Hullabaloo In The Temple Town

    'Here, we don't get startled seeing a monkey sipping cold drinks as you did,' the auto driver told me and then guffawed. He veered the vehicle to take a narrow lane and ducked skillfully through a crowd of devotees carrying sacred water in pitchers and flowers in wicker-baskets. I was still savouring the glimpse: a monkey, busy sipping his drink from a Tetra Pak of Frooti sitting on his haunches on the top of a sikhara of a small temple---------a queer sight. 'The bandars of Vrindavan are fond of Frooti,' an elderly woman in a veil chirped. I could see her shiny teeth though. 'Maybe they like other drinks too,' I said thinking that the long association with human beings might bring those arboreal creatures very close to adapting such human habits. 'No, they only prefer Frooti,' now the auto-driver said bending towards the front mirror to look at me. 'They don't like Coke, Sprite, Thumbs Up or anything like these as these drinks are fizzy and acidic.' He again guffawed. He continued, 'The monkeys of Vrindavan are strange. They're almost human. One day, I'd seen a man giving a bandar a bottle of Cola. Barely had that creature gulped down a little then he threw that bottle down to crush it into pieces. That bandar must have got his tongue twisted or his foodpipe burnt having the drink.' I chuckled. I was wondering at their discovery of a strange sense of taste that those monkey clans were deprived of from time immemorial------worthy Homo sapiens.

The woman in the veil suddenly started, 'This's nothing.' Then lifting her veil, a little up to display her full round eyes she continued, 'I live near the Govind Dev Ji Temple. There, the monkeys are too tormenting. You'll get more monkeys there than tourists and devotees. The monkeys there have a speciality.' 'What's that?' I asked. 'Those bandars are uncivilized and good actors too,' replied the woman and continued, 'because, most often they snatch away women's dupattas and drape it round their whole body somehow, they act like women. They even make a ghoonghat (veil) out of the taken off dupattas. The victims are left to cry and those rouges laugh at them. The moment they're lured with a packet of roasted grams or peanuts, dupattas are thrown back to their owners.' The word 'uncivilized' for a monkey struck me. For thousands of years these monkey clans have been living across the temple towns of India and in the language of Darwin they have been struggling for their existence and taking away dupattas is one of their ways just to get a packet full of corn or fruits or just a ten-rupee-worth Frooti coming to this twenty first century. But, what about us, the most intelligent species, who by dint of power never feel a hitch before stripping a woman of dupattas and then playing with their dignity in any dark lane? Unlike those monkeys we do not give back dupattas even at the cost of our women's honour. I wondered looking at a troop monkeys sucking half-eaten fruits in the corner of a lane, 'You, all are better civilized than us.' The auto rickshaw reached the temple precinct------Shri Banke Bihariji Temple and screeched to a halt. No sooner did I take out my wallet to pay the fair than the elderly woman in veil spoke out, 'Beta, don't do this. Look up. They'll take it away before you realize what happened to you. Hide it quickly.' Warned I looked up to see a troop of monkeys sitting in a line along a terrace wall across the temple gate, all gazing down at us. Some others were busy hanging from jotted electric wires like an expert acrobat.

I flipped out a fifty rupee note and thrust my wallet into pocket. The mornings of Vrindavan are always hectic in any season. The streets, lanes and alleys thronged with crowds of devotees from all across the country, all looking preoccupied as though competing with each other to let their eyes be blessed with the first darshan of Bihari Ji at the start of the day is the hallmark of this religious town. Bare feet, telling the beads of rosary, carrying incense sticks pitched in a dollop of cow dung amidst the steam of morning tea and the incessant buzz of Radhe Radhe are typical of Vrindavan. It took more than an hour to scoop out cheap, affordable lodging. I was given my room on the first floor. It was an August summer rather than the monsoon. The obstinate sun rays were prone to playing hide and seek with the defeated fleecy clouds. A brief hotel-shower lulled me to a nap. I got up getting a bit grumpy. Long before, I realized what broke into my sleep--------a hue and cry, outside. Rubbing my eyes, I looked up. It was quarter past eleven. I drew the curtain away and slid the windowpane to look down. Down the corner of the street where there was a sweet-meat shop with a big signboard Brij Ki Peda Wala was the center of attraction. The corpulent sweet vendor with his glistening tummy was cackling and moving his hands at an elderly man in the T-shirt and trouser. Crowds of daily commuters, buyers and devotees gathered around him. Most of them were looking up, mouth gaped. The man in the T-shirt too. He kept on jigging about. My eyes followed the direction they were staring at. Now the whole thing got crystal cleared. All the hullabaloo was by the grace of a monkey. A big, sturdy looking grizzly-haired rhesus macaque wearing specs, was a prized-spectacle in this temple town. The faint crackle of the man in the T-shirt was still audible amidst the din of day,'Pakdo,pakdo bandar ko...mera chasma le liya (catch that monkey...took away my specs).