought up ways to irritate the old lady. It was Jerry who caught these mice assiduously and put them into the letter box. It was in the middle of this hullabaloo that Robin approached Bonner Bhawan. At first he couldn’t understand the cause for such fuss, but when he did he could barely suppress his smile. Assuring Miss Bonner that he would bring the rascals to book, he tried to guide her inside. But nothing could calm her down. She said, ‘These loafers of McCluskieganj don’t know what all I have seen—randi ka naatch and launda ka naatch—from the front seat. I can have these devils rounded up and put in the lock-up in no time.’ Mariam too tried to pacify her mistress, but in vain.
Putting the disturbance behind, Robin led Miss Bonner into her house, which was always a picture of perfect peace. Miss Bonner invited him to walk around her garden. It was a veritable treasure trove of plants and flowers. Miss Bonner said, ‘India has always been a country of beautiful flowers and with each subsequent arrival of foreigners, newer and newer varieties of exotic plants were introduced. The Mughals brought flowers from Persia and the Middle East. In fact, the rose was brought here by Babar with considerable difficulty from Basra.’ Robin was quite impressed with this piece of information. To think that the rose, which is a common sight in India, should have arrived all the way from Basra! Miss Bonner continued, ‘The British and Portuguese too brought many plants from abroad—in fact, one Dr Farminger wrote a monumental book way back in 1863. It was titled Farminger’s Manual of Gardening in India. Then excitedly Miss Bonner pointed out at a particular flower. ‘This is the blue poppy. Many years ago, an Englishman, who was crazy about horticulture, had come here. His name was Frank Kingdon Ward. Between 1938 and 1956, he scoured the country in search of exotic flowers. It was he who searched out this rare, shy flower. In fact, my life is immersed in books and flowers.’ So saying, she took Robin to the verandah, asking Mariam to bring some coffee.
Miss Bonner liked Robin’s presence very much. She asked, ‘Are you all right in McCluskieganj?’ Robin nodded in agreement. ‘You see, nowadays young people get bored with the slow pace of village life, that’s why I was wondering’ ‘But that’s exactly why I am here,’ said Robin, ‘to write in the peaceful atmosphere of this village, to be one with every nuance of village life. Miss Bonner replied profoundly, ‘Son, there is a great connection between nature, that is with prakriti and art, that is kriti. No work of art can succeed unless it reflects nature. The bridge between nature and art is the medium of expression, in this case language; that is the factor that binds life to emotion. If I have to express my sentiments regarding
McCluskieganj, no doubt it will have to be in the language of the soil, Hindi. Have you observed the name of my house? Most educated and westernized Indians use words such as villa or house, but I have named it Bonner Bhawan. This novel that you will be writing, what language do you propose to write it in?’ ‘Since it is about our community and the Adivasis, most certainly it will be in Hindi, although I may translate it later into English,’ answered Robin. Mrs Bonner smiled. ‘Language is a great cementing factor among people, the best way to connect. Where there is unity of language, the unity of feelings follows; it encourages nationalism. Look at the people of the Parsi community. They are so few in number, yet look at the strides they have taken in the fields of industry, bus
iness, art and music. Their achievements are phenomenal. Jamshedpur is a dream city, a creation of unlimited vision and idealism. In order to progress, you have to think collectively. Mr McCluskie was a visionary. He tried to give his community a feel of the soil, of belonging, of parental love that could be equated with the love of Fatherland for its children and vice versa. But look at the Anglo-Indians! They regarded themselves as superior, stuck to their coats and jackets, never interacted or merged with the hoi polloi and so singled themselves out, away from the mainstream. In the march of time, they just fizzled out. They felt completely disinherited when the British government denied them their status—that domiciled Europeans namely Anglo-Indians were not their responsibility.’
Robin inquired with some desperation, ‘Is there no way we can save Mr McCluskie’s dream?’ Miss Bonner replied in a sinking voice, ‘Try and see for yourself. You know, Robin, Jesus had said on the cross, “Father, forgive them, they know not what they are doing,” but my prayer for the Anglo-Indian community is just the opposite. “My Lord, never forgive these Anglo-Indians, for they know very well what they are doing.”’ Miss Bonner was becoming intense. She took off her glasses, wiped her eyes, and then, after a pause, continued, ‘That is why I wonder what you will write in your novel? Tell me, Robin, what will you write about? What is there to write?’ Robin’s gaze turned towards the garden. The shadows had lengthened into darkness.
22
MCC
The village was on the boil since the morning. There was a large crowd near the railway crossing close to reporter Basant’s grocery shop. There were similar crowds at Suresh Gupta’s snack shop and at Majeed’s Carney Tea Stall too. Robin said after his morning tea, ‘Jack, I’ll have my other round of tea at Carney’s.’ But Jack didn’t seem to be too sure. ‘Well, if you will, you will, but perhaps you are not aware of the latest development. Tuinyan Ganjhu’s son Bifna has been arrested by the Budhmu Thana police before daybreak. There is a lot of tension in the village, Robin Babu.’ ‘Why, whatever happened?’ asked Robin. His voice did not betray excessive dismay because he knew Jack had a habit to exaggerate. ‘What will happen? Just the old MCC problem? It’s nothing new. Bifna’s link with the MCC is known to be an old one. Lack of employment has forced many youngsters of the village to join this outlawed party.’
McCluskieganj Page 17
