The chirping of the birds, singing of summer in full-throated ease, and the general air around was suggestive of … what was it suggestive of?, Robin wondered, and then, of course, peace and tranquility, the sort that one finds in Beethoven’s ‘Pastoral’. Robin remarked with exuberance to
Mr Miller, ‘Uncle, this village is our nest,’ and Mr Miller agreed, ‘Undoubtedly, literally as well as figuratively. Wait until the rains come from June to October, you will see hordes of lal muniyas! They are such pretty little things, bright red beaks and backs and tiny dots of white all over.’
Now it was dark, and still there was no sign of
Mr Mendez. Robin thought, he ought to go across himself but procrastinated. The atmosphere suffused him, he had felt nothing like this in Hong Kong. The birds now jostled for their own space on the branches like passengers on a train. Their clamour had disturbed the cuckoo. Indian poetry often romanticized it calling it piyu kahan, where is my love, while funnily the British more aptly referred to it as the brain-fever bird. Yes, and now since the birds had finally settled, the cuckoo resumed its call. Then Robin’s thoughts turned homewards. It was more than two days since his arrival and he had not yet called his parents. ‘Won’t they be worried,’ he thought to himself and also told Mr Miller about it.
Then with slow steps, Mr Mendez appeared. ‘Uncle, you are late. I have been waiting for so long,’ said Robin. ‘Yes, I am sorry, I just fell asleep,’ replied Mr Mendez and Mr Miller interrupted Mr Mendez, ‘Sit down, let me get you a special cuppa. Jack’s speciality, pure Darjeeling.’ Mr Mendez inquired, ‘So Mr Miller, any news?’ ‘Yes, Mr Brown, our MLA, has written to say that he will be addressing our water problems and also get some of our roads repaired as he had done earlier from his MLA fund,’ replied Mr Miller. Then making a face, Mr Mendez said, ‘It seems that Mr Brown has finally managed a break from his duties in Hazaribagh.’ ‘That was mean! Mr Brown lives in Hazaribagh after all, and his first commitment is to his own town and to the few Anglo-Indian families living there. We in McCluskieganj come second to them. You must appreciate that he has to divide his attention equally among the members of the community he represents; whether it be us in the Chhota Nagpur area or even the civic requirements of the Anglo-Indian schools in Patna.’
Seeing the two old gentlemen getting animated, Robin chose to interrupt. ‘But who is this Mr Brown? And how does he wield this clout?’ ‘Oh, that’s an old story!’ said Mr Mendez. ‘All this goes back some decades. Remember what I had said about two of the leaders of our own community, Dr Henry Gidney and Mr Frank Anthony? The latter had convinced Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, our first prime minister, that the Anglo-Indians in all fairness should be represented, both in parliament as well as the state assemblies. As a result, Pandit Nehru incorporated Mr Frank Anthony’s proposal in Article 79 of the Constitution of India, whereby one member of this community would be nominated to every state assembly and two would be nominated to the Lok Sabha. So you see, this is how our very own Mr Hector Angus Brown is the present incumbent of this very privileged office.’ Mr Mendez continued, ‘He does occasionally visit McCluskieganj and you might get a chance to see him while you are here. I have seen him in the Bihar assembly on several occasions. It was funny to say the least. He is about seventy-two years of age, very tall, well-built and exceptionally fair. The village folk, dehatis, who come to meet the MLAs of their constituency, mistaking him for an Englishman, were quite taken aback. “Who is this angrez and how has he obtained this seat of honour in independent India?” It is truly a repeat of Alice in Wonderland. Mr Brown rarely opens his mouth as he can hardly articulate in Hindi and the English of the Bihari MLAs is totally incomprehensible. As a result, not much dialogue takes place. Should Mr Brown have something to say in the assembly, he usually says it in English.’
Mr Miller then said, ‘During the British times, Mr Brown used to be the settlement officer in and around Muzaffarpur, Buxar and Hazaribagh.’ To this, Mr Mendez added, ‘Before retirement, he became the district magistrate of the Saharsa district. He was unmarried and somewhat eccentric in his habits. Mr Brown was known to be an introvert. You understand, he did not particularly like mixing. Once, while on a trip to Patna, I visited his flat for some work. I found it padlocked, so I went away and returned an hour or so later. I found it still locked. Looking around, I saw his servant coming towards me and asked him if Mr Brown was out of town. He answered, “Sahib is inside. Whenever I go out on some errand, he makes me lock the house from the outside so that visitors won’t disturb him, so shy is he of meeting people.” Not only that,’ continued Mr Mendez, ‘the MLAs are entitled to a personal phone connection, but perhaps Mr Brown is the only member who has never availed of it. Even as a government officer he never had a phone installed. He used to say, “This telephone box is the most useless invention of modern science, it creates more problems for life than it offers solutions.” Each MLA is entitled to a quota of funds for the upliftment of the place or people he represents. That way we are very lucky because our community is extremely small and Mr Brown is very kind in doling out funds for our various requirements. Yet, unfortunately, the Anglo-Indian community is laid back and so indifferent to changes that they have not availed of the facilities the government provides them. They seem to be crushed by their sense of distress and as a result are themselves decimating themselves.’
Jack had told Robin that in May the sky sometimes got dusty and often there were dust storms sometimes followed by a light rain. This helped to clear the sky on which the moon then appeared clear and pristine. The night in question was such a night, but a mood of quietude bordering on the sombre prevailed on the three seated on the verandah of Queen’s Cottage. Neither Mr Miller nor Mr Mendez, not even Robin, spoke much. They were lost in their own thoughts until Mr Mendez broke the silence with, ‘What are you thinking, son?’ ‘Nothing much,’ answered Robin, then turning to Mr Miller suddenly said, ‘McCluskieganj was a strange concept, it succeeded as long as people were committed to it. It can succeed still if we renew the commitment?’ Mr Miller with the sagacity of his years said, ‘Yes, everything is possible. But our lives are already wrecked. The few of us left here are old and just biding time.’ A dark sadness had descended on the verandah. Mr Miller once again spoke, ‘If there is dedication, everything is possible. But palaces are not made from rubble. Once this crop consisting of people like us pass away, all that will be left are memories, a graveyard of Mr McCluskie’s dreams. The end of a cursed race.’
As it was late, Mr Mendez decided to leave and asked Robin to retire early so that he could be ready on time to take the morning bus to Ranchi. Robin went to his room while Jack brought his dinner, which he was asked to place on the stool as Robin had arranged his writing paraphernalia on the table. Robin was now mentally all set to start his novel. Robin said, ‘Jack, please wake me up early tomorrow. I have to go to Ranchi.’ Jack nodded and said he would wake him up at five
o’ clock.
Robin thought this world, this universe was in a continuous momentum, yet despite its motion and flux, deep within it, there was an abiding spirit, a faith or truth that held all things together. Robin seemed preoccupied, Mr Miller’s last words resounded in his mind. After dinner Robin lay down, but he was restless still and could not sleep. He felt as if he was having a bad dream. He had come to this village to write its story, but what confronted him was something entirely different. Where was the story? He thought about his parents who were apprehensive about the handing over of Hong Kong. He could not understand why. Why could they not return to
McCluskieganj? He had suggested this to his parents. Perhaps they were too old to adjust to village life. No, he would first have to save this one and only village of the Anglo-Indians. His heart began to beat fast. He got off his bed to go to Mr Miller. He would shout and tell him, ‘Never speak of our race as cursed, Uncle,’ but he held back. He decided that he would remain here. He would live in McCluskieganj for all times. A rare sense of satisfaction filled him.
He went to the table and, then gently pushing the chair, he sat down to write. The smell of henna flowers calmed his tumultuous spirit as he began to write. The imprint of the emotions within him found expression in words with ease. He ran his eyes over the first paragraph, then the next and then the next. That same faith filled his heart: ‘The glow of the lantern is blackened by soot yet the wick continues to burn,’ Robin thought to himself.