What the Monkeys Know

What the Monkeys Know

Evening.
They are here, yet again. A family of many—uninvited, yet united. The young ones jump and wrestle the way we used to. A tired mother walks slowly, her baby hugging her upside down. The big ones are stoic and rude. They are familiar.

*

Tuesday.
I take off my chappal at the gate of the Hanuman Mandir.
The continuous jingle of the temple bell, the thump of a worn-out tabla, and a melodious voice fill the air.
I join the half-finished Chalisa, reciting along. The priest splashes a handful of cold water from his jug, then comes around and presses a bright orange chandan tika between my eyebrows. When I finally meet him—standing in all of his glory, carrying a mountain—he is, somehow, also kind.

*

Vrindavan.
A tourist's sunglasses disappear, now resting in the grasp of a small grey fist. Locals come in as translators, informing her about the huge demand for Frooti. She agrees. A man from the crowd throws the Frooti up into the air, and with perfect fairness, a pair of sunglasses comes down.

*

Morning,
every morning, for almost a month.
A grey and pink hand taps gently at my window.
The curtain hides a child. He chatters as if he has something urgent to say.
His tongue lolls out as soon as he sees the banana on my desk.
I open the window—I always open the window. After a bit of small talk, he gets his breakfast.

*

One day,
He stopped coming.

My eyes were open, waiting to get up after that delicate knock.

*

Yesterday.

A big guy—one of the rude ones—on my balcony, in an unusual area. He barely moved, just sat there with his back to me. His back was bulky, with yellow hair poking out, some tangled, drawing an odd image. I watched him long enough that the image started to make sense.
Then, abruptly, he moved on. I kept looking, hoping to catch a glimpse of his eyes.