Mr Miller, observing the time by his watch, called for Jack. ‘Jack, quick. Get the transistor, we must catch the evening news. Let’s apprise ourselves of the latest events.’ At first, it was just information about government decisions, then some international events and then the newsreader gave details of the Jharkhand bandh. How the demonstrators had disturbed part of the South Eastern Railway tracks and Lotapano station. This had caused the derailment of twenty-three compartments, as a result of which many passenger trains had come to a halt. The newsreader further added that the industrial towns of Rourkela, Bhilai, Burnpur and Durgapur had become non-functional due to the shortage of coal and steel. Finally the bulletin ended with the news that the demonstrators had rejected the Union home minister’s appeal for restraint. In fact, the Central government had given a proposal for an autonomous council to the leaders of the agitation.
Both Mr Miller and Mr Mendez agreed that the situation was volatile as the agitators wanted nothing less than an independent state. The fact also was that neither the state government of Bihar nor the Central government had any clear intentions regarding the future of Jharkhand. The local leaders, well, all they wanted was power. Mr Mendez said, ‘But what is the solution … country, state, society, will everything be ultimately taken over by divisive forces?’ Mr Miller added, ‘All this is a result of the government’s appeasement policy. When the Gorkhaland stir was on, the government gave them the Gorkha Hill Council. When the demand for Bodoland started in Assam, the government gave them an autonomous council. Now they are thinking of giving Jharkhand also an autonomous council. All this so as to quieten the movement for a while, without addressing the core issue of progress.’ Robin could not help but remember Miss Bonner’s words, ‘We have won the war of Independence from the British, but have we won independence of thought from our own parochial and individual ideologies? Where is our perception of a larger vision?’
Robin’s mind was still in a whirl when he went to bed that night, only to be woken by Jack very early in the morning. ‘Do you know what happened last night, Robin Babu?’ ‘What?’ asked Robin. ‘The Jharkhandis had suddenly attacked
McCluskieganj station. They were in the process of removing the fishplates when the police patrol arrived. They fired three rounds of bullets to chase the activists away. It was just lucky as the Amritsar–Hatia Express was expected to pass within half an hour. Can you imagine what a disaster that would have been? This is not bravery, this is treachery and vandalism. Most of the trains passing through here have been cancelled.’
‘Too much, too much! Jack, will you give the comfort of a cup of tea?’ asked Robin.
It was a bright morning and the yellow-tailed birds were chattering gaily, oblivious of the tension in the human pursuits around.
25
Kanke
Bifna Ganjhu was released the next day from jail with much difficulty. His father got him released after many entreaties. It was a wonder of wonders how Tuinyan managed it. The whole village was surprised. Being charged as an MCC activist was no child’s play. Khushia Pahan narrowing his narrow eyes still further said, ‘It’s all a matter of coincidence, of fate.’ He too had accompanied his friend to Ranchi for the release of Bifna. Khushia believed in loyalties, he was indeed a friend in need. They had seen no ray of hope, until Mr Gibson came to their rescue. Mr Gibson rose to the occasion and became a pillar of support. He wrote a well-drafted letter to the DIG in charge at Ranchi and also gave money to these blighted men for their travel and boarding expenses.
Khushia Pahan talked his way through with the sentries at the gate of the DIG’s residence and reached the lawn where the officer and his wife were having their evening tea. Once there, the twosome’s act ensued. Tuinyan Ganjhu wailed and wailed falling at the officer’s feet. The DIG’s wife was taken aback, ‘Why are these poor old tribals crying?’ she asked. Tuinyan cried even louder and sang, ‘The king sits on his throne while his subjects suffer mercilessly at the hands of his high-handed officers.’ Hearing the DIG’s wife’s voice, the sentries ran into the garden and would have forcibly taken away the two Adivasis but for the interference of the DIG himself. ‘What is that you have come for?’ he asked. Khushia Pahan quickly handed the letter Mr Gibson had written. Reading through its contents, the officer said, ‘So your son is an MCC activist? Roams around with Hembrom, does he? Well, I’ll let him off this time, but see that he changes his ways.’
Thus Bifna’s release was obtained. Yet the young man, sick and pale as he had become, was remorseless. ‘Why did you get me out. My poor Adivasi brethren have been beaten and humiliated, the bones of our forebears who were tortured lie under the earth here, yet our own community never raises its voice. Let me tell you, we won’t tolerate this any more.’ Khushia Pahan was shocked at Bifna’s outburst, to think that the boy had so much in him. And Tuinyan said, ‘See, how he rants! While in custody not a squeak came from him. This is all the result of the brainwashing of his party.’
Hearing of Bifna’s release, Robin visited him at his father’s house. In just a brief space of time, Robin was impressed by Bifna’s point of view, which was very eloquently expressed. He experienced a sense of euphoric idealism such as he had never felt before. ‘Our fathers and their fathers may have accepted their lot. But we …? We will not eat the soup of boiled leaves, nor gather snails or slugs for our meals. We will wring and wrench the necks of our exploiters. Believe me, Robin Babu! We have been fooled too long. We want our rights well and proper.’ Bifna’s small black nostrils were flared. It was an awesome sight. James Pentoni, Khushia Pahan, all the others supported the ideologies of the outlaws. Above all, Robin too shared Bifna’s opinion.
‘These Adivasis are all creatures of their circumstance, not imprisoned yet forever in chains. Condemned to the past, living an existence that is as good as being fossilized. And yet, the fact is that these Adivasis are very much a living entity. Therefore, they must belong to the present. They are living, therefore they are. The agony of these people is the agony of the world’s disinherited races. Marginalized from that which was truly theirs.’ Such were the thoughts that possessed Robin’s mind.
Mr Miller cautioned Robin not to be oversensitive about the Adivasis. Then he gave some news that cheered Robin. The seven-day-old Jharkhand bandh was over. Perhaps Robin could now go and call his parents from Ranchi.
The next day he rose early. Again Jack was up and about his business of fortifying Robin with a sumptuous breakfast. Then Robin made his way to where the bus stopped. He once again passed the mango orchards. The fruits were ripe and luscious. Jack had told Robin that the mango crop was bumper, once every alternate year.
Just about that time, Robin saw the young Adivasi girl who had caught his attention on his previous visit. She was in her usual place, under the peepul tree, although today she wore an orange sari whose border was green. Robin went up to her and, gathering courage, said, ‘So you too are going to Ranchi?’ The girl appeared nervous, and with some trepidation said, ‘Yes’. That was all. A slight breeze swayed the peepul leaves. Robin wondered how he could sustain a conversation with just a monosyllable from her. He wondered at his boldness of speaking at all. ‘It seems you like standing under this peepul tree, is it not?’ Robin asked with some effort. The girl flashed a smile in return. To him it felt like a flight of white cranes into a dark, laden sky. So white were her teeth against her dark skin. Again there was silence. Never had Robin had any reservations in speaking to girls in Hong Kong. There were Lara, Rosalyn and Carol. They used to have so much fun at restaurants and clubs. But here he felt shy and tongue-tied.
Again Robin attempted to speak. ‘It seems you belong to some nearby village. I have seen you at the weekly market day.’ The girl answered, ‘I live near the Chatti river and I too had seen you on market day.’ ‘It seems you visit Ranchi very often,’ Robin asked, but the girl avoided answering. Robin repeated his question. Then she answered, though hesitantly, ‘I go to the mental asylum. My father is there
.’ Then as an afterthought, as if to explain, she added, ‘My father is not mad, he has been kept there forcibly.’ Robin was unable to comprehend why her father should be forcibly kept in the mental asylum.
Just then the bus to Ranchi appeared panting. The two climbed on and sat on their respective seats. Robin was restless to reach Ranchi so that he could ask the girl the questions that were bothering him. She had said that she lived near the Chatti river, then maybe she could tell him the whereabouts of Bahadur Oraon.
Once in Ranchi, as they were disembarking the bus, Robin once again said to the girl, who was ahead of him, ‘Please listen for a minute. There is something I wanted to ask. Maybe it would be better if we spoke outside the bus station.’ People were already looking at them; this white boy and the dark girl. Outside the bus station in the melee of people and rickshaws, Robin asked, ‘You said that you live near Chatti river. Actually, a very dear friend of my father’s lives there, his childhood friend. A person by the name of Bahadur Oraon, also known as Bagh Bachcha.’ ‘But … you?’ asked the girl, a little confused and then continued, ‘Did you say your father is Bahadur Oraon’s friend? What is his name?’ ‘Dennis McGowan, but he left for Hong Kong many years ago,’ said Robin. ‘You are Dennis Chacha’s son?’ asked the girl. ‘How do you know my father?’ asked Robin. ‘Because I am Bahadur Oraon’s daughter. I remember so well when Dennis Chacha had come to our place,’ said the girl. ‘What a coincidence. But you have not told me your name!’ said Robin. The girl answered, ‘Neelmani.’
Then Robin asked, ‘Where will you be going to in Ranchi?’ ‘Oh, to Kanke, to see my Baba’. Robin expressed his desire to go meet Bahadur Uncle. Neelmani appeared worried at the prospect, so Robin said, ‘Don’t worry, Bahadur Uncle will be happy to meet me! What transport will we take?’ ‘Maybe the bus or perhaps an auto. It will take about half an hour to get there,’ answered Neelmani.
Just then Robin spotted an auto; he fixed it up for themselves. The return fare would be fifty rupees, the auto driver said. This would include a halt of an hour. Neelmani, not being used to so much luxury, protested mildly at the charge, but Robin assured her that it was all right. The auto sped on and both its passengers were lost in their own thoughts. Robin reflected on the strange coincidence of Neelmani turning out to be Bahadur Oraon’s daughter. ‘How much further is it to Kanke?’ Robin asked and the auto driver replied, ‘We are almost there.’
Once at the asylum gate, Robin noticed an irregular flow of visitors. Some were coming out while one or two were going in. Again he wanted to ask Neelmani the reason behind her father’s detention and consequent confinement at Kanke, but he decided against it. They arrived at the barred inner gate. There were two or three people sitting on stools just behind the gate. Neelmani told Robin that that was where the mental patients were kept. Then she looked around, as if searching for some known face. Robin asked her, ‘Won’t you send someone with a message that you are here?’ ‘Yes, I am looking for someone to do just that. Maybe Pranav Chacha or Sunil Chacha.’ Just then a slim, dark middle-aged gentleman in a dhoti and shirt appeared and Neelmani exclaimed, ‘Oh, Pranav Chacha, I was just looking for you. Please let Baba know that we are here to meet him.’ ‘Yes, little one, I will just inform him.’ Then observing Robin, he said, ‘Who is this with you today?’ Neelmani answered, ‘This is Robin Babu. He is the son of Baba’s childhood friend Dennis McGowan. They live abroad now, although they lived in McCluskieganj earlier. Robin Babu has only arrived recently, but he too wanted to meet Baba.’ ‘Oh! So he is one of the older generation Anglo-Indians who had settled in McCluskieganj. I was wondering who this Englishman was!’ Then he went to the gate and, saying something, returned to Neelmani, whom he told that he had sent news of their arrival to Bahadur Oraon.
Robin turned to Neelmani and asked, ‘Is he a member of the staff here?’ Neelmani answered, ‘Yes, he does some typing work here. His is a very sad story. But then there are so many sad stories of the inmates here. You see, not just Pranav Chacha, but Nripen Chacha too, they were all admitted here at some point of time. Yet, even after they got cured, their families did not take them back, and so they just remained here.’ Suddenly Neelmani stepped ahead. ‘Baba! Baba is at the gate!’
Robin saw him holding the bars of the iron gate with his fists for support. Neelmani was already near him. Excitedly she announced, ‘This is Robin Babu, Dennis Chacha’s son.’ Robin bowed his head and said, ‘Uncle, namaste.’ He observed that though the gentleman in question had peppered hair and an unkempt beard, and appeared down and out, the fire in his eyes belied his physical condition. Many years ago, he had seen a picture of Nelson Mandela while still in jail. Although the course of Mandela’s destiny had changed now, there was a common thread that wove through both his and Bahadur Oraon’s lives. Their eyes showed the same air of curious expectancy, the same bubbling excitement. Then Bahadur Oraon spoke in a deep, resounding voice, ‘When did you come? How is Dennis? We are childhood friends, you know.’ Then looking at Neelmani, he said, ‘The almirah and bed at our place, they all belong to your Dennis Chacha.’ He related the manner in which Dennis had sent across some of his father’s furniture when he came to McCluskieganj after his death. ‘Now that you have come, please take possession of them once more,’ said Bahadur Oraon. ‘But Papa has not told me anything about all this. Moreover, I’ll be going back to Hong Kong. So what need do I have for those things?’ But Bahadur Oraon’s attention was elsewhere. His glazed eyes were looking far beyond. Neelmani drew his attention by asking, ‘Do you need anything?’ Bahadur answered with a dry laugh, ‘What do I need? Nothing at all, Neelu. Is your mother all right? How is her asthma these days?’ ‘She is all right, Baba. Her asthma is usually in control during the hot season.’ All the while, Robin observed Bahadur Oraon very carefully, but he found no trace of mental imbalance in him. Suddenly Bahadur Oraon said, ‘It’s okay then, you people leave now.’ He swung around revealing his bare back, his knotted hair spread over his shoulders like a mat.
Outside, the auto driver had had his tea. Robin found it strange that although cold drinks disappeared in winter from stalls, by the same logic hot tea that ought to have disappeared from stalls in such heat remained. The auto driver came up with his vehicle and asked, ‘Why, Sahib, have you finished viewing Kanke? Tourists often come here out of curiosity, this being one of the largest mental hospitals in the whole of South Asia.’ Neither Robin nor Neelmani really liked the driver’s comment, but often it so happens that a casual comment made unwittingly affect the hearer more than intended. The auto picked up speed and soon they were back in Ranchi. Getting off at Firaya Lal Chowk, Robin told Neelmani that he had some things to do. One that he had to call his parents in Hong Kong, and the other was to buy a medicine for Mr Miller. ‘Do you have anything else to do?’ he asked Neelmani, but Neelmani said, ‘What is the time?’ Robin answered, ‘Nearly 2 p.m.’ ‘Then perhaps some other day. I had to visit Saamu Munda on Ratu Road, but it is too late now.’ ‘Who is Saamu Munda?’ Robin asked. ‘An unknown voice of the Adivasi movement, its historian in a way,’ said Neelmani. ‘Then we must meet him,’ said Robin. ‘Next time maybe,’ replied Neelmani.
Again at the phone booth, Robin kept to his place in the queue. The operator signalled several times that he could go ahead and make his call, but Robin waited for his turn. When his turn came and Robin called Hong Kong, his mother was sounding quite distraught. ‘Come straight back!’ she said, despite Robin’s reasoning. The fact that the delay in calling was because of the Jharkhand bandh incensed her further. ‘That’s no place for you to be in,’ she said. Then Robin called his father who too seemed very upset. In fact, his ruse for Robin’s recall was that the work in the press was becoming unmanageable. He needed Robin to be by his side. But Robin appealed for another three months in McCluskieganj. After finishing his call, he bought Mr Miller’s medicine, and then, Robin noticed a small magazine stall. Newspapers were so delayed in McCluskieganj; the morning newspaper usually came in
the afternoon. He had suggested to Mr Miller, ‘Uncle, why do you subscribe to the newspaper at all? It is better to get all the latest happenings on the transistor.’ But Mr Miller had disagreed, ‘So what if the paper arrives late? At least, you can read it at leisure as the newsreaders speak so fast.’ Several new magazines were there in the stall. Robin picked up the latest copy of The Guardian.
People were boarding the bus for McCluskieganj by then. Neelmani was already occupying a seat meant for ladies. Robin too took his place and started browsing through The Guardian until his eyes fell on a very interesting story on a small village in England by the name of Elveden that had shot into prominence recently. The reason behind this was due to the fact that the last Sikh ruler of Punjab, Maharaja Duleep Singh, had settled there after embracing Christianity. The Anglo-Sikh community in England wanted to celebrate his birth centenary, but the local population had opposed it. Perhaps the local people were apprehensive of the enormity of the event should the Anglo-Sikh community be given the chance to celebrate. This story had been filed by a journalist called Madeline Bunting. The village of Elveden was located on the London–Norwich highway. It was a quiet, wooded village tucked away from the humdrum of the city and could easily be overlooked. Robin closed his eyes for a moment to dwell on the similarity between Elveden and his own McCluskieganj. Elveden was like a place of pilgrimage for the Anglo-Sikhs. On holidays and even otherwise, these people would flock there to pay their obeisance at the tomb of the maharaja, which was located in the parish church of Elveden. That year would be the centenary year of Duleep Singh’s birth and the date was 23 October. After surrendering his throne and the world’s most spectacular diamond, the Koh-i-noor, Duleep Singh came and settled in England. The Sikhs of England wanted his grave to be turned into a world heritage site. It is believed that even Queen Victoria was quite charmed by him. Several of Duleep Singh’s children were baptized in the church of Windsor Palace, their names being Victor, Frederick and Edward. The story of Duleep Singh was related in detail, but what struck Robin was the intense feelings the Anglo-Sikh community had expressed on the occasion. ‘Why did the Anglo-Indians of McCluskieganj not feel this way? Why not celebrate Mr E.T. McCluskie’s birthday on 3 November as the foundation day of McCluskieganj. There was plenty of time to organize and plan. Robin thought he would reveal his plan that day itself after reaching the village. Money wouldn’t be a problem, he would draw funds from all the Anglo-Indians who had gone abroad. The foundation day of McCluskieganj would be celebrated with great pomp, but before that, he would renovate and restore Mr McCluskie’s dilapidated bungalow and also the fountain that had been erected in his memory.
McCluskieganj Page 19
