Tucked away in the quiet heart of Jharkhand, McCluskieganj is a town that refuses to hurry. Once imagined as an Anglo-Indian utopia in the 1930s, it now stands as a living museum of fading colonial dreams and enduring grace. For travellers who wander through its leafy lanes, every moss-covered gate and tiled rooftop feels like a whisper from another century.

There are towns that feel like they’ve quietly stepped out of history and chosen never to return. McCluskieganj, nestled among sal and mahua forests about sixty kilometres from Ranchi, is one such place. Founded by Ernest Timothy McCluskie, an Anglo-Indian businessman with a vision of building a homeland for his community, the Ganj once promised an idyllic life — cottages with red-tiled roofs, winding dirt lanes, and English teas on sunlit verandahs.

Almost a century later, the dream lingers, though in a softer tone. The Anglo-Indian families who once made this their refuge have mostly moved away — to Ranchi, Kolkata, even overseas — but their homes remain, scattered across the landscape like pages from a forgotten diary. Walking through these lanes today, you see them standing tall in silence: thick-walled bungalows with sloping roofs, shuttered windows, and quiet gardens still tended by unseen hands.

One such house sits by an orchard, its white walls gleaming in the afternoon light. A line of colourful flowerpots brightens its steps — a small, living act of care in a place where much else has aged. An old caretaker, sweeping the verandah, tells you that it once belonged to a family who held Christmas dinners for the whole neighbourhood. “They used to play carols till midnight,” he says, smiling faintly.

Further down the road, a weather-stained sign reads MAC Garden. The letters are fading, the gate slightly crooked, but the path beyond remains beautifully alive. No one quite remembers what “MAC” stood for — perhaps a family, perhaps a long-gone social club. The forest seems to have swallowed both the name and the memories, leaving behind only the charm of a mystery.

Many of the houses share a similar structure: a central hall, arched verandah, small side rooms, and large wooden doors that creak with dignity. They were built for comfort, not opulence — a fusion of colonial architecture and local adaptation. “These homes were English in design but Indian in soul,” says an elderly local who once worked for an Anglo-Indian family. “They loved their gardens, their Sunday picnics, their radios playing softly in the evening.”

Some houses have been restored with bright coats of paint; others stand faded, vines curling over their pink and ochre walls. One such bungalow, half hidden by trees, seems almost swallowed by the forest. Its verandah railings are chipped, but sunlight still pours through the green windows, catching dust motes that dance like memories. You can almost imagine the clink of teacups, the murmur of conversation, the faint notes of a harmonium drifting through.

McCluskieganj is no longer the thriving Anglo-Indian enclave it once was, but its houses keep its story alive — quietly, gracefully. They are the last witnesses of a dream that began with belonging and ended with nostalgia. Walk through its lanes today, and you’ll find not ruins, but whispers of warmth — a gentle reminder that even when people leave, their homes often choose to stay.

Nazrul Haque is a faculty at Azim Premji University, Bengaluru. Nazrul is a passionate traveler, drawn not just to places but to the stories they hold, often seeking out voices of elders, local customs, and everyday human experiences.

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