Circus- Goer
The first of the construction shops had entered our until-then scenic neighbourhood—an itta pasal—and the owners, a couple of young boys, had a baby monkey they kept tied with a rope to a post outside the shop. All day the monkey sat dusty under the sun, staring at the people coming and going. If it moved, the rope around its neck chaffed, so it stayed as still as it could.
The monkey began a noisy protest after a time, screeching and chattering in discomfort. All day it picked at its rope. It was a miserable affair and nobody did anything. The owners seemed oblivious. They sat behind a sandy desk in their itta pasal and listened to pop music coming from a radio beside them and ogled at school girls who passed their way. We, the school girls, squirmed under the combined stare we received from the boys and the monkey. The guilt is strong now. Why had we not gathered together and slapped the boys? And why had we not helped the poor beast? But as a child I
neither had the courage nor the wisdom to confront adults or console animals. And perhaps I was as immune to the monkey’s plight as I was adept at avoiding whistling boys. All around me were men whose daily passion was to bring discomfort to girls, and all around me were stray animals—limping dogs, flea-infested cows, dying cats. There were young children sleeping beside garbage cans. There were servants being slapped around by their masters. Perhaps, dulled by a daily dose of violence, I did not care one hoot for the sad creatures of the world. Perhaps I did not recognise cruelty even when it stared at me each morning, tied to a pole, with enormous eyes on a small face.
The monkey continued its solitary plea creating what little commotion it could, and one day the itta-dais got tired of feeding an animal that did little other than squeal, and just like that, after holding it captive for months, they untied the rope and let the monkey go.
For days the monkey would not leave. It hovered nearby, possibly waiting for food, possibly unsure, now that it had been as unceremoniously abandoned as it had once been kept tied. But after a few tentative days it was wiser and stronger and left its confinement to jump into our rather placid neighbourhood.
And all at once our neighbourhood was bristling with hysteria. The monkey was everywhere, destroying everything within sight. Windows could no longer be left open, grains could not be dried on terraces, fruits not allowed on trees, children could not run around with packets of biscuits sticking out their pockets. The monkey left many a house in disarray—vases and picture frames shattered, pots of curry toppled over, clothes poked through. Grilles, designed to keep out thieves, were useless when it came to the agile primate, and we had to secure our rooms with chicken wires banged into window frames.
Thapa baje, our next door neighbour, was near murderous rage. After days of suspecting foul play, he had finally caught the monkey taking a swim in his water tank. Apparently, the monkey opened the lid to the tank, swam in the water—which the Thapas used for drinking and cooking purposes—and left without bothering to put the lid back on. Every morning Thapa baje shut the tank and every morning after he found it open. The Thapa household was furious. “We should leave a towel for his highness,” they cried and promptly put a lock to the lid.
We tried everything short of killing the monkey to keep it away. We screamed. We threw stones. We made sure there was no food made available. There was nothing really endearing about it. All day it swung from branches, devouring every piece of fruit it found. Nothing at all was left for the birds. Nothing at all left for us. It was a nuisance and we disliked it pretty unanimously.
All until it started a wild ritual to entertain us.
It was a funny friendship between a stray monkey and a neglected household dog. They spent the entire day together. The monkey rode the dog like a horse and the dog ran hard along the lane. The dog barked, the monkey screeched, and they seemed to understand one another perfectly. It was hilarious and we would watch from the terrace, leaning from the parapets. Sometimes I felt they knew we were watching and enhanced their performance. I felt they knew people were kinder to animals, beggars, the sickly, the old and the dying who were entertaining and fun than to animals, beggars, the sickly, the old and the dying who asked for care without offering anything in return. But I am sure I was wrong. Animals are not people.
The friendship, weird and charming, softened us toward the monkey. Finally we laughed at its antics and with the laugh our bitterness against it ebbed a little. Finally we left food for it outside our homes. Finally, despite keeping up a hundred precautions, we did not mind its presence amidst us as much. After all, it too was only trying to survive. But as is the case with most stray animals, it did not survive long. There was a storm one night, one with roaring thunder and blinding lightning. The rain would not stop. The wind was sharp, like it would shatter the panes. I remember lying in bed and thinking about the monkey, wondering where it was, what it was up to. And when the morning came, crisp and clean, I looked for it from the terrace. It was nowhere. The dog ran about the lanes, barking in an attempt to entice its friend, but it did not come. Maybe it died in the storm. Maybe it ran off.
Now the monkey comes to me in strange moments, like when I see a child singing and begging for food, or when I see a dog chained all day and set free to bark in the dark all night, or when I feel tied to a pole from which I cannot break free, or when I watch a clip on YouTube, or when I want help but don’t know how to ask, or when I imagine my son hungry and helpless in an alternate and probable world, or when there is an obvious plea staring at me but I squirm past as though I cannot translate it. Sometimes I wonder if I am a circus-goer at heart, expecting entertainment even if only as payment for the good I do. Sometimes I wonder if we all are. Sometimes I wish so badly to return in time and confront the itta-dais, to release the monkey, to be wise and courageous. But that time is gone and instead I pray now that I am wiser and more courageous, and if not that at least more empathetic and less immune to cruelty.
Posted on: 2012-02-04 10:23
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