When a Monkey Served Tea and Coffee

The tea stall stood wedged between a paan shop and a mobile recharge counter, its tin roof rattling whenever buses groaned past. Steam curled up from dented kettles. Customers came as much for the curiosity as for the tea.A monkey sat beside the cash box.Not chained. Not tied.

Watching and watching only.

When a customer placed coins on the counter, the monkey’s thin fingers slid forward, gathered them, and dropped them neatly into the box. If someone asked for tea, it would glance at Hari Om, then carry a glass carefully across the wooden plank, its tail flicking with balance.
“Arrey, look at that!” someone laughed. “Better than a waiter!”
Hari Om said nothing. He only wiped the counter, his sacred thread bright against his dark skin.
By evening, a small crowd had formed. Phones were out. Someone whispered, “YouTube… this will go viral.”
Amina came quietly, as she always did.
A faded dupatta, a tired face, eyes that seemed older than the rest of her. She sat at the far end.
“One tea,” she said.
Hari Om poured it without asking anything more.
She hesitated before speaking. “Will my father… come out?”
Hari Om didn’t look up. “I don’t sit in God’s chair.”
“I pray every day,” she said, fingers tightening around the hot glass. “Allah knows everything.”
The monkey watched her.
Hari Om placed the kettle down. “Then keep praying.”
A pause.
“And… sometimes,” he added, “pray to Hanuman too.”
Her head snapped up. “That is not for me.”
Hari Om shrugged, as if it made no difference.
Days passed.
“Why didn’t you come yesterday?” he asked one evening, pretending to arrange cups.
Amina frowned. “Why should I come every day?”
He smiled faintly.
The next day, she came again.
One night, long after the shutters of nearby shops had fallen, Amina lingered.
The street had thinned into silence.
“That monkey,” she said quietly, “doesn’t just serve tea.”
Hari Om kept scrubbing the same spot.
“I have seen him,” she continued. “On rooftops. Through windows. He brings things back.”
The monkey, sitting in the corner, scratched its ear.
“Jewellery. Cash.” Her voice dropped. “Not small things.”
Hari Om finally looked at her.
“And?” he asked.
“And people are talking,” she said. “About a man who was poor… and now drives a car.”

A faint smile appeared on his lips.

“Do they talk about where that money comes from?”

She held his gaze. “You tell me.”

For a long moment, only the sound of a distant train filled the air.

Then Hari Om leaned back.

“Have you ever seen,” he said slowly, “how some men lock their cupboards?”
Amina said nothing.
“They count money that was never theirs to begin with,” he went on. “They sleep well.”
The monkey jumped lightly onto the counter.
“And if something goes missing from such houses…” Hari Om’s eyes hardened just for a second, “who is the thief?”
The courtroom smelled of paper and sweat.
Amina stood still, her fingers digging into her palms.
When the judge spoke, she didn’t understand the words—only the tone. The clerk repeated it louder.
“Release.”
The sound seemed to echo.
Outside the gate, an old man stepped out slowly, shielding his eyes from the sunlight as if it hurt.
“Abbu…!”
Amina ran.
He staggered, then caught her, his hands trembling over her shoulders, her face, as if confirming she was real.
Behind them, Hari Om stood quietly.
Akhtar Ali looked at him, confused at first—then something broke inside him. He moved forward and clutched Hari Om tightly.
“My son…” his voice cracked. “What have you done…?”
Hari Om gently pulled back.
“Thank Him,” he said, nodding toward the small Hanuman pendant hanging from his neck.
Akhtar followed his gaze. His lips began to move.
“I… I used to hear them in jail,” he said. “All night… chanting…”

His voice faded.


Amina wiped her tears. “I prayed too,” she said softly. “Every day.”
Akhtar didn’t respond. His eyes were still fixed somewhere else.

The city had gone quiet, but not asleep.
A dog barked somewhere in the distance. A scooter rattled past and faded into silence.
On the terrace of a large bungalow, a shadow moved.
Light. Quick.The monkey...Hari Om's Bajrangi 

Bajrangi crouched near a half-open window, its eyes glinting in the dim yellow light spilling from inside. It waited—still as stone.

Inside, a man laughed loudly, the clink of glasses following.
“Transfer the file tomorrow,” the man said. “No one will question it.”
Another voice chuckled. “And the money?”
A drawer slid open.
Bundles. Thick. Carelessly stacked.
Bajrangi slipped through the gap.
A soft thud. No one noticed.
The men kept talking.
Within seconds, the monkey’s thin fingers worked swiftly—lifting, stuffing, wrapping. A chain disappeared. A packet vanished. The drawer closed again with a faint click.
Bajrangi was gone.
Hari Om stood in the alley behind the tea stall, looking up.
A faint scratching sound.
Then—something dropped lightly beside him.
He bent down.
Cloth bundle.
He didn’t open it immediately.
The monkey landed next to him, breathing softly, as if nothing had happened.
For a long moment, Hari Om just stared at the bundle in his hands.
Then he opened it.
Gold caught the dim light.
Cash followed.
His jaw tightened.
“You went there again,” he murmured.
The monkey tilted its head.
Hari Om closed the bundle and pressed it against his chest. His eyes drifted toward the distant line of dark houses.
“They sleep well,” he said under his breath.
The next evening, Amina stayed back.
The last customer had left. The streetlights flickered.
She watched him count money.
Too much money.
For too small a shop.
“You don’t get this from tea,” she said.
Hari Om didn’t respond.
“I have seen him,” she continued, nodding toward Bajrangi. “Roofs. Windows. He doesn’t wander—he goes somewhere.”
Hari Om stacked the notes carefully.
“And comes back,” she added.
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, he said, “What do people say?”
“That you are clever,” she replied. “Or dangerous.”
A faint smile touched his lips.
“And you?”
She held his gaze. “I think you are hiding something.”
The monkey jumped onto the counter, watching both of them.
Hari Om leaned back slowly.
“Tell me something,” he said. “If a man locks away money he never earned…”
Amina said nothing.
“…and another takes it away…” he continued, “who is the thief?”
Her eyes narrowed. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On who is telling the story.”
For a moment, something like approval flickered in his eyes.

He picked up the bundle and placed it on the table between them.

“Your father,” he said quietly, “has been in jail for twelve years.”

Her breath caught.

“I have seen men come here,” he went on. “Men who sign papers… who erase names… who decide who is guilty.”

His fingers tapped the bundle once.

“They don’t drink tea for the taste.”

Amina’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What are you saying?”

Hari Om met her eyes fully now.

“I am saying,” he replied, “that some doors open only when they are pushed.”

The monkey let out a soft chattering sound.

“And some cages,” he added, “need more than prayers.”


*************

The courtroom corridor buzzed with voices.
Hari Om stood at a distance, watching a man in a crisp shirt speak quietly to another.
A file changed hands.
Then another.
A nod.
Nothing more.

Back at the stall that night, the cash box lay open.
Empty.
Bajrangi sat beside it, tail curled around its feet.
Hari Om closed the lid slowly.

“No more,” he said.
The monkey looked up.
“No more,” he repeated, firmer this time.
Outside, the city carried on, unaware.

and Closure)
Evenings settled gently over the house.
The noise of the city softened into distant murmurs. Inside, a dim lamp glowed near the wall where a small framed image of Hanuman rested, garlanded with fresh marigolds.
Akhtar sat cross-legged on the floor, the Ramayana open before him.
His finger moved slowly across the lines.
“…then Hanuman leapt across the ocean…” he read, his voice uneven but steady.
Amina sat near the doorway, listening in silence. Her head was covered, her hands resting quietly in her lap.
Hari Om leaned against the wall, eyes closed—not asleep, just still.
The monkey sat beside Akhtar, unusually calm, as if listening.
A breeze slipped through the window, stirring the pages.
Akhtar paused, blinking hard.
“The letters…” he muttered. “They are not as clear today.”
Hari Om opened his eyes. “We’ll go to the doctor tomorrow.”
Akhtar waved his hand lightly. “Tomorrow, tomorrow…” he said, but his voice lacked its usual force.
He lifted his gaze toward the image on the wall.
“You see everything,” he whispered, almost to himself.
Days passed.
One afternoon, the courtyard filled with the faint fragrance of incense and something cooking.
Amina stood near the doorway, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted the end of her sari.
Hari Om stepped out, dressed simply, his sacred thread visible against his shoulder.
No crowd. No music.
Just the three of them.
Akhtar looked from one to the other, his eyes moist.
He raised his hand slowly and placed it on their heads.
“Live clean,” he said. “That is enough.”
For a moment, no one moved.
Then Amina bent and touched his feet.
Hari Om followed.
The monkey darted in a small circle around them, then settled again, as if the ritual meant something even to him.
Time moved quietly.
The tea stall grew into something larger. New shutters. A painted board. Workers coming and going.
But every evening, the lamp was still lit.
Akhtar’s voice grew softer with the passing months, yet it never stopped.
Sometimes he paused in the middle of a verse, searching for the next line—not in the book, but somewhere within himself.
On such evenings, Amina would continue from memory.
Hari Om would listen.
One morning, the park was washed in pale sunlight.
Dew clung to the grass. A few old men walked slowly along the path, hands clasped behind their backs.
Akhtar walked among them.
His steps were careful but steady.
Beside him, a small boy ran ahead, then turned back, laughing.
“Dada, faster!”
Akhtar smiled faintly. “These legs are not yours,” he replied.
The child ran back and caught his hand.
“Tell me the story,” he insisted. “The one about the monkey who flies.”
Akhtar looked down at him, his eyes softening.
“Ah…” he said. “That one.”
They moved toward a bench beneath a tree.
“The monkey,” Akhtar began slowly, “was not just strong…”
His voice drifted with the breeze.
From a distance, Hari Om stood watching, one hand resting lightly on Amina’s shoulder.
She leaned into him, her gaze fixed on the old man and the child.
Neither of them spoke.
The boy’s laughter rang out again.
Above them, leaves stirred.
And for a brief moment, everything seemed held together—not by name, not by prayer,
but by something quieter, deeper, and unseen.