McCluskieganj was agog since morning. Mr Douglas Gibson had donned the habit of an Anglican priest or rather the deacon and was sitting pretty at the Peacock Guest House ready to start the march up to the Anglican Church. To see him in his new avatar, people were rushing; even
Mr Miller, harassed though he was, he went nonetheless! With a mischievous twinkle, he said, ‘Oh my old Tabby. I wanted to salute you! God knows how many you will smite, even in this state.’ And Mr Gibson. Even he seemingly swelled up with all the attention! The colours of spring has touched him too, just as it had touched the nakedness of the trees, which were imperceptibly turning out new leaves; many of the gulmohars and amaltases had sprouted new foliage while some of the old seed pods presented themselves still sheathed in scabbard-like shells. The golden fields of wheat and maize were an expression of the proximity of nature and man, a prospect that had receded with urbanization elsewhere. And in the night, the fireflies! Did city dwellers have an insight into this simple staple of natural delights? Did they ever visualize the stages that the mangoes passed through before reaching their fancy tables? Could their olfactory nerves seize the smell that the glistening, coppery new leaves of the mango trees along with their flowers gave out? But if you asked the simple village folk, they would identify from their smell the different species of the fruit. And finally, after months of silence, the harbinger of spring, the cuckoo or the koel could be heard from far and near. Through such a scene, the road winded to the Anglican Church.
When Mr Gibson surveyed the effect of the newly stitched habit on his person, in the mirror of the Peacock Guest House dressing table, he was being watched by Parvati and her son. Parvati smirked and said, ‘All you need now is the mendicant’s small brass bucket and blanket!’ Little Babu too was somewhat confused by Nanu’s strange new apparel. ‘Why should Nanu be wearing it and will he always be wearing this from now on?’ Babu wondered, though he too was sharing Nanu’s sense of self-importance. And when the procession began to move, Babu too walked alongside. The throng was joined by Tuinyan Ganjhu as well, who started to sing, ‘Gently gently the music plays, Shivji is leading the way’, and he was not far from being correct.
Mr Gibson’s cavalcade was looking like Shivji’s wedding procession, all right. Khushia Pahan asked Mr Noel Gordon, ‘What is Deccan? I know of Padre’s and Father’s, but Deccan?’Jerry Pinto replied on behalf of Noel Gordon, ‘Deacon, meaning the doctor’s compounder.’ Khushia Pahan’s mouth fell open. ‘Compounder,’ he asked, ‘really, Mr Gibson sometimes becomes so idiotic! You mean, he will work as a compounder in his new white gown?’ Noel Gordon smiled and replied, ‘No, Khushia. You didn’t understand Jerry Pinto’s sarcasm. What he meant is that Mr Gibson will be second to the Church Father. In the Father’s absence, Mr Gibson will step in to officiate. Do you understand now?’ At this point,
Mr Mendez added his two-anna bit, ‘Deacon means half priest!’ To this, Mr Gibson could not control laughing out aloud. ‘I can only be a half priest, man! I can never attain full priesthood, even if I were to live seven lives.’ And Mr Mendez continued with his witticisms, ‘I will write to Bhabhi in Australia today itself that her husband has become at least half a priest!’
Mr Gibson, giggling like a child said, ‘Call her back and I will become a full priest, I assure you.’ Turning back, he looked at the procession. His eyes searched for Parvati, but she was nowhere to be seen. The vibrance of the Anglican Church was being felt after many years today. This church had been built by the British, some six or seven years before Independence.
McCluskieganj had an Anglo-Indian doctor by the name of
P.S. Biddle. It was he who had this church attached to the Anglican Church of Ranchi. However, some years after Independence, the then bishop of Ranchi, an Adivasi by the name of Rev. Taron got this church transferred to the Church of Northern India. This move had been strongly condemned by people like Noel Gordon, Mr Cameron and Mr Gibson, who reverted it to the Anglican Church of Ranchi. The result was a paucity of funds in the years that followed as a result of which the church deteriorated. Perhaps Bishop Taron had visualized that funding from the Church of Northern India would have ensured the upkeep of the church. It is difficult to say. Whatever the polemics, the fact was that Mr Gibson had become deacon so that in the absence of the official Father, Father Hembrom, which was often long, he could step in and manage the religious requirements of the lay people.
Sitting in Australia when Mrs Gibson was informed by Mr Mendez of her husband’s elevation, she wrote back a stinging letter to him, ‘After devouring seventy rats, the cat has gone on pilgrimage. You all are the pits, the extent to which your jokes stoop is ridiculous! You have actually given the old lecher the licence to hide girls inside his habit!’
Some months ago, when Mr Gibson had learnt from his youngest son Neil, that his wife had retired from her post of canteen-in-charge at the Edith Cohen Universitys, he had written her a sweet short note saying, ‘Dear Oldie, what are you doing in Australia? At least return to me now.’ And Mrs Gibson had immediately responded, ‘My dear Goldie, I will return immediately, but not to stay in McCluskieganj. I do not wish to go mad there. If this is acceptable, write and say so.’ But when Mr Gibson did not reply, his wife turned to Neil and with contempt said, ‘Your father will never leave
McCluskieganj because of that young woman!’
The old battle between husband and wife still continue. Every move of Mr Gibson’s was checkmated by his wife. By not attending Neil’s marriage, Mr Gibson had angered his wife. Neil, in fact, worked as an operations manager in a transport company and had married at his mother’s behest. Neil had suggested it would be great to have father come to the wedding. Before his mother could open her mouth, her second son Ronald seconded Neil and said, ‘Oof, what fun it would be if Papa came! ‘Hearing her two sons confer, Mrs Gibson said after some consideration, ‘Invite him by all means and see your father’s love for yourselves! Your brother Minto is now paying for his love for his father.’ Mrs Gibson had said all this to dissuade her sons, but secretly hoped that should her husband come, she would never let him return to McCluskieganj. ‘What would happen?’ she thought to herself. ‘The maximum would be letting Peacock Guest House slip out of their hands. So be it.’ She would write and ask Mr Mendez to sell it as quickly as possible. ‘Let the old decrepit come here once.’ Mrs Gibson had smiled to herself.
For a moment, Mr Gibson had entertained the idea of attending his youngest son’s wedding, but on second thoughts decided not to. Instead he wrote, ‘After your wedding, come to McCluskieganj for your honeymoon. Tell me soon so that I can arrange for a lavish reception for you. Fix the date quickly.’ This letter made Mrs Gibson see red. ‘Neil,’ she said, ‘there is no question of your going to McCluskieganj. Is there no other place in the world besides that rotten village?’ Initially she dashed off a short letter to her husband, ‘Right now you are celebrating your honeymoon, babymoon! How can Neil even think of going there? That you should be philandering even at this age and McCluskieganj people laughing behind your back, even though you yourself seem oblivious of it, is shameful. If you take my opinion, go to Kanke, it is not too far, and consult a good psychiatrist.’ Mr Gibson replied by the return post. ‘I met the Kanke doctor as per your advice. He suggested that more than medicines, I need your presence, so come to me. He suggested that I visit him with you, as soon as you come.’
Even at this age, the youthful banter between their parents kept Neil and Ronald highly entertained. One day Ronald remarked to his wife Hilary, ‘Do you think that when we reach this age, we too will be able to fight like youngsters.’
Ronald can’t forget the Munni episode. When his father had brought the elephant from Manatu, he had written to his wife, ‘Dear Oldie, you had buried my love for horses even while you were here. My love for horses however continues. Should I ever come into money again, I will probably go back to that love of mine. Right now, I have taken a fancy to elephants. I have bought an elephant from the Manatu estate. But I must tell you that there is no dearth of lovers of elephants. In the African state of Swaziland, the local king honoured his wife with the title of the “great she-elephant”. I too feel like honouring you with the same title. —With much love, your old mahout.’ Mrs Gibson returned this billet-doux with, ‘You sick and lame horse! The day for you to honour me, I hope it never comes!’
Yet, whenever her sons were in a playful mood, they would tease Mrs Gibson with, ‘Our Mummy, the great she-elephant! Papa’s remarkable title for Mummy!’ Then even Mrs Gibson would burst out laughing. Ronald worked in a shipping company as a surveyor. His work involved the management of the shipping lines and the booking of goods. He furtively wrote to his father and also sent him cards, but asked him not to write to his home address lest his mother come to know. One day inadvertently Ronald’s wife had mentioned some card that they had sent to Mr Gibson. Mrs Gibson lost no time picking up the clue. She flashed with rage. ‘Putting me aside, son and father are cooking a nice hash. Had I left you with that useless father of yours, you would have still been playing, gullee-danda in McCluskieganj.’
‘Mummy,’ Ronald said, ‘we cannot suffer because of yours and Papa’s fights.’ Then Ronald would tell his young daughter all about McCluskieganj, his father, the jungles, his father’s stud farm. Even today, horses remained Mr Gibson’s first love. One just had to ask and he would start his discourse on the types of horses, Multani horses, Saracen horses, mountain horses. He would dwell on the fine aspects of each breed. His face would light up with every description, the evolution of horses, how the early horses were referred to as equus. ‘Horses were first found in North America, but suddenly 10,000 years ago, they disappeared from America. After a gap of many years, horses were rediscovered in Europe. In the last 3,000 years, horses have been used in warfare in Europe, Asia and the Middle East.’ Mr Gibson could hector on horses for hours, provided people had the time to listen. He loved the medieval hero Rana Pratap of Rajasthan and his horse Chetak. He described Chetak as a charger. Chargers, he would say, were ideally suited for warfare. Of all his children, Minto alone had inherited his love for horses. Being brought up in close proximity to the stud farm, Minto had a fine sense of horses.
After Minto and his wife left McCluskieganj, Mr Gibson had no news of them for several years. Then one afternoon, when he received an envelope containing some photographs and a long letter from Minto, Mr Gibson was beside himself with joy. He started sipping cherry brandy from the afternoon itself. How he wished his wife was there for him to embrace. This letter had been written by Minto from Saudi Arabia. He had been working on a salary of one lakh rupees a month since the last month in Jeddah. He had been appointed manager of a stud farm belonging to a billionaire Sheikh whose son had obtained a horse-racing licence from New Market in London. The Sheikh, in a short while, had grown fond of Minto, whose knowledge of horses and manner of working he liked. Minto was also training his horses for the purpose of racing. He had sent some select photographs of his stud farm and wished that his father were there with him. ‘I am the only one of your sons who has inherited your love of horses. Are you still angry with me, Papa?’ he wrote. By evening, the whole of McCluskieganj had come to know of the great change in Minto’s life, so proud was Mr Gibson in declaring the contents of Minto’s letter to all.
Actually, Minto and his wife had left McCluskieganj in a huff. They had tried to settle in Jamshedpur, but somehow they were not doing too well. Then all of a sudden, Minto saw an advertisement in an English paper that asked for a trained veterinary doctor. Minto was no trained veterinarian, but he responded saying that he had worked in his father’s stud farm and had first-hand knowledge of horse breeding, racing, and so on, though he admitted that he possessed no formal degree as a veterinary doctor. As luck would have it, Minto got selected for the post. It was a godsend.
When Mrs Gibson got Minto’s letter in Australia, she told her daughter Vanessa, ‘Come, at least this worthless father of yours has instilled some qualities in Minto.’ Then suddenly she went back in time and in a flash remembered how madly she had fallen in love with that horseman who only loved his horses, Dynamic Boy, Blue God. Of late, she had been thinking often of her husband. Could it be that he too was remembering her? Was it a telepathy of some sort? Mrs Gibson wondered.
‘Perhaps…’ Mr Gibson thought, when in the night after dinner, Peacock Guest House would fall silent and his only companion was his bottle of cherry brandy, with even Parvati and Babu gone home. He would stroll in the verandah while Munni fanned herself with her enormous ears. ‘Perhaps I should get a mate for Munni,’ Mr Gibson reflected, but then here none of us has a mate, neither I, nor Parvati … nor Munni. Here each of us is biding time in loneliness. It was a strange life, and it was making Mr Gibson restless. After dancing, when the peacock becomes aware of the ugliness of its feet, it suddenly stops in its tracks and weeps. I too do the same, I laugh all day, and at night, I weep in my loneliness. Mr Gibson remembered his wife and then a famous song of Frank Sinatra, ‘This is a lovely way to spend an evening, can’t think of anyone as lovely as you, a casual stroll through a garden, a kiss by a lazy lagoon, catching a breath of moonlight, humming our favourite tune, this is a lovely way…’ Mr Gibson hummed the tune, and by the end, his voice choked. Within his eyes were lost the dark clouds of McCluskieganj, its jungles, its fast-running horses. While his wife was holding him to her bosom and sad-eyed Parvati stood nearby with her animated boy Babu, the pictures that were in his eyes suddenly seemed to shake. The vision welled up and those images got distorted. In the portico, Munni swayed
her trunk.