As Robin walked towards the station, he felt that Jack’s assessment of the situation was somewhat correct. At Carney Tea Stall, there was a full relay of the screenplay of Bifna’s arrest. Having heard of his arrival, and guessing that it was Robin, Majeed hailed him, ‘Robin Babu, why are you standing outside? Come in, come, come.’ Then he forced Robin to sit on his stool. ‘Make Robin Chacha a cup of special tea, with plenty of cream and sugar, understood,’ Majeed barked at his younger son. Outside, the swelling crowd spoke of nothing but the arrest of Bifna with plenty of fanciful inputs, which Robin readily swallowed.
The Budhmu Thana police had stopped before Tuinyan Ganjhu’s shack even before dawn. Hearing the brake of the police jeep, Bifna had tried to escape by the back door, but the police were too quick. He was easily overpowered. Tuinyan had never dreamt of such a scene. He pleaded but in vain. Inspector Sukhdev Ram would hear none of him; instead, he shouted back abusively, ‘Nothing, you motherfucker, your son is a bloody MCC-wallah, goes about looting guns while his father sings songs. Son of a bloody singer! Those MCC bastards come and eat and drink at your place. Do they or do they not? Your son will now rot in jail.’ So saying, Inspector Sukhdev Ram revved his jeep and went off, leaving a wailing Tuinyan and his wife behind.
Tuinyan had suspected his son of having MCC leanings for some time now. Bifna would disappear for days on end, and when he returned, he would appear totally exhausted. Just a couple of days ago, the MCC militants had seized licensed rifles from Padman Sahu, Marcus Toppo, Manohar Panda, Harihar Sahu and Suraj Karketa. On that occasion, Bifna was absconding from home. Tuinyan Ganjhu was worried about his son and would occasionally tell his wife, ‘Bifna will be the cause for our shame one day.’ And that is just what happened as a result of the rifle snatching. Then the police raided house after house. ‘Show no mercy to those blackguards,’ was the order of the deputy inspector general in Ranchi. Reverend Tom Lakra of the McCluskieganj church had prayed, ‘Oh God! Save us from the ravages of the MCC, they have cut and carried away all our trees!’ The MCC commander of that area, Hembrom, was synonymous with death itself. Some called him ‘Black Cobra’. Like the gods of the Hindu pantheon, he too had many names. Although many of the fathers had earlier run away from fear, Father Lakra had taken the bull by the horns. He had counselled the villagers, from among whom the MCC cadres were known to be recruited, on the importance of education. ‘It’s all very well to lead the life of a peasant, but if you don’t study you will remain like a caged parrot.’ Father Lakra had also dispensed medicines during the recent outbreak of diarrhoea in the village. The MCC was well aware of his service to their community; that was why they had not struck on the church till now. Yet, when they learned of young tribal girls visiting Father Lakra at night, they lost no time in pasting a warning on his gate: ‘STAY AWAY FROM THE GIRLS.’ Father Lakra was quick to note the warning. He was careful about his activities with regard to the Adivasi girls. His return to his celibate state was his saving grace. Just a few years earlier, Mr Bal, a very colourful personality, had been bodily lifted by the MCC. Sardar Bal and his wife were not exactly compatible and one day after a terrible fight, Mrs Bal left permanently for Ranchi, where she took up an assignment in a school. Her departure gave her husband the freedom and licence of an untethered bull. Gossip went around that Mr Bal was enticing the local girls with money to satiate his libido, which was when the MCC abducted him.
The Budhmu police searched the forests high and low, but nowhere could they find him, until one morning clad only in an underwear and tied in ropes, Mr Bal was found groaning outside the thana; a letter was found pasted on the thana wall: ‘You police bastards, you are sinners yourself. What punishment can you possibly give to people like Bal? That is why we have done the needful to bring him back to his senses. If ever he gets funny with our girls, we will cut off his genitals!’ Never was Mr Bal’s drawstring ever loosened again. When his wife heard of it in Ranchi, she returned to McCluskieganj. With tears in his eyes, Mr Bal apologized and swore to his sardarni, ‘Let bygones be bygones. Please forgive me.’ Mrs Bal became a great admirer of the MCC. Sitting in Australia, when Mrs Gibson heard of this, she lost no time in writing to her son Minto, who had by then perforce shifted to Jamshedpur. ‘Tell the MCC about your father! They will settle and cool his lust in his old age forever!’
Even though Minto and his family had left McCluskieganj for quite some time, there were informants in the village who kept Mrs Gibson posted with all the latest developments. In return, she would send these well-wishers small gifts from time to time. She knew from them that her husband was now consulting legal opinion on how to make Parvati and her son his legal heirs. Again she wrote to Minto. ‘You sit in Jamshedpur while your father is planning to make that bitch Parvati and her pup his heirs. Just go back! What will your father do? He will be abusive for a while. He will shout and scream. Pour oil into your ears and relax. At least he will know he is being watched.’ But Minto declined point-blank.
Mrs Gibson, however, refused to be deterred. Sitting and weaving her web like a sorceress, she threw a dice afresh. She knew the politics of war and worked on a new strategy. Mrs Gibson wrote to her useless brother Mubarak sitting in Lucknow. She ordered him to go and settle in McCluskieganj with his wife and children. ‘As such, Mubarak, you have financial constraints in Lucknow, you will have none of that in McCluskieganj. Your brother-in-law has fallen into lecherous ways. I am sending you to McCluskieganj to keep an eye on my damned husband.’ Mubarak’s begum too was pleased by this ‘Operation Brother-in-law’, Mrs June Gibson’s strategy being no less than that of Razia Sultana’s orders to her commander-in chief.
Once in McCluskieganj, Mubarak was quite surprised by his brother-in-law’s reception of him and his family. It took
Mr Gibson no time to get the drift of his wife’s plan, but he turned the table on her. He posed to welcome Mubarak and said, ‘Just see, Mubarak. What a beautiful cottage I have built for your sister. But she will have nothing to do with me, it seems. I believe this is all a fallout of Minto’s wife’s complicity!’ Mr Gibson made it clear to all at Peacock Guest House that his brother-in-law was there to stay and that he and his family should not be spared any comfort. Mubarak and his wife appreciated his warmth, realizing at the same time that it was the absence of his wife that made him lonely, and perhaps that was why he sought the company of Parvati and her son. So when Mubarak wrote to his sister June, she really felt very baulked. All her plans to rein in her husband had failed. ‘Wish I had the MCC commander’s name. I would have both my husband and brother abducted by them.’ But Mr Gibson was confident of his own locus standi: ‘Had there been any doubt about my character, would I not have been targeted by the MCC by now?’ Mr Gibson, like Mrs Bal, was a great advocate of the MCC. When Bifna Ganjhu had been arrested by the Budhmu police, he said, ‘These thana-wallahs who quarrel over small things like mangoes and jackfruit, what character can they boast of?’ The fact was that a few days before Bifna’s arrest, Inspector Sukhdev Ram’s fourteen-year-old son had carried away all the jackfruit from the lady daroga Manju Singh’s compound. This had triggered a bitter trade of abuse between the inspector and Manju Singh, who had caught the boy red-handed and given him a sound thrashing. And so Mr Gibson continued, ‘If this is the character of the police, what good can they do for society. Disgusting! Don’t worry, Tuinyan, we will seek for Bifna’s release. Whatever the expenses, I will pay them. Don’t worry!’
In the aftermath of Bifna’s arrest, when the whole of
McCluskieganj was seething and its residents were all over discussing the event, it was then that Robin met Mr Gibson for the first time at Majeed’s tea stall, where they had a few affable exchanges.
23
Love-in-the-Mist and the Devil-in-the-Bush
The morning air had changed, Robin noticed. The sky was heavy with low clouds, which were pushed by the wind that touched and stirred the treetops as well as the greenery below. Queen’s Cottage assumed a
n air of cheerful breeziness that sort of lifted Robin’s spirit. Jack entered the bedroom and warned Robin. ‘You had better shut the window because the rain will descend any moment and its gush will drench your room.’ Robin went to the window and looked out at the scene before closing it. He thought of what Balzac had said: ‘There are three memorable sights that please the eyes and senses: a boat on the water with its sails spread, a running horse and a dancing girl!’ Balzac ought to have added a fourth to his list, thought Robin—fast drifting clouds! Robin continued to wonder about the clouds that just moved on without bringing rain. He could easily go for a walk in the village to see the changing hues of the surroundings, as if viewing a kaleidoscope. And then, as if in answer, first pitter-patter and then with a gush, the shards of rain seem to cut through the trees, plants and leaves alike.
This new rain, the arrival of the pre-monsoons, soaked everything through and through. Strange how Robin had never experienced this in Hong Kong. The rain had torn through the trees and plants with such force that the garden outside was now covered with fallen leaves. The banana leaves flip-flopped, some were torn and hung loosely. Robin noticed the several shades of green that their leaves wore; the new leaves were bright green whereas the older ones were dark, and then, as if from nowhere, Robin’s thoughts turned to that girl in the green sari, whom he had seen on the bus to Ranchi. How would it be if she suddenly appeared and stood next to these trees? Shutting his eyes, he fantasized for a while.
‘Hot tea,’ said Jack putting down the cups on the old table in the verandah. ‘Really, Jack, you are a magician!’ said Robin, ‘however did you know that I was just longing for this cup?’ The answer being self-evident, Jack did not bother himself; instead, he jumped off to the kitchen. Tea, along with piping hot snacks are all part and parcel of relaxing at home on a terrific monsoon day, and Indians know that, mused Robin.
The rain had slowed down somewhat. The sun was partly visible from behind the clouds. Mr Miller too had come out into the verandah to enjoy his cup of tea. Then sitting down on his easy chair, he asked Robin, who had got up, ‘Why are you getting up already? There is plenty of time to get ready. The weather has changed for the better thanks to the rain.’ Robin answered, ‘Uncle, it’s more than three weeks since I spoke to Mummy and Papa. That’s why I thought of dashing off to Ranchi this morning. The weather too has become so pleasant.’ Mr Miller, as if he had not heard him, continued. ‘You sit down, Robin, and listen to me. How can you go to Ranchi today? There is a week-long call for Jharkhand bandh starting today. This is a joint call by the Jharkhand Freedom Front, the Jharkhand Student’s Union, and the Jharkhand People’s Party. It is a call for an economic blockade. For one whole week, nothing will function. There will be no transport available, so how can you go to Ranchi? Ask Jack.’ Jack confirmed the news. In fact, he went on to say, ‘There will be no supply of minerals, specially coal, outside Bihar. I had gone towards the station last evening. There was heavy police bundobust for patrolling the railway tracks so that demonstrators would not remove the fishplates or damage the tracks in any way. The government was afraid they might disrupt movement and damage public property. Don’t even think of going to Ranchi. Let things
cool down.’
Robin asked Mr Miller, ‘What is the meaning of Jharkhand?’ ‘A separate Adivasi state. For a long time, the native population of Bihar, Orissa, Madhya Pradesh and West Bengal have been clamouring for an independent state for themselves,’ said Mr Miller. Robin asked, ‘Aren’t the Adivasis of these four states happy with their local government?’ Mr Miller answered, ‘No, that is what it amounts to. The Adivasis never got their rights even after Independence. You see, their own representatives have cheated them on their promises, always compromised on issues by receiving bribes. They are clearly playing a game of duplicity with their own people. But then politics is a complex game.’
The rain had stopped completely. Mr Miller rose from his easy chair and made his way to the garden to tend to the plants that had been damaged. He asked Jack for stakes to straighten them with. Robin went and stood by his side and watched. He noticed that although Miss Bonner’s garden was beautiful,
Mr Miller’s was no less. He said, ‘Uncle, like Miss Bonner, you too have some extraordinary plants here.’ Mr Miller, as if for no reason, suddenly became despondent, ‘These are all that I have to live for. After all, with my wife gone and my only daughter Sophia married and away in England, I need some distraction. That is why I have turned to birdwatching and gardening.’ Robin had not seen Mr Miller as sentimental as this before. He tried to change the subject by asking the names of some of the plants. ‘What plant is this?’ Robin asked and Mr Miller answered, ‘This is the monkey flower, son. It is a bi-colour of dark red and bright crimson, a very beautiful flower. The monkey flower has another species, by the name of red emperor. I do not have it although I have asked several people for it’. Then Mr Miller drew Robin’s attention to a bush in a corner. ‘This one is called love-in-a-mist. It has small blue flowers, but funnily, here it is commonly known as devil-in-a-bush.’ ‘Love and wickedness are both present in humans. Well, it is a reflection on the duality in the human persona,’ Robin laughingly said.
Meanwhile Jack announced breakfast. Stepping on to the verandah, Robin asked Mr Miller, ‘Which way is it to Mrs Kitty’s house?’ ‘Kitty’s house is near the Kanka hills, but she will not be there at this hour. You will find her at the station now where she sells fruits along with other Adivasi men and women.’
The station was quite empty when Robin reached there. Majeed was not present at his tea stall, only the Adivasi boy was arranging the glasses and kettle on the counter. The station master too was working on some files. One or two passengers were sitting on the benches. Then he noticed some Adivasi men and women sitting with their baskets of fruits just as Mr Miller had told him. Robin wondered if Kitty too would be there. He turned towards their direction. The fruit sellers became conscious of his arrival. They rearranged their fruit for his benefit and Robin saw that none of their baskets were full. Someone said, ‘Take some, Babu. These mangoes will taste very good on ripening.’ But Robin didn’t seem to hear, so intent was he on locating Kitty. The Adivasi woman appeared crestfallen. Robin glanced at every face present. Which one would be Kitty’s, he wondered. Then his attention was drawn to a face that was different from the rest. She was a middle-aged woman, her clothes were clean though shabby. She was thin and had a longish face. Her hair too was a different colour, wheatish golden. She was about Robin’s father’s age. Plucking up courage, Robin asked, ‘Who among you is Kitty?’ A woman with a basket of guavas said, ‘There she is!’ Kitty, who was apparently all right until then, suddenly appeared as if she were disturbed, as if she felt threatened. The guava seller said, ‘This customer is searching for you.’ Just then Robin walked up to the woman in question. ‘Are you Mrs Kitty … Kitty Aunty?’ And Kitty, as if afraid, her blue eyes expanding in distress, said, ‘Who are you? I don’t know you.’ Robin tried to recall for her the names of his father and grandfather but spurning his efforts, she answered, ‘I don’t know any Dennis Vennis. Neither do I recall any Brian Wian.’ Robin found her dismissiveness unacceptable. ‘Don’t you recall these names, or are you just too angry to connect for some reason?’ Kitty’s annoyance was now visibly rising. She picked up her basket and balancing it on her side, shouted, ‘Yes, yes, I know all of them, Lord Curzon, George V, Queen Victoria, I know all of them. Tell me whose son are you?’ Robin said, ‘Listen to me at least.’ And Kitty continued, ‘Oh, I know, you are one of the cinema chaps. Come to make a film on the wretched condition of the Anglo-Indians, or do you plan to do a TV coverage? You want to be awarded. I know you chaps. You are out for awards, out to make money’. Kitty was now almost hysterical and was running away with her basket. Robin ran along with her and once again implored, ‘Do you really not remember Dennis, your childhood friend?’ Kitty, with her piercing blue eyes, shouted back, ‘I told you I don’t remember anythi
ng or anyone. If you want to know about me, go and ask George V, Lord Curzon and Queen Victoria. Nonsense!’ Robin realized at last the depth of Kitty’s despair. Muttering to herself, she left the station with Robin staring after her. What would he tell his father?
24
A Separate State of Jharkhand
Robin descried from far Mr Miller and Mr Mendez sitting in the verandah of Queen’s Cottage. He tried to brush away his disappointment of the day and put on a cheerful countenance. After all, he knew those oldies loved to have him among them.
Mr Mendez said, ‘I haven’t seen you for two days, so I thought of looking you up.’ Then Robin looked at Mr Mendez and saw he was unshaven. ‘Why have you not shaved, Uncle?’ asked Robin. ‘It’s Saturday,’ said Mr Mendez. ‘So what?’ asked Robin. ‘You see it is customary for saloons to be closed on Saturdays as the cutting of hair, the shaving of beard and the pairing of nails is considered unpropitious,’ said Mr Mendez. ‘Don’t tell me you believe in all that claptrap, Uncle,’ Robin sounded quite aghast. ‘One has to, Robin,’ answered Mr Mendez. ‘You have to go by the dictat of the society to which you belong. The month of May and June are referred to as Khar-maas, which means that no auspicious events happen during these two months. So you see, these beliefs are very strong and no one dare change them.’
McCluskieganj Page 18
