McCluskieganj

By Vikas Kumar Jha

'This novel has the same charm as John Steinbeck's Cannery Row. Intensely nostalgic and engrossing.' - Hansda Sowendra Shekhar

Denis McGowan left India for Hong Kong to make his fortune.As the years passed and his printing press prospered, he losttouch with home. But as news of Hong Kong's impendinghandover by Britain to China trickles in, McGowan's stablelife seems suddenly uncertain. And it stirs up his memory,filling him with nostalgic ache for his village in India. That's when young Robin McGowandecides to travel to the village his father speaks of sooften: McCluskieganj, an Anglo-Indian agricultural havenfounded in the 1940s in what is now Jharkhand. Only, when he gets there, he finds that the villageis nothing like the idyllic home of his father's childhood.Overrun by outlaws, riddled with politics and controlled by landmafia, this is not the place where the nature-loving tribalshad once peacefully co-existed with the Anglo-Indians whochose India over Britain in 1947. This is a true-to-life portrait of an extraordinary village.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harper Perennial India
• Release date: Sep 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9789351365730

Vikas Kumar Jha

Vikas Kumar Jha (b. 1961) is a journalist by professionand has worked for magazines like Maya and Outlook, andis currently devoted to full-time writing. His first novel wastitled Bhog, and his collection of Hindi poems, Is BaarishMein. He has also written two critically acclaimed plays inMaithili, namely, Jamputra and Sonmachhariya, and a nonfiction narrative on the criminalization of politics in Bihar.McCluskieganj received the Katha UK Award in the House ofCommons in 2011. Mahasweta Ghosh was Vikas Kumar Jha's teacherof English in his college days. She has recently retired asUniversity Professor and Head of the Department of English,Patna College, Patna University. This is her first work oftranslation.

Book preview

1

The Painful Truth

Ever since he came to know that his neighbour, Mr Kipling, was shutting shop in Hong Kong, Dennis McGowan was filled with strange emotions. On one hand, there was appreciation for Kipling’s ability to make a decision, and on the other, irritation and frustration with himself for his inability to do so. Memory, combined with desire, began to gnaw him from within.

Mr Kipling had come to Hong Kong many years ago from London to set up his restaurant, which was one of the finest in the city. But, in the light of Hong Kong’s changed scenario, he displayed an objectivity that was almost yogic in its detachment. The business he had set up so arduously, he decided to sell and return to London, irrespective of the consequences.

Why could Dennis not do this? His appreciation for

Mr Kipling’s guts increased every passing day. Could he too take such a step? Why could he not return to McCluskieganj? Dennis burned from within until one evening, not being able to withstand himself, he burst out, as if in a fit of feelings, and said to his wife, ‘I am sorry for myself, that I am not strong enough to be able to tear down my mask of hypocrisy in order to support my own convictions. For all decisions I have to look up to you.’ This remark was followed by a slight argument between husband and wife. Liza McGowan gesticulated angrily and retorted, ‘C’mon man, there’s got to be some difference between London and McCluskieganj. Mr Kipling is going to London, not to a bloody village in the back of nowhere. To hell with Kipling! I am not budging from here!’

This outburst was followed by total silence for several days between the two. After so many years of good neighbourliness, Mr Kipling had, although unwittingly, unleashed a sense of bitterness in the McGowan household.

A few days later, Dennis again repeated, although this time to no one in particular. ‘Mr Kipling has decided to return to his country at the right moment!’ For a second, Liza flashed with anger, yet she restrained herself. There was just no point in arguing. She knew her husband too well. Age had made him sentimental and she believed that this one-sided monologue would die down naturally.

Although it had been many years since Dennis McGowan had settled in Hong Kong, his thoughts often drifted back to his village, whose name was McCluskieganj, in far-off India. The memory had become acute since the talk of the imminent handing over of Hong Kong to mainland China by Britain in the year 1997 had gained momentum; the ninety-nine-year lease was expiring that year. In the wake of these discussions, Dennis was constantly reminded of his village. Memories clinked like old coins stored in some forgotten bag that one picks up to examine on a rare day, or like an old, faded but colourful muffler that, though wrapped around the throat, warms the heart as well. Why? For Dennis, his father’s heart lay beating within the earth of McCluskieganj. Once away from home, one tends to remember it more, especially in the face of adversity. Over and over again, he reflected on what would be the fate of Hong Kong, once severed from Britain. After so many years of colonization, was this colourful colony nearing its demise? In the year 1947, Dennis had witnessed the independence of India, although there had been no formal lease in that case. There were waves of joy all over when India got her freedom.

The Anglo-Indian community in the metropolitan cities were apprehensive at that time as they had openly supported the British. They hated the Congress and Mahatma Gandhi, yet the population of McCluskieganj had heartily celebrated the nation’s independence. McCluskieganj, in their opinion, was a symbol of their particular individuality. And Hong Kong? There was no joy in Hong Kong, only apprehension. What would life be in a changed Hong Kong? What would be the fate of the businesses run by its settlers? These were the fears that lurked in the minds of Dennis and others like him. It was this situation that prompted Dennis to gaze homewards until, suddenly, in his mind’s eye,

McCluskieganj came alive. The trees of McCluskieganj would dot Hong Kong’s horizon. Aam, jamun, mahua laden with fruit like spoonfuls of sugar. Sometimes in the silence of the night, Dennis would suddenly remember the voices of his childhood friends—Tuinyan Ganjhu and Khushia Pahan—playing in the shimmering light filtering down through the trees, and their heady tribal songs. Then, all of a sudden, his flat would become redolent with the pungent and intoxicating odour of mahua flowers. Dennis could now see beyond the railway line where the road passed Mr Thorpe’s bungalow and then went towards Mahuatand beyond which the road led towards Chatti river. All through the night, the mahua flowers would drop ceaselessly with a soft, rhythmic fall. In the month of April, the pervasive presence of mahua was so palpably overpowering that the village seemed lost in it. It

was wonderful.

Before bursting into flowers, the trees would shed all their leaves. They would then be covered entirely with yellow flowers, a glorious yellow—basanti. These flowers were never plucked; neither were the trees ever shaken for them to fall. They were left to drop silently through the night with a musical drip. These would then be picked by the Adivasis in the morning. And yet another tree that was treated with a similar reverence was the harsingaar whose sweet-smelling, tiny, orange and white flowers used to fall the whole night, only to be collected in the morning. Mr Thorpe’s garden had a harsingaar tree and so did Bahadur Oraon’s backyard.

These memories soothed Dennis, and he thought that in the punishing heat of summer, as it was just then, the yellow flowers of the great laburnum would be making the village a grand sight. And to add to that, here and there, would be an outburst of the fiery gulmohar and the golden champa, the latter having a special attraction for the tribal women.

Dennis remembered the walks he took along the wild path with his friends to Mahuatand. How much fun they had! Between McCluskieganj and Mahuatand, there was the gurgling Panch Vahini stream. In the stream, there were large boulders which, to the imaginative mind, resembled some prehistoric walnuts. The overhanging cliffs here and there resembled chunks of Cheddar. Folklore had it that the name Panch Vahini came from the five sisters who had drowned there. McCluskieganj had several such names and stories for its many streams and rivulets. As one turned east from Mr Thorpe’s bungalow, there was a waterbody enclosed by rocks and hillocks. This was called Burhi Duba after the story of an old woman drowning there. The streams, hills and forests, the unique flora and fauna of this area, made McCluskieganj a notable geological case. Dennis loved living in the past, deriving immense pleasure from these memories. Seeing his predilection for receding into memories, Liza often likened him to an insect, which the tribals called Pisu, which whenever it leaped, fell backwards.

Despite these bitter insinuations, Dennis never stopped talking and thinking of McCluskieganj. Often he would dream vividly and, in the morning, ask Liza for an interpretation. ‘What is the relevance of green paddy fields in one’s dream? Last night I dreamt of a field full of green paddy! I was lost the whole night amidst it. Liza dear, do you also remember those paddy fields? And the flocks of pigeons, those green pigeons?’ Seeing his wife not returning his enthusiasm, Dennis ignored her indifference and continued, ‘No matter what great strides science takes, man needs food that only agriculture can provide. Look at me, I have been severed from my land and my kind of food.’

These morning outpourings would finally make Liza lose her cool. ‘How long will you hang on to memories?’ she would snap. ‘The anchor of a man lies within him! When does a man leave his home to seek another one elsewhere? Have you ever thought about that? It is the hope for a new future that propels one to migrate. Migration signifies hope. Try to understand, man. This nostalgia is killing; it’s making you depressive. It makes me weary too. I am getting sick of it. Just shut up, Dennis. Let me live in peace. To hell with McCluskieganj.’

‘Hell!’ Dennis’s eyes widened with pain. ‘Liza, don’t mix ice cream with sand. You don’t understand the strength of one’s roots. But what’s the point of telling you all this? I’ll have to carry my own cross.’ Then with contempt, Liza replied, ‘You are the mud of McCluskieganj.’

This was enough to rouse Dennis, but fortunately, just at this point their son Robin entered. He always stood by his father. ‘Papa, I’ve always heard of this heaven of yours. I haven’t had the chance to see it. In fact till date, I have never seen any village. Let’s go and visit it during some vacation.’ Dennis’s anguish disappeared in a flash the moment he heard this. ‘Oh yes!’ he said. The joy of sharing his feelings with his son was enough to send him into a blissful trance, and then, like some silk worm, he would once more begin to play with the delicate threads of his memories.

In Robin, Dennis found an enchanted listener, who devoured the tales woven round the members of McCluskieganj society—Mr Miller, Mr Mendez, Mr Gibson, Mr Rubin Rafael, Mr Alex Fergusson, Mr Amit Ghosh, Mr D’Costa,

Mrs Thripthorpe and Miss Bonner, to mention a few. Robin had heard so much about them that he knew them most intimately. He understood the dichotomy that the village had for his father, i.e., both fear and love. Distance makes one afraid even of love. Distance and changed circumstances can raise doubts even in the minds of most headstrong people. These emotions are not easy to explain. Would McCluskieganj get wafted away in the whittling wind? This was the fear that lurked in Dennis’s subconscious. It may be that a day would come when his village would cease to be. There would remain then the ruins of Portuguese bungalows with their red or blue or green rusting, sloping roofs. And amidst the ruins would grow a dense jungle. These imaginings would once again throw Dennis into a state of turmoil. But Robin’s avid interest in

McCluskieganj would revive Dennis and once again, like ever so often, he would return to his secret world of thoughts

and dreams.

2

Last Wish

Although there was no sign of a downpour till late evening, it rained heavily in and around McCluskieganj that night. Sometime near midnight, God knows from where, dark threatening clouds encircled the entire place. And then, it continued to pour endlessly. It was the last week of August and that afternoon in Mander, near the PWD water tank where the old Catholic cemetery stood, Mr Ruben Rafael had somehow been interred. The next morning, Mr Mendez, Mr Douglas Gibson along with some other residents of McCluskieganj heaved a sigh of relief over how they had managed to bury

Mr Rafael. They believed the raindrops to be Mr Rafael’s tears. Mr Ramagya Pathak of the Shivalaya temple had added his astrological input: Mr Rafael had passed away on the dark moonless night of ‘Kush Amavasya’. The moon had shifted from Cancer to Leo and as a result the soul of the dead one was definitely sad. This according to him was a bad omen!

The burial was preceded by such melodrama that it saddened the people of McCluskieganj. Old Bhutba Ganjhu had remarked, ‘So much ado about nothing takes place only in McCluskieganj.’ Despite his repeated requests till the end, Mr Rafael had been denied burial in McCluskieganj because of the bitter rivalry of others. He had been attached to his village and community. Whether anyone else did or not, every year on 2 August which was the World Anglo-Indian Day, he would organize a programme. Despite his meagre means, he would distribute slates, pencils and chocolates among the village children who awaited this day anxiously. This year too he had planned a similar programme. This proved to be the last occasion for him.

In the second week of August, Mr Rafael suddenly developed acute breathlessness. His condition deteriorated with each passing day. He felt it would be difficult to recover from this attack. He was hesitant to travel outside the village for treatment as he feared that should he die, people would bury him outside McCluskieganj. However, on Mohammad Latif’s insistence, he agreed to go to the government hospital in Mander. Lying in the hospital bed, he remarked to Latif: ‘Don’t set yogurt with turned milk.’

What he meant was, there was no sense in spending money on him any more, so sure was he of his imminent death. ‘I will not live for long, all I want is that you should bury me in the graveyard of McCluskieganj—I want that my body should be one with the earth of McCluskieganj—once and for all time. This is my last wish.’ Fair and gold-complexioned as he was, Mr Rafael now lay deathly pale on the bed. ‘Don’t fear, Uncle,’ said Latif, while goosebumps popped up all over his body, ‘I’ll take care of all your wishes.’

Mohammad Latif made every effort to keep his last promise, but to no avail. The tension that prevailed among the Anglo-Indians of McCluskieganj did not allow it. Latif cried out in anguish and disgust: ‘I will fix these blind unfeeling people, let me see which corpse finds a place in this burial ground.’

Mr Rafael was buried with full Christian rites and Latif paid great attention to the washing and anointing of the body, just as he would have done for his own kith and kin. The special extract from boiled plums was used to bathe his body. Latif had insisted on paying all the burial expenses. The only Anglo-Indian MLA of the Bihar assembly, Mr Hector Angus Brown, loudly denounced the attitude of the local community. When he visited the place a fortnight later, he roared, ‘I will not give a paisa to these people for any development work in the future.’

The denial of Mr Rafael’s last wishes became a subject of controversy throughout McCluskieganj. The Anglo-Indian community was shocked by what had happened. Sitting in his easy chair on the verandah of Queen’s Cottage, Mr Phil Collins Miller told his servant Jack, ‘Mr Rafael has indeed been treated very badly. I know how attached he was to this village.’

‘Remember, this can happen to any of us,’ retorted Jack as he kept a cup of tea on the table for his master, his face contorted with anguish. Muttering under his breath, Jack made his way to the kitchen. ‘What is this that Jack had said,’ thought

Mr Miller. ‘Maybe he is right.’ With his mouth full of tea, he could not speak for some time. In the fading dusk, Mr Miller kept gazing at the kadam tree just outside. Some birds were hopping on its branches. Where will these birds be buried once dead? Can they hope for a burial?

Mr Miller reflected on these thoughts for a long time. The dry leaves that fall just become drier and mix with the earth in time. The dead too turn into dry earth with time. These thoughts turned him towards the memory of his wife,

Mrs Queen Miller. Oh Lord! Can you believe that I have not visited her grave for more than a month now, nor lit candles for her? His wife’s last words rang loud in his ears: ‘When I die, I’ll be watching you from a branch of this tree.’

Tuinyan Ganjhu, whenever he got the chance, would come and sit by him. If he happened to be in a good mood, he would sing and sing till Mr Miller was overwhelmed. Whenever Tuinyan sang

(A pair of flowers on the kadam tree), he would touch a tender chord in Mr Miller’s heart. Mr Miller and his Queen were indeed such a pair of flowers. His eyes grew moist.

The kadam tree was becoming less visible in the growing darkness. Jack had not lit the lamps till then. The electricity supply was very erratic. No one knew when it would be restored. Maybe in the night or still later. His voice seemed caught and, with great difficulty, Mr Miller called out to Jack: ‘Jack, it is getting very dark and the lamps are still not lit. Whatever are you doing?’ But still there was no response. Mr Miller thought that his voice had got lost somewhere in the dark. Once he thought of getting up and finding Jack, but God knows why he just sank back into the easy chair. He decided that he would definitely visit his wife’s grave the next evening and light some candles. He planned to ask Jack to get the candles during the day itself from Basant’s little grocery shop.

In the quiet darkness of the night, the candles burning on the grave … thought Mr Miller. And for that matter, who indeed would light candles on his grave once he was gone? His only daughter, Sofia, lived thousands of miles away, in England. It was more than a year since he had last heard from her. Perhaps she was too involved in managing her own family. Mr Miller looked at the kadam tree and wondered what his wife would do sitting on it when he himself was gone. Then she too would fly away forever and ever. Jack’s observation rankled him. ‘Will this village then turn into a mass grave of Anglo-Indians only?’ Maybe a time will come when there will remain only these graves, not a single Anglo-Indian. His heart sank at the thought. In anguish he once again called out to Jack: ‘Jack, light the lamps for heaven’s sake!’

The road to the cemetery winds through a lot of trees and bushes. This graveyard for the Anglo-Indians is located in the vicinity of Kanka, quite close to Mr Goss’s bungalow. It is a little beyond the firebrick factory, now shut and derelict and somewhat eerie. This graveyard of late had become a subject of dispute among the Anglo-Indian community. The denial of Mr Rafael’s burial in McCluskieganj had disturbed the people, who were now of the opinion that Tom Hanks, the secretary of the Burial Board, ought to be replaced! Even quiet Mr Miller had remarked: ‘Tom has become quite ill-tempered lately. He should be removed from his office immediately.’ Mr Gibson opined: ‘I think Michael will be quite suitable for this job. He alone fits the bill.’

‘A virtuous son is Michael Babu! Our Parkinson Sahib did not choose him for adoption without reason,’ remarked Khushia Pahan. Soon after these deliberations, Michael Parkinson became the secretary of the Burial Board. That evening Tuinyan Ganjhu drank himself silly. Whatever the recent developments may have been, the fact remained that Mr Ruben Rafael had been denied his earthly right. Mr Rafael had worked for a big ice cream factory in Calcutta. He was a bachelor and remained so all his life. Even while working,

Mr Rafael had decided he would settle down in McCluskieganj after retirement. He had visited McCluskieganj on several occasions, for Mr E.J.A. Lawrence and Mr Lopez were known to him. They had both returned to McCluskieganj after retiring from their government jobs. That is why Mr Rafael shifted lock, stock and barrel immediately after retirement.

However, Mr Ruben Rafael had decided from day one that he would not own any property there. He preferred to stay as a paying guest with someone. After all, what was the sense of buying and building for just one person? As such, both the Lawrence and Lopez families had insisted that he stay with them. But in the beginning, Mr Rafael had stayed for quite a while as a paying guest with Mr Albert Mathews. However, one day, as a result of some disagreement, Mr Rafael left for Mrs Allen’s house. Since the death of her husband, she was all alone and it made sense to live with her as a paying guest.

Although Mr Rafael was a bachelor, his culinary habits and sartorial tastes were admirable. In Mrs Allen’s opinion, he was the best-dressed man in McCluskieganj. Never was there a single crease to be found on his clothes. The choice of colours too was impeccable and inspiring. Even when he lived with Mr Mathews, he visited Mrs Allen regularly. During these visits, they would remember their days in Calcutta. Long conversations transpired as a result. When Mr Rafael arrived as a paying guest at Mrs Allen’s, people generally remarked that this was more or less expected. It was but natural that Ruben Rafael should quarrel with Mr Mathews and leave for

Mrs Allen’s.

However, these jibes made little difference to the two; Mrs Allen dismissed them as mere gossip-mongering.

Mrs Allen was a very lively and generous being. Her husband Mr Johannes Allen was a well-known teacher of English literature in Calcutta University. She herself, at the time, was a well-known fashion designer in Calcutta, but after retirement her husband came straightaway to McCluskieganj where he had bought a plot of land and constructed a small cottage many years ago. As a result, once away from Calcutta, Mrs Allen’s designing business came to an end.

Remembering her work, Mrs Allen would say ‘innovative designing’! She had cuttings from newspapers praising her work: ‘A collection so romantic yet Indian and so strong that a new look has been born.’ Mr Allen had encouraged his wife considerably to undertake designing. He used to say, ‘Fashion designing too, in its own way, is a form of literature. Every clothing has a story within itself. When a piece of clothing tears, so many associations with it die out. Every thread of clothing has a memory.’ The fact was that Mrs Allen got pregnant very late and her husband got her interested in dress designing to distract her from getting depressed and melancholic. In those days, Mrs Allen obtained a formal training in dress designing. She conceived almost ten years after their marriage. The doctor informed that she was going to have twins; Mr Allen wittily observed that God was making up for their lost time. Jovial by temperament, Mrs Allen’s description of her double pregnancy would keep her companions laughing. ‘Kids are a totally different ball game,’ Mrs Allen would say. ‘With my small frame, I looked like an elephant.’ She believed her weight increased slowly and steadily after she gave birth to the twins. She would clap her belly and say even many years later that she still had two babies in her womb. She referred openly to her large belly as ‘harappa’. The sorrow behind her pretence of joy was known to few people. Both her sons, Tony and Monty were doctors and lived in Australia. They rarely visited her. Their personal lives, their professional commitments, claimed all their time. Mr Allen had his work to occupy him, but

Mrs Allen, like most mothers, spent all her time thinking of her two sons. If Tony and Monty sent her a card, the whole of McCluskieganj would resound with the news, so quick was Mrs Allen to share her good fortune. But after Mr Allen fell sick, the boys never made any inquiries. All through his illness, Mrs Allen had to borrow money from Mr D’Costa so that her husband could be treated. Yet Mr Allen ultimately succumbed to cancer. On hearing of their father’s death, Tony and Monty did visit McCluskieganj and asked their mother to sell her house and return to Australia with them. But Mrs Allen was not ready. ‘Leave me here with the memories of your father. Wherever you may choose to live in the world, for me you will always be in my womb. ’ She had tried to laugh it off, but her voice choked with emotion. After this her only contact with her sons was through letters and cards. They had been the best of friends, Mr and Mrs Allen. After her husband’s death,

Mrs Allen had become very lonely. As a result when she made Mr Rafael her paying guest, the McCluskieganj people gossiped about their friendship.

Some wondered how the thin Mr Rafael managed the rather large and unwieldy Mrs Allen. Though of short stature, Mrs Allen’s shoulders were exceptionally broad, and with age, she grew more