Caste away

Almost three-quarters of a century after Scot-Indian Ernest McCluskie bought 9,500 acres from the Raja of Ratu to settle a people who had come to believe they didn’t fit in the world around them—the British looked down on them and the Indians were both suspicious and jealous of the mixed breed and their positions—McCluskieganj, some 70 km north-west of Jharkhand’s capital Ranchi, is living its last days.

And hastening the end of one of the last settlements of Anglo-Indians is a combination that’s growing by the day. State neglect has encouraged land sharks who, using threats and deceit, are gobbling acres for ridiculous sums. But more worrying for McCluskieganj: Naxals are now knocking on its doors. Residents say they have spotted a Naxal camp in the woods and it’s only a matter of time before whatever’s left of the tourist traffic also dries up.

IN any case, McCluskieganj has little left to showcase. Getting to the place itself is tough, the road from Ranchi almost a minefield. You can tell Anglo-India’s home is falling apart: Weeds rule what must have been manicured lawns, For Sale signs call from bungalow gates, tiles hang precariously from faded red roofs.

The children are gone, settled in Australia, UK, Canada and other faraway lands. Barely 20 of the 300 families that first made this home have stayed behind, struggling to keep themselves going.

Captain Mendonca, after sailing the seas on merchant ships for 31 years, now runs the School View Hostel, a boarding home for boys of the local Don Bosco Academy. As do others: hostel boards have mushroomed all over.

‘‘McCluskieganj’s children,’’ says Lt Gen (retd)

M Mayadas, ‘‘have done well outside but this place has gone to seed.’’ The General, who retired here from the Army and lives in one of the few well-maintained bungalows, too is not very sure how long he will stay on.

His sons want the General to leave the place for good. They have a reason to worry: the General has been unable to walk after his car was rammed, he probably needs surgery and there’s no medical help around.

‘‘We have a government hospital here. But you will never find the doctor. You are supposed to go and stare at the hospital wall and cure yourself.’’ That’s Kitty Texeira, scathingly direct as she switches from the local dialect to English, the accent almost British.

KITTY’S story is in many ways the story of McCluskieganj. You have to cut through fields to reach her house. As the rain comes down hard, Kitty looks anxiously at the roof. ‘‘I hope it doesn’t spring a leak again.’’ The house has no electricity, no piped water, not even an LPG cylinder. ‘‘It’s all so expensive. We still use firewood and the well for the water.’’

Now 55, Kitty was born in this very house. ‘‘My grandfather came here from Assam where he was the personal assistant to the Governor. It was he who decided that this was going to be home. Nine acres full of fruit trees and a house in between. I guess it must have been the perfect place to retire.’’

When Independence came, many families left McCluskieganj. Others followed in the years later. ‘‘Probably 20 Anglo Indian families are left here. We didn’t have the means or the funds to go abroad. I wasn’t even educated. My father died when I was barely 17. I had to look after this place. So how could I have left?’’

Everyone in McCluskieganj seems to know her. For as long as they can remember, she has always sold fruits at the small railway station.

‘‘You should have been here in the days of the steam engine. McCluskieganj was where the engines would halt for a water refill. We used to make almost 100 rupees a day, selling bananas and other fruits. Once the steam engines went out, McCluskieganj stopped being important.’’

‘‘We now have two express and two passenger trains passing by but we never manage to sell much. Earlier, I would stick to the station but now I also go to the hostels with the fruits. I barely make 40 rupees a day. How do you expect me to maintain this place?’’

Kitty married Ramesh Munda who used to help her mother with the cooking after her father died. She wants her three daughters and son to get out of McCluskieganj. ‘‘There’s no future here, no work. They will do better elsewhere.’’ Would she join the children if they were to leave? ‘‘But where will I go? I won’t fit anywhere.’’ McCluskie would have agreed.