McCluskieganj, Jharkhand – On the Trail of a Dream

McCluskieganj, Jharkhand – On the Trail of a Dream

“It is all over now”! said the man behind the window with an air of finality tinged with deep sadness.

His pale skin stood in sharp contrast to the darkness behind him as we stood before him separated by a grilled window. He had refused to open the door and was talking to us through the window, of course, he did apologize to us for that later.

He was all of 80 years and appeared frail, his body subjected to the natural ravages of time and loneliness which more often than not is the bane of human existence. But what stood out was a spark that lit his eyes with brilliant illumination as he talked about McCluskieganj, his beloved McCluskieganj!

Yes, dear readers, we were at McCluskieganj, Jharkhand, India. This is a small and sleepy town nestled in the midst of hills and surrounded by verdant forests, some 65 kilometers from the capital city of Ranchi in Jharkhand, an eastern state of India.

We were there in McCluskieganj, India on the trail of a dream, a dream that went back to the year 1933.

How we Found Ourselves in McCluskieganj

We were in Ranchi for the Jharkhand Travel Mart organized by Jharkhand Tourism. In the course of an audio-visual presentation the name of McClusikeganj found a fleeting mention and somehow the name stuck in the mind.

But strange are the machinations of destiny, we found ourselves with half a day to spare.

“If I had known earlier, I would have visited a place nearby for a story!” one of the media persons told me during a short conversation. It turned out he was referring to McClusikeganj.

“Are you game?” he asked.

“Yes, let’s go!”

And off we went in search of McCluskieganj.

It was the day of Ramnavami, the festival that celebrates the birth anniversary of the Hindu God Rama. The streets of Ranchi were awash in colour and crowds were dancing hysterically in religious fervor as we made our way in search of McCluskieganj.

A couple of enquiries with random locals elicited only blank stares of incomprehension. Finally, we approached an autorickshaw (tuk-tuk) driver who was ready to take us anywhere we wanted to go. He did not mind the fact that we wanted to go to a place that was about 65 kilometers from Ranchi and return back the same day.

We negotiated a rate with the autorickshaw driver whose name was Rehman and after a few more blank stares from the locals on enquiring about McCluskieganj we hit the National Highway No.39, which we had by then deduced would take us towards our destination.

McCluskieganj- A Dream Dating Back to the 1930’s

The Indian Independence movement was gathering steam, Mahatma Gandhi had marched to the sea in defiance of the British Salt Law which would go down in history as the Dandi March. But Indian independence was still more than a decade away.

The long British rule in India had given birth to an entirely new community that came to be known as Anglo-Indian. A community born of the mixed parentage of British and Indian origins.

This community which identified more with its British roots and yet could not shake off its Indian antecedents was caught in the twirl of history. The community suffered the angst of the half-breed and was looked down upon by the so-called pure blooded British, nor were they accepted by the Indian community as their own. In such a scenario, they yearned for a land which they could call their own.

A man called Earnest Timothy McCluskie gave impetus to the Anglo-Indian dream of a homeland that they could call their own. He was a real estate property dealer in Calcutta and he convinced the Raja of Ratu, a place in the interiors of the Chotanagpur plateau, to lease out 10,000 acres of land on a perpetual lease. He started the Colonization Society of India as a cooperative and invited members of the Anglo-Indian community to invest in its shares and buy a plot of land in the proposed Anglo-Indian colony. The dream was to develop a self-sufficient community based on agriculture somewhat along the lines of the Israeli Kibbutz concept.

The dream of the Anglo-Indian community blossomed into McCluskiegung as around 400 families settled in the pristine environs of the utopian dream. The place came to be referred to as a “Mini-England”. The land echoed with the sounds of music and dance, with peals of laughter as young and old picnicked on the banks of flowing rivulets. Gunshots rent the air as the gentlemen indulged in hunting. Ladies handed out cakes and sandwiches as the quintessential English custom of afternoon tea held sway.

It was obvious that the dream of Earnest Timothy McCluskie was flourishing and looking for expansion going by the October 1940 issue of, “The Colonization Observer”. which says:

“It is for this reason that we are now pushing out into every part of India to claim the ear and the attention of all our community for we see in McCluskiegunge the beginnings of what the Moslems call Pakistan but what we call Anglo-India. A place in India where we can foregather and mix freely.”

The Road to McCluskieganj

With the march of time, McCluskiegunge had become McCluskieganj. We were on the road to present day McClusikeganj in search of the utopia of yore.

We were traveling along in the autorickshaw that Rehman steered skilfully, raising a cloud of dust. Road work was in progress and it was apparent that the road was being widened, a sure sign of the development that was taking place in the region.

We reached a place called Chama and stopped to check if we were on the same route. A few locals stood curiously by the side of the road and again we got blank stares, but this time a spark of recognition lit up the face of one of the persons who exclaimed, “McClooskiganj! take a right from the traffic junction that you will come to after a couple of kilometres”.

The traffic junction greeted us with a board pointing right indicating McCluskieganj a sight that sent a thrill through our spines as we sensed we were nearing our destination.

The road curved through thick layers of the forest, but again the road was being laid or re-surfaced. We passed through stretches where the road work had been completed and we had an excellent road on which we floated along like a song. On the contrary, there were stretches which were nothing more than mud tracks on which the autorickshaw hurtled as we clung on for dear life. But it was apparent that road work was in progress and probably within months, one could see a lovely motorable road leading to McCluskieganj all the way through.

As we approached McCluskjieganj the landscape seemed to change dramatically, we saw greenery all around and trees overhanging the road gave it a dreamy look.

Carpets of fallen leaves covered both sides of the road.Soon we passed some an old British style bungalow, a church, a school. a hostel.

We had arrived at McCluskieganj and realized why this remote area in the midst of forests had been chosen to build a utopian dream.

McCluskieganj Today

One of the enduring legacies of the Raj apart from the postal system is the Railways. A railway station usually still forms the hub of activity, especially in the smaller towns and villages.

So we made our way to the McCluskieganj Railway station to make enquiries about the Anglo-Indian community.

We found a small roadside market selling all kind of wares from vegetables to clothes near the station, a typical scene in any small village or town of India. A huge crowd blocked the narrow road that ran parallel to the railway tracks leading to the station.

A temple which was celebrating Ramnavami was where the crowd had congregated. This noisy and boisterous part of the town seemed a far cry from the McCluskieganj that we had imagined.

After talking to a few of the locals, we realized that only a handful of Anglo-Indian families, probably around 5 or 6 now still lived in the town. Also, contrary to our expectations the bungalows that had been built were all spread across the area and not like your typical colony.

Many were abandoned and lay in ruins, many had been sold by their original owners to investors from Kolkata, some had been converted to homestays or hostels. The dream that was McCluskieganj seemed to have collapsed and the rot may have started after the independence of India. Many left the town for the far-off shores of England. Many migrated to the cities in search of opportunities.

Today only a handful of the Anglo-Indian community stay in McCluskiegunj clinging to memories, dreams, and hope of better days. Their eyes tell stories of the glorious past as their bungalows badly in need of maintenance seem to be trapped in a time warp.

But we also found glimmers of hope. The Don Bosco Academy has brought a revival of sorts, generating teaching opportunities as well as boarding opportunities. On the other hand, the McCluskieganj heritage bungalows that give a feel of the colonial past of India are becoming popular with people booking accommodation in these McCluskieganj bungalows.

In Search of Kitty Maam

As we made our enquiries in and around the station, one name was on the lips of all the people we spoke to, ‘Kitty Maam”. We were repeatedly told to speak to Kitty Maam. She seemed to be a legend in McCluskieganj.

Kitty Texeira was her name and she was born to Portuguese and Welsh parents and has lived all of her 65 odd years in McCluskiegunj. She reportedly sold fruits in the roadside market by the side of the railway station but had stopped doing so for some time now. A lady of Portuguese and Welsh lineage selling fruits in an obscure town of India sounded intriguing and we set off in search of Kitty Maam.

We found a tall, gawky man who looked like and behaved like the village oracle. We coaxed him to take us to Kitty Maam’s house and bundled him inside Rahman’s auto rickshaw. The autorickshaw wound its way out of the town through fields and stopped in the middle of nowhere as there was no road to move further.

We got down and followed the village oracle as he waxed eloquent about his exploits in the village and how McCluskieganj was named after not one, but two people, a father, and daughter! We walked down a steep embankment and he pointed out vaguely towards what seemed like a forest in the distance.

We followed him and soon entered an area thick with vegetation, it was almost dark and we could see the dim shape of a modest house in distance. As we approached in the darkness, dogs started barking menacingly, but we made our way gingerly and reached the doorstep of the house.

“This is Kitty Maam’s house announced the oracle with a flourish of his hands”.

A frail woman dressed in a sari appeared at the door. She was Kitty Maam. She spoke in flawless English and answered our questions with staccato answers. As if on cue she reeled off names of the people of the Anglo-Indian community who still lived in McCluskieganj.

“I married a tribal”, said Kitty Maam with an air of defiance, an indication of an action that must have evoked considerable attention and discussion when it happened. Today Kitty Texeira lives with her daughter and son in a house which is in the midst of nowhere, surrounded by thick vegetation. It is dark around her house, the light inside is dim, apparently, a reflection of the times as she struggles to make ends meet. But her eyes retain a sense of pride as they look piercingly at you, but you can sense a feeling of wistfulness for the times gone by.

We leave Kitty Maam to her struggles and dreams as we make our way back to the auto rickshaw. The sun has set and there is a luminous pink halo in the sky as we think of the lady called Kitty Texeira.

Kitty Texeira has played a bit part in the Konkona Sen directorial debut film, “Death in The Gunj”, she has essayed the role of Mrs. Kearney in the film. Kitty Texeira also features on the cover of the book “McCluskieganj”, by Vikas Kumar Jha.

The Man Behind The Window

Before our encounter with Kitty Maam, we had wandered into the premises of an old colonial Bungalow with thatched roofs. It was apparent that the bungalow has seen better times.

Outside the bungalow, relaxing on a wooden cot we found Kallu who apparently took care of the Bungalow. He told us that the Anglo-Indians who owned it had sold the house some 14 or 15 years ago and left for Dehradun. The bungalow was purchased by some gentleman with the surname Jha, but no one had visited the property since then, nor was he being paid.

We spotted a smaller outhouse in the vicinity of the bungalow and were informed by Kallu that an Anglo-Indian gentleman lived alone there.

We knocked at the door and after what seemed like an eternity, a face appeared at the window. A fair, tall man stood at the window with probing eyes. He said that he was not interested in speaking to us.

But with a bit of coaxing, he relaxed and told us how he was living in McCluskiegang since he was born which he said was about 80 years ago. He said he was born in the Bungalow. He used to live there with his grandparents and parents. His grandparents and parents had all died in that bungalow and lay buried in the village graveyard. He was a Sergeant in the Air Force and now he lived alone after his wife had died and his son too had perished in an accident. His daughter was in Dehradun and he too had gone to stay with her but had come back to stay close to his roots.

“They are all here, my grandparents, parents, wife, son, I want to be close to them, so I came back”, says the Sergeant with a sigh.

His eyes light up when you ask him about life in McCluskieganj during its heydays. He said that there was lots of game around and one could actually spot a tiger on the way home from the club.

“It is all over now”! said the man behind the window with an air of finality tinged with deep sadness, realizing that he was again drifting off to his dreams.

The Best Photograph I Have Ever Taken

“What a photo opportunity”, whispered my friend from the media, as the Sergeant stood frail and vulnerable behind the window. The grills on the window created the illusion of a man behind bars.

“No Photographs please! appealed the Sergeant. My DSLR hung from my neck, my hand hovering over it.

“Go ahead, click him! whispered my media friend.

My hands froze, they refused to move.

It should have been easy. A few seconds and I would have had a perfect picture of a man imprisoned by his own memories, a man who stood as an example of the ephemeral nature of life.

But I did not click, instead, I found myself asking him for his permission to click his picture, which of course he refused.

We walked away after thanking the Sergeant, I did not have the picture but what I had was a smile of thanks that lit up the eyes of the octagenarian whom I wanted to leave with his dreams and memories, undisturbed, his privacy unviolated.

It was quite dark when we left McCluskieganj, we were lost in our thoughts as Rehman steered the auto rickshaw in pitch darkness. We had come in search of a dream, a utopian dream – McCluskieganj – an unfulfilled Anglo-Indian dream! But what we found was a handful of memories that survived the vagaries of time and some old bungalows that had seen better times.

We also found faint reminders of times gone by and a few tears that seemed to have been frozen in time.

Have you ever visited or come across a unique town or settlement specific to the dreams of a specific community? Do let us know your thoughts.

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