Dennis was born in the Morabadi hill area of Ranchi town. But his earliest memories went back to the Kanka mountains overlooking McCluskieganj. Catholic missionaries had converted hundreds of tribals in this area, and had also built innumerable churches. But despite this, the missionaries had not made any Catholic settlements as such in the area. It was Mr McCluskie
who succeeded in establishing a whole Catholic Anglo-Indian society here. Dennis clearly remembered, how in his early childhood, Anglo-Indian homes just mushroomed in this village. And now, the fate of his village had fallen to joyless times. He felt as if he were leafing through some old faded album that was fast receding into oblivion. He had heard the story of its inception from his father BrianMcGowan many times over; the episodes of its history were clearly etched in his memory. Mr McCluskie was obsessed with the fate of his community. Once the Simon Commission had released its plans, Mr McCluskie embarked on a relentless search for a suitable place for his community. In Bangalore, which was his first destination, he had seen a beautiful orchard, spread over thirty acres. It belonged to one McIsaac, who was also an Anglo-Indian, but the plan had to be abandoned as the land was not large enough. However, on returning to Calcutta, and while travelling through Hazaribagh in the Palamu district of Bihar, his eyes opened to the vistas before him. This was the ideal spot—hilly, green and cool. This area, far removed from the noise of cities, consisted of three villages, namely, Kanka, Lapra and Hesalang. This belonged to Ratu Maharaja. This feudal set-up which was largely exploitative was part and parcel of life in this area. Bonded labour was prevalent, yet no one questioned it. Mr Pepy, who was the manager of Ratu Maharaja’s estate, was a very cunning operator. It was he whom Mr McCluskie approached and as luck would have it, his plan succeeded. Mr Pepy convinced his patron to give ten thousand acres to Mr McCluskie. This included the three villages of Kanka, Lapra and Hesalang. The only clause that the Maharaja attached to the lease was that the tribals of these villages were not to be affected.
On 13 October 1933, this land was registered as a permanent property lease. Mr McCluskie called upon the services of his good friends Dr Henry Gidney and Mr A.S. Bower to see this deed through. This proposal was also intimated to Viceroy Lord Irwin. Finally, with the help of the Colonization Society of India,
Mr McCluskie made his dream come true in the year 1934. There were about one thousand shareholders in this society of which some three hundred Anglo-Indian families came and settled here. The land was very cheap, and one could avail a ten-acre plot for as little as seven hundred and twenty-six rupees. Dennis said to Robin, ‘It’s around this time that your grandfather purchased his plot and somehow made a house after taking a loan from his provident fund. He was working then for the Ranchi General Post Office. You know that he worked for the Post and Telegraph Department, don’t you? In those days, most Anglo-Indians were working either for the Railways or for the Post and Telegraph. The discussion regarding the Anglo-Indian village that was coming up at Khalari was foremost in every conversation. After this your grandfather managed to get a transfer to the Khalari post office. Then he cycled daily from McCluskieganj to Khalari. Should you enquire after Brian McGowan, even today, some of the old residents may still be able to remember him. I recall that I used to sit on the handle of his bicycle and go to the Government Primary School at Khalari. Later, of course, we got our own school at
McCluskieganj and then on I studied there. Oh, Robin! Those were such good times. When the mere ring of the bell at the gate told us that Papa was back from work. On holidays, he would take me on his bicycle through so many villages. How people loved and respected him. I really enjoyed McCluskieganj in childhood … that hard-to-find idyllic life!’
Yet, though McCluskieganj spelt charm for the Anglo-Indians, the local Adivasis felt dismayed and threatened. Would these newcomers be their ousters? Even the flora and fauna of the area felt threatened. After all, the country was ruled by the whites. There was widespread opposition to the settlement by the locals of Jobhiya and Chatti river, the people of the Tana Bhagat tribe.
But the sole Congress representative of the area, Bhukhla Ganjhu, had assured the tribals, ‘Don’t you worry. Should the need arise I will personally go to Gandhiji and call him to intervene on our behalf.’ However, despite the assurance, the murmurings continued, ‘Is the village the paternal property of these whites?’ They continued to be mortified of any encounter with the new settlers, less they be castigated, for whatever reason. ‘We cannot comprehend them, neither their language, nor their ways—alien, that’s what they are.’ Yet even when
Mr McCluskie extended his hand to these villagers, assuring them of his community’s support, the tribals were suspicious. At that point of time, the whole country was seething with tension at the call for independence from British control. The irony was that these innocents could not distinguish between the British and the Anglo-Indians.
On that day in 1934, when Mr McCluskie was on the verge of realizing his dream, the country was in the throes of political upheaval. The British government had declared the established Congress party as legal, and the party had successfully conducted its first session in Bombay. Mahatma Gandhi had resigned from the Congress and attended the session as an independent member. It was also in this year that the Congress Socialist Party had been formed under the leadership of Acharya Narendra Dev. Others who joined it included Jayaprakash Narayan, Minoo Masani, Yousuf Meher Ali and Achyut Patwardhan. Bihar’s worst earthquake had struck the same year, causing endless destruction and loss. In the reconstruction that followed, McCluskieganj was
born. Mr McCluskie had poured all his resources into this venture. Slowly, the settling community won the confidence of the locals. Although the contractor and the masons for the execution of designs were brought in from Calcutta, the labourers were drawn from among the local Oraons, Mundas, Ganjhus and Ahirs. Kaila Miyan, the old cook of David Cameron of the Highland Guest House, still recalls, ‘My father and mother hailed from Bathet village, which they left when construction work began here. I was barely eight or nine years old then. The wages were paltry, three annas for a labourer, ten paisas for the crushers. Labour was cheap, so you can imagine the condition of these people. Yet this paltry sum seemed to suffice for them. And why not? Twenty to twenty-two seers of rice were available for one rupee, mutton could be obtained for three annas a seer.’ The houses and bungalows these labourers built were very beautiful and even the newly constructed roads were smooth and impressive. The workers continued with the construction work till late night, aided by Petromaxes and gas lights. Even today these buildings, derelict though they are, stand witness to the fine workmanship of the hands that crafted them. The bungalows of Mr J.J. Smith and
Mr F.H. Loveday were eye-catching. The first stood on an area of five acres, and small though the house was, it was exceptional. The latter’s bungalow was made of tiles that were brought from Ranigunj in a neighbouring area. The family of Roger from Allahabad started the first general stores as well as a tailoring outlet for the village. The joke was that this shop could provide anything from pins to aeroplanes at the drop of a hat. Messrs T.J.S Stout and Sons constructed the village’s first club. It was indeed a grand place where one could see one’s reflection on its red floor, so polished was it. It was described as a stout effort by the Stout family. Most of the settlers had emphasized on planting orchards in their bungalows, and at one sitting of the Colonization Society, Dr Henry Gidney had gone to the extent of suggesting the endless possibilities of these orchards—namely a
veritable golden goose. It was, in fact, Mr McCluskie’s dream to turn McCluskieganj into an agricultural haven. The settlers were warned not to reduce the peasants to serfdom but to use them to change McCluskieganj into an admirable agricultural hub that would be unparalleled in the country. ‘Our virtues will become the gospels and our example the theme for the whole of India. We shall be an inspiration for the country,’
Mr McCluskie had said. And although he died soon afterwards, innumerable Anglo-Indian families came to settle in the village of his dreams. Not merely this, a famous nursery near Calcutta called Hobby and Company supplied saplings of fruit trees to most of the newly constructed houses. This zeal to establish large, limitless groves drove the locals quite berserk.
One evening Bhukhla Ganjhu asked Mr Roger, ‘Sahib, when the country becomes independent, will you people leave?’ Mr Roger laughed aloud at this expression of hope. ‘No,’ he said and continued, ‘the English will leave, but we are not English, you see. This is our country and we will stay here.’
A point of interest, however, was that the English tried every method to stay back. In 1935, the British rulers passed the Government of India Act. This envisaged the people of India starting their own government in the provinces. That was why the Congress party was recognized as a legal party in 1934 itself, so that they could participate in self-governance and give up their anti-British activities. But many Congress stalwarts opposed the move. They said, ‘We will never accept this Act; what will Churchill do? He is buckling under the pressure of appeasing Italy and Japan. We will break his back.’ But the British political system was stronger than the Congress had thought.
Between 1937 and ’39, tempers were running high. The British fanned communal tension in large parts of India which Mahatma Gandhi tried to douse. Elsewhere abroad, in Europe, the rumbling of World War II had begun. Germany had invaded Poland. Britain was keen to join the fray against Germany. The world scenario was changing fast. By 1940, the anti-British movement got a fresh impetus, though thousands of freedom fighters were being incarcerated. This movement had its repercussions on the people of McCluskieganj. The locals were keen to know the views of the sahibs. But most of the Anglo-Indians were wary of expressing their true feelings. Their personal opinion on the trend of politics was hard to guage. In 1942, when the whole country was seething, Bhukhla Ganjhu was arrested and taken into police custody. There were rumours going round in the circle of locals. One such rumour-monger said, ‘Poor Bhukhla Ganjhu, do you know what these half-breeds have complained to the Ranchi Police? That Bhukhla is a Congress supporter who abuses Queen Victoria at every corner!’ Whether it was true or not that the Anglo-Indians had actually complained against Bhukhla, the fact remained that he did enjoy abusing the British, often unprovoked. One morning when Mr Kitson was returning from his morning walk, Bhukhla had accosted him with his habitual expletives. Mr Kitson had gently chided Bhukhla saying, ‘Why do you sully yourself? Does the queen, who is long dead and gone, hear you at all?’ Soon after that he got arrested. Some of the Adivasi boys had gone to Mr Kitson’s house to get even with him. But the wiser villagers intervened to bring the situation under control. One morning, Aklu Mahto’s calf had wandered into Mr Toker’s compound and started to graze. When Mr Toker saw this he went inside, got his gun and shot the calf dead. When Aklu Mahto got to know this, he took the calf dripping with blood to the Budhmu police station. The police inspector was an Englishman. When he saw what had happened, in all fairness, he arrested Mr Toker and had him imprisoned for three months. Gradually, tensions eased and misgivings disappeared. Some of the senior villagers tried to smooth out the ruffled feelings of the sahibs. ‘Huzoor, it is not for you to be irritated. New shoes are known to pinch, but when our people are convinced of your real intentions, they will be willing to die for you.’
As the Anglo-Indians began to participate in the daily ups and downs of the villagers, the bitterness between the two slowly disappeared. When the first tube well was sunk in the village the locals were so impressed, they thought the settlers were magicians to have taken out water from an iron pipe.
On 15 August 1947, whatever little ill will remained between the Anglo-Indians and the tribals was gone.
McCluskieganj witnessed celebrations all evening and through the night. The Highland Guest House was illuminated with candles and lamps. The festivities continued till midnight, when Pandit Nehru announced the proclamation of independence on All India Radio, and even later.
Remembering that night made Dennis McGowan go dizzy with joy. Mrs Wood played all night on the piano to the intoxicated pleasure of the village folk who notably regarded the instrument as a curious kind of harmonium. Tony Arnold had arranged for a band in a jiffy. Dennis was about seventeen years old at the time and recalled the details of the songs.
Our Motherland, we call her India.
If we are one, we can succeed.
We can succeed and build a bright tomorrow
In this land of ours
We call her India.
The tribals contributed their special song of blood and gore:
The tricolour flies in the sky,
The rivers are bloody with those who have died.
What a battle! What a battle!
We fought till they ran for their lives.
Those firangs, those jawans.
Those foreign tribes…
There was a special celebration that year on 3 November; it was Mr McCluskie’s memorial that day. Frank Anthony, the all-India chief of the Anglo-Indian Society, made it a point to visit
McCluskieganj. He stayed at the Highland Guest House and, in a moving speech, said, ‘Let us always remember that we are Indians, that this community is Indian. It has always been Indian. The more we love it and are loyal to India, the more India will love and be loyal to us.’
Dennis could see that Robin was in a reflective mood. ‘Where are you lost, son?’ he would ask. But Robin would only smile. It was in such an enchanted mood that Robin said, ‘I was thinking that a story could be written about our village. You are really very fortunate. People like me who have grown up in big cities are so unfortunate that despite all conveniences of life, they appear so unnatural to us.’ Robin would relapse into thought and then again ask, ‘Why, Papa, why did you come away? If only I had spent a few years there, my life would have felt so much more complete.’ What was it that made Robin so attached to a village that he had never seen? Was it some element of the collective unconscious? ‘Yes, we really enjoyed our childhood. You know, those bungalows in
McCluskieganj, which had a profusion of fruit trees, were always our special targets. We rogues would creep into the orchards and our friend Bahadur Oraon, who was specially adept in climbing trees, would, like a squirrel, be up on the highest branches. Although we too were daredevils, we never dared attempt such a feat. From above the trees, Bahadur would throw handfuls of guavas and mangoes. Once in Mr Norman’s bungalow, where there were cashew trees, Bahadur and I had partaken of unripe greenish-red cashews. And afterwards all hell broke loose because raw cashews burn the mouth. They are not to be eaten before ripening. Oh, how our mouths burned. Bahadur’s parents administered loads of honey to lessen the burning. How they loved me!
‘In the area of Lapra, the population comprised mainly of Munda aborigines whereas in Kanka, the locals were mainly Ganjhus. They looked alike, but the Ganjhus were in fact called outcastes. The Ganjhus were great thatchers. Although they were untouchables, their services were frequently required. The Oraons were also present in good numbers, they inhabited the area that stood at the corner of the road leading to Chatti river. The Oraons were farmers and mainly grew rice, wheat and vegetables. They also reared goats and poultry. Many of the Oraons of Mahuatand, another part of this area, were Christians. In Mahuatand there was a school for Adivasi children under the Roman Catholic Mission which had been there for over a hundred years.’ Robin noted, ‘It is interesting to know about this separate existence of Mundas and Oraons.’
Dennis said, ‘The Oraons were essentially non-vegetarians. Child marriages were known to be common among them. Bahadur was married when he was barely nine.’
‘Did you meet the little wives of your little friends?’ Robin asked with a smile.
‘Yes, of course, a Tom Thumb of a boy with his Thumbelina-like wife. I used to meet Bahadur’s little wife off and on. Small as she was, she would dance around her mother-in-law helping in whatever she was doing. The chief religious festivals of the Oraons were Sarhul and Karma. Actually the Oraons, both men and women worked very hard in the fields. For them work and celebration went hand in hand.’ Dennis could visualize the dancing of the men and women during festivals, ‘Oh Robin! I can’t explain to you the beauty—how they would be covered in flowers and sway to the music.’
Dennis continued, ‘Do you know how the Oraons select their names?’ Liza interrupted sarcastically, ‘By the days of the Hindustani calendar, like Soma for those who are born on Monday, Mangru for Tuesday, Buddhua for Wednesday, Sanichara for Saturday and so on. Your father was born on a Wednesday, so Dennis is actually Dennis Buddhua McGowan.’ Liza doubled up with laughter, but Dennis was quick to cut in, ‘Robin, your mum’s name is Sanichara Devi because she was born on a Saturday; how’s that, Robin?’ Dennis’s guffaw drowned Liza’s laughter. Robin interrupted, ‘Then I am Somra, am I not? But tell me how Bahadur Oraon got his name.’ Dennis answered, ‘Bahadur’s father Bagun Uncle used to say that when Bahadur was born they noticed the mark of a bow and arrow on both his arms. That signified a brave child. This was why Bahadur was christened so.’ ‘Did he really have such a mark, Papa?’ Robin inquired. ‘Yes, son, though not a prominent one. When he grew to be a young man, an incident took place that the village folk were very proud of. Bahadur Oraon was going with his little girl to meet a relative in Latehar. While he was crossing a forested area, he saw a tiger in the nearby thicket. He quickly changed his course to avoid a direct encounter, but the tiger had already seen him. It overtook him and, grabbing the child, tried to leap away. But Bahadur acted like lightning. He sprinted behind the animal and, catching it, twisted its neck. The tiger released the child from its jaws, but mad with anger, it attacked Bahadur who responded instantly by shoving the length of his whole arm into the throat of the tiger until the creature got asphyxiated. The result was that it left its prey and ran for shelter into the forest. From that day onwards, the village renamed Bahadur as Baagh Bachcha, that is, tiger cub.
‘Among the Munda and Oraon, there are a few, namely the Pahans, who practise black magic to drive evil spirits away. Innocent locals believe in them. Besides Bahadur Oraon, there were other lads as well with whom I played. They consisted of Khushia Pahan, Tuinyan Ganjhu and Duti Bhagat. The first two were older than me, but they too participated in all our youthful exploits. Khushia’s father knew a good bit of the so-called black magic or tantra. That is why the McCluskieganj folk gave him the title of Pahan. However, with the passing of Khushia’s father, his uncle left Khushia as a servant in Mr Parkinson’s house. From time to time, in order to play with us, Khushia would play truant. Both Khushia and Tuinyan could sing very well. However Duti Bhagat was the wicked one. He had once pushed Tuinyan down from the guava tree, as a result of which, poor Tuinyan had been badly injured. Still those were our halcyon days. Son, you were right, the artificiality of this city can never compete with the freshness of our lives in
McCluskieganj. One evening, one of Papa’s friends from the post office had come visiting our house on his bicycle. Some of us children playing outside noticed a bag hanging from the handle of the bicycle. We felt the bag and found it to contain a large number of juicy, ripe mangoes. Instantly we devoured them. Afterwards we put in the bag a whole lot of stones, carefully so that it looked whole again. It was such fun! But what happened next wasn’t funny at all. When Papa came home next day, he boxed my ears; obviously his friend had complained! It was our constant preoccupation to decide what mischief to do next! On another occasion, we had thrown a lit matchstick onto a straw stack. It instantly went up in flames. This was Duti Bhagat’s plan. He was the devil incarnate. It took the efforts of the entire village to douse the fire. That day we had been thrashed black and blue.’
Robin expressed disappointment at his father’s leaving
McCluskieganj, but Dennis said that it was his mother’s wish to move to Hong Kong. At this Liza flew like an arrow, ‘Oh man, did I forcibly carry and bring you to Hong Kong? Hey, you foolish Dennis McGowan! If we had stayed back, you would have regretted it very much. We would not have had any of the comforts of life. It was undoubtedly a beautiful village. But just sitting idly would not have got us anywhere. Would it?’ Liza had this peculiar habit, whenever she got angry with her husband, she would address him by his full name. Dennis made no objection to Liza’s outburst. In fact, he quite agreed. One has to make decisions in life no matter how hard they may be. Dennis remembered that day so clearly, when he had to decide in favour of going to Hong Kong in order to make a living. This decision of Dennis’s spread like wildfire in the whole village. It first turned into a joke and then into a song: Dennis McGowan will go to Hong Kong and will become King Kong. Ha ha ha! The fact was that no man from
McCluskieganj had gone to Hong Kong till date. They knew no one in that city—how would Dennis cope? Mr Greg Norman, a senior member of the community visited the McGowans one evening. Mr Greg Norman heaved a deep sigh and sitting down said, ‘What is this I hear? The village is agog with Dennis’s plan to depart for Hong Kong. What has happened to our boy? No one has yet gone to Hong Kong from this village. Who will help him, should the need arise? And to add to it, he is taking his wife and child along.’ To this Mr Brian McGowan replied, ‘Dennis is a grown man, his decisions, right or wrong, are his own. He expressed his desire to go abroad and that I should help him this one last time. So I have given what little I have, for the purchase of his tickets. The fact is, there is no work here. How long can he remain idle? Let him go wheresoever he wishes, so long as he works honestly and diligently.’
Liza had sowed the seeds of this venture because there really was no source of income for Dennis in McCluskieganj. With the birth of Robin, Dennis realized the gravity of the situation and, although still reluctant, he came round to Liza’s view. Therefore he decided to go abroad, but where? England he knew was not kindly inclined to Anglo-Indians. Australia and Canada would probably be the best places for immigration. After all, several of the younger people had moved there. But Dennis preferred to walk an independent road. He had thought of Hong Kong as a possible alternative. And why not? Had not he read in newspapers and magazines about Hong Kong being a unique destination where one could establish oneself almost instantly. Although Hong Kong was a British colony, still it was different. Dennis believed he could work hard and find his footing there. If business succeeded he would touch the skies, so full of opportunities was Hong Kong.
The day Dennis and his family were departing, a taxi had been commissioned from Khalari. While the luggage was being loaded, all of McCluskieganj’s Anglo-Indian community had come to bid them goodbye. Some whispered to each other, ‘Will Dennis ever return? None of those who had left earlier had done so … they sent only letters and cards…’ Mr McGowan was teary-eyed as he held Robin who blabbered baby talk. His tears rolled down. Dennis gripped his father’s shoulders and assured him that once he reached, he would write and once settled, he would make it a point to come home at least once a year. But Mr McGowan was aware of the vortex that drew in people and from which there was hardly a chance of escape. Then the taxi slowly drove off and the people receded in the distance.
Hong Kong was one mad rush. Liza and Dennis were swept off their feet in their day-to-day effort to keep pace with the speed of work. How different it all was from McCluskieganj! But Liza did not agree. Life was one big battle, a constant challenge. One must engage with it with heart and soul. And Dennis…? Today the scene had altered. Hong Kong now awaited its new fate, and its citizens did the same, with bated breath.