Dr Babu, better known as Old Cha Cha by the jute wallahs living at Meghna Compound during the 1940s, was our much-respected company doctor and a most dignified Bengali gentleman. The old man stood pole straight to over six feet. His spare frame usually supported a white cotton suit with the trouser bottoms held in place by bicycle clips: the good doctor always cycled his rounds of the mill’s compound. Old Cha Cha’s approach would be heralded by a series of loud squeaking noises caused, without doubt, by a lack of lubricating oil and the all-pervasive dust from the compound’s cindered pathways.
With his khaki-coloured topi (pith sun helmet) held in place by a chin strap, Old Cha Cha would have been chewing pan (a betel nut and lime concoction), the habitual use of which stained the old fellow’s mouth a gory red and necessitated a deal of accurate expectoration.
The good doctor was, of course, fluent in English and spoke in measured, sonorous tones when discussing medical matters, but switched to a high-pitch staccato when on his favourite subject – angling on the compound’s reservoir tank. It was Old Cha Cha who introduced, or beguiled, me into the mysterious craft of the Bengali angler.
This all began one hot, humid Sunday morning in May when I came upon the doctor squatting on his heels by the water’s edge and staring intently at two peacock quill floats positioned on the surface some three yards before him. Just behind the old man, a chatta (umbrella), with handle bound to a nimbu (lime) tree, served to keep the searing sunlight from roasting his shiny dome; the topi dispensed with while he was thus engaged.
The scene was typical for a May month at our compound, hot and still with only the cawing of crows and the occasional deep-throated bellow from a water buffalo in the nearby Hooghly River to punctuate the silence. Water spiders danced across the water surface, merely surface tension preventing their feather-light bodies from sinking into the muddy brew. Mud-skipper fish, with air-breathing capability, jumped from the water to skip along the bank in search of minute prey. Every few moments, a brightly coloured dragonfly would buzz over the surface to settle on one of Old Cha Cha’s floats, causing the good doctor to mutter, “Arry! Arry! My dyna (right) float is being disturbed and shall not give proper signals from below!” The old man then gave his fishing line a twitch to dislodge the offending insect.
On his becoming aware of my approach, the doctor put his left forefinger to his lips as a sign for absolute quiet, while with a beckoning gesture from his right hand, I was invited to sit by his side. As I squatted down beside my old Bengali mentor, the shrill blast from a passing paddle steamer, moving slowly upriver from Calcutta, momentarily drew our attention from the two floats. However, within a few seconds, we turned our heads to focus on the floats when, at virtually the same instant, we observed a large bubble pop on the surface and close to one float; this was followed by ominous swirls with tell-tale streaks of mud showing.
While nosing around the bait, a big fish’s fins were scraping along the bottom some six feet below. Old Cha Cha’s jaw muscles tensed into knots, and his long bony hands clamped around the rod nearest to the swirls as he prepared himself for what was to follow.
As excitement reached fever pitch, my whole attention became riveted on the old fisherman who was, at this juncture, leaning forward in anticipation of a ‘take’.
It happened suddenly: one of the floats flicked madly around and then plummeted from sight; almost instantly thereafter, the good doctor struck with a swift upwards motion of the rod. The line tightened as the rod tip curved over and downwards as if pointing a finger at whatever had taken Old Cha Cha’s bait.
The good doctor unfolded his long legs to stand while playing his unseen adversary, by then moving off in a most deliberate manner and taking many yards of muga line (hand-spun silk line). Our fish, for I felt at this stage of the proceedings totally involved, was in complete charge of affairs. As Old Cha Cha’s archaic brass reel screeched with pain as the muga was ripped off, I noticed that his line held numerous knots: the doctor had obviously used the same fishing tackle over many years, tying on lengths of new line to replace losses incurred during umpteen singular battles.
Notwithstanding such trifles, and being a veritable magician in all things piscatorial, the good doctor could well handle fish which would break lesser mortals. Our great fish, for all the signs pointed in that direction, forced us into a series of long hikes, during which we were obliged to negotiate a variety of obstacles, including awkward nullahs (ditches) and around several branch-bound trees. Old Cha Cha would, time and again, pass his bamboo fishing rod to me through a tangle of branches to then continue playing our great fish.
Some two hours passed, and the battle was very much one-sided. With no sighting of the creature below, I noticed that several onlookers had gathered to witness the tamasha (rumpus). Amongst this assembly stood several Jute-Wallahs (expatriate mill staff from Blighty), some of whom shouted words of encouragement, while others gave vent otherwise with, ‘Come on Old Cha Cha, let’s have the burra muchli (big fish) out so that we may see what this tamasha is all about, eh!’ To which words the good doctor just produced a wide pan-stained grin of sheer pleasure while winning back a few precious yards of muga-line.
Some minutes later, Old Cha Cha turned and beckoned to two malees (gardeners) who had left their place of work to join the crowd gathered along the bank behind us. While keeping their eyes fixed on the old fisherman, the malees moved quietly down the bank to remain close by and ready to act on any further instructions…
While matters were thus being duly determined, my thoughts ran back to the time when our good Doctor Babu had treated me for a particularly vicious bout of dengue fever, a fever somewhat like malaria. During those long nights, during which time the fever peaked, I lay awake below the bedroom’s electric punka (ceiling fan), listening to the regular swishing sound produced by the punka’s whirling blades as they pushed warm, moisture-laden air upon my bed.
Although punkas did not actually cool the air, they were effective enough in keeping the ubiquitous mosquitos away from an area directly below and thereby permitting the weary patient a few hours of restless sleep. At certain intervals, while in a dreamlike state, I would hear the melancholy baying of jackals from far beyond our compound’s walls: quite disturbing and eerie sounds. It was at such moments that I would long for morning when Old Cha Cha came to administer magic powders and, far more importantly, to relate another of his wondrous fishing stories.
But I have digressed enough.
Having played our great fish for over two hours, we – the good doctor, together with his young acolyte – brought the burra muchti close into the bank where the two malees, then standing waist-deep in water, skilfully placed a lungi (cotton garment) around the fish’s bulky body. By bringing the two ends of the lungi firmly together above the dorsal fin, to form a secure sling, the malees were able to manoeuvre the big fish out of the water and safely onto the bankside.
Old Cha Cha’s prize – our prize was a large Catla fish (Catla Buchanani), one of the largest and most powerful freshwater species inhabiting the river-fed waterways of Bengal. Catla fish can grow to over six feet in length while attaining upwards of 120 pounds. Our Catla weighed sixty-three pounds and measured four feet five inches.
For a good number of years after the tamasha at Megna Mills Tank, an enlarged photograph of the Catla-fish adorned the good doctor’s dispensary wall behind and above the old man’s desk. Included in the picture was, of course, Old Cha Cha, complete with a wide pan-stained grin. At his side stood a mesmerised young fisherman.
Kenneth Arthur Miln was born in Durban, South Africa in 1937. He was brought-up in India and schooled at St Paul’s in Darjeeling, known as the Eton of the East. Later Kenneth studied textile engineering in Scotland and returned to India to manage Jute Mills. He married Patricia in 1965, spent a couple of years in Pakistan before moving to East Africa in the early 1970s with his wife & two young children, then to Central & West Africa in the mid 1980’s before retiring to Scotland where he and his wife now live.
COUNTRY SQUIRE INDIA 