By Ganesh Saili
‘Be careful!’ a shopkeeper warns the customers leaving his store to be extra vigilant, adding, ‘Monkeys are on the prowl. Hide that bag inside your jacket, or put it in your knapsack.’
As soon as one leaves the shop, as if triggered by an inaudible signal, the monkeys’ raid is underway, leaving a trail of crumbs in its wake that only a baker can identify as a long line of leftovers. Hours later, the road bears witness to the struggle. Littered across the road are the remains of the day. Carelessly, they are flung all around, as if caught by a sudden storm. Do the crumbs come from an old-fashioned multigrain loaf, garlic, or herb bread? Or does the Bakehouse combine these as they do the chocolate cake, red velvet cake, carrot cake, and the to-die-for coffee walnut cake?
At the nearby shop, A. Prakash & Co. sells homemade preserves and relishes. But Landour’s monkeys do not discriminate; all shopping bags are fair game.
Pic courtesy: Author’s collection.
‘They’ve certainly got a sweet tooth,’ says Rakesh Garg, a hillside resident. ‘They have an utter contempt for bread; they fling the slices to the stray dogs. Even the dogs mind their own business and an uneasy peace reigns. No canine ever attacks a monkey. They slink past, eyes averted, and you have perfect peace.’
‘With the precision of an army drill, they come down from the trees, form an orderly line and watch the Bakehouse delivery van trundle by with supplies for the day. Then with a wicked gleam in their eyes, they creep from Sisters’ Bazaar to Oakland near the Language School, lying in wait for the careless sucker. Then they execute a perfect ambush.
But nowadays, the circus has moved into town. At the old Charleville Hotel, guards carry dummy airguns to scare off the simians. A cheeky fellow, disregarding a man’s seniority, lunged at a course coordinator, forcing him to take evasive action by jumping over the railings and falling into the yawning chasm.
Pic courtesy: Author’s collection
He needed a sling, plus support for a twisted ankle.
Elsewhere, at the Savoy Hotel, the guards carry plastic (made-in-China) catapults. This is risky – these monkeys are known to counterattack, plus there is always the threat of a religious backlash as monkeys are a protected species.
Locals blame the increase in monkey population on my colleague, a certain Professor Agarwal, who used to teach maths at the local college. Many winters ago, he went down to Moradabad, his hometown in the plains. Whilst there, in a poky little shop (owned by a descendant of the famed Unani herbalist Hakim Lukman), he had picked up a box of kushta-laced sweets. They claimed they were a cure-all for multiple ailments – real or imagined.
Spring saw him return to his fourth-floor flat above Jain Cloth House, where he absentmindedly put the ‘magical’ box on the windowsill even as he unpacked his suitcase. The rest is legend: apparently, a pesky monkey grabbed it, spilt the contents onto the ledge, and the troop pounced on them and gobbled them up.
It is said that, occasionally, the leader of the pack returns; he peers hopefully through the grilled window, wondering if the old man is going to unpack and might, just might, leave another magical box of goodies.
Until 1970, every other house used to have a wild fruit tree in the yard – usually a medlar or wild apricot. When Lakshi Tripathi complained that her home had an abundance of wild apricots, our Swiss handyman, Hans Koepke, stepped up and said: ‘I’ll help you make apricot brandy!’
The kitchen seemed like the ideal place, for there was a burner and a sink. Trouble was, the distillation plant leaked, and Laali, Hans’ pet monkey, dipped his paws into the pool of pure alcohol spillover and licked it from the kitchen counter. He passed out under the sink, completely blotto, from where he occasionally emerged to stagger about.
Sometimes, when I sit down to my scribblings, I too monkey around with words. I owe a debt of gratitude to the monkeys; among the many things they have taught me is that for a successful ambush focus, planning and timing are crucial.
(Ganesh Saili, born and homegrown in the hills, belongs to those select few whose words are illustrated by their pictures. Author of two dozen books, some translated into twenty languages, his work has found recognition worldwide.)
