‘Let him be,’ said his father. ‘On the morning of 30 April we will bring him down and, before he knows it, it will all be over.’
‘All be over …’ Sampath heard, as if from very far away.
22
A few days after Mr Chawla had proposed his plan, it was put into action. The monkey catchers began to be trained at a furious pace, even though nobody was quite sure what exactly the training should consist of. The Brigadier, who was still holding a grudge because his own idea had been passed over in favour of this weak and messy plan, shouted orders at his suffering men through his megaphone, putting them through their paces, making them leap from trees, slide down ropes, do handstands and sit-ups, and go running for miles up and down the hillside, so much so that people complained that not only were the monkeys disturbing the peace but those wretched army boys were as well. Thudding across gardens and trampling flowers, they ran through private property and left trails through flowerbeds and vegetable fields, waking people at dawn the next day, and every day after that, by resuming these disgraceful activities. The very ground trembled as they approached; it was like the approach of an earthquake.
But when the Brigadier received complaints, he explained how, had he been allowed to pursue his own proposal, he would have no reason to submit his men to this charade. They all knew how to fire guns. They would have gone to the orchard and, a couple of hours later, the job would have been done. Now, since they had not supported him right at the beginning, they would have no option but to suffer. ‘Situp, double march, hop to it, somersault,’ he ordered. And: ‘The sooner this is all over the better,’ mumbled the townsfolk.
Meanwhile, the police were luckier than the army men, for it had been generally agreed upon that they were incapable of taking an active part in something on such a great scale as this and instead they had been given the job of preparing the nets that were to be used to catch the monkeys. Under the gentle jurisdiction of the superintendent, they sat lazily outside the police station with a pile of fishing nets and metal rings, needles and nylon rope, not at all sure of what they ought to be doing, but enjoying themselves like old fisherwomen fussing with the nets in the afternoon sun. ‘Arre, Chottu,’ they called to the tea boy. ‘Arre, over here,’ to the sweet-potato seller, the peanut man and the cold-drink cart. Thus they made the most of this time and were content.
About Sampath’s tree there was a feeling of the air being stretched tight and wrapped around and around him. When he peered down, all he could see was an ugly sea of humanity. Nobody respected his visiting hours any more. Several men marched about the periphery of the orchard, banging the ground with sticks and blowing upon whistles in a round-the-clock watch instituted by Mr Chawla to give warning of any disturbance. These dangerous days, who knew what would happen, what they would have to watch out for, which unexpected happening? They were not safe. Also, of course, they had to keep a watch for the monkeys. What would they do next? At the slightest rustle in the night, they shone bright torches into the trees; often Sampath found himself awakened by a searchlight-like glare. If only these watchmen would fall asleep at their posts the way watchmen were known to do, thought Sampath. But no, this lot were an insomniac brigade, tireless and unnervingly zealous in their duties. At the first hint of dawn, the crowds arrived with their loudspeakers and he was enveloped once again in slogan-shouting and argument.
How, how would he manage his escape?
He was practically ill with worry and nerves by now, unable any more to sleep and unable to eat. His mother tried this and that to tempt his appetite, to resurrect his fading rosy cheeks, but nothing seemed to work … not the little river fish he so loved, not the fiery chillies from her own especially fiery chilli bush, not the plump, sleepy pigeons with their tender melting flesh, not an enormous goldfish she caught in the ornamental pond in the convent grounds. Never mind … never mind. Soon she would offer him something altogether new, something to spark his spirits and jerk him to life. On Monday, the thirtieth day of April. She began to put together the ingredients for the feast to come. It was a hard process, for the main ingredient was an entirely new one, of course, and still mysterious to her. She had no idea of its savour, its toughness, its heaviness or lightness, its darkness, or its power as a catalyst to bring other flavours to fullness. Her preparations would have to be made with only instinct to guide her, the sureness of instinct, buoyed by a bringing together of all her expertise, all her talents, to make a triumph of what might be her only chance to cook this creature …
Sampath stared up into the mountains, tilting his head all the way back, to look upon where there was not a trace of civilization. There, up high, as if tumbling from the sky, a waterfall cascaded down sylvan slopes, so pale, so distant he did not know if it was real or merely his imagination melding with the power of sight to produce a trick upon him. There there were no villages, no houses, no people … Just sunlit forest and rock, and the living rough white water. Jealously, he looked back at the birds that fluttered about him searching for crumbs: these small creatures with their delicate ribs, their beating wings that scooped hearts light as snow through the clarity of air. His face bore a desperate, hunted look.
‘He is in another world,’ whispered the devotees reverently, while Sampath paid them no attention, just stared out over their heads, let them lift his foot and lay it upon their heads as they claimed his blessing. These days it turned his stomach, now that the whole business was not lighthearted any more, but mean and complicated.
He stared at the sky. The silvery evening air seemed to distil itself into the armour of the fish that steamed gently before him, into the powdery hair of the langurs sitting in his tree, still unaware, it seemed, of all the plotting and planning that was going on against them. There they were, chattering, playing, grooming each other as usual. Little did they know …
23
Trapped in his room, aunties and sisters keeping watch out of every window, the Hungry Hop boy paced up and down. From a distance, he could hear the noise of the protesters and demonstrators, and he felt it was unjust that he should not be allowed out to take part in the excitement.
‘I’ll take the van,’ he pleaded. ‘It will be such good business.’
But no, even this was not enough to shake his family’s conviction that he should be kept firmly locked up, allowed to emerge only if rooted in the honourable state of wedlock. In the matter of a few days’ time, the Hungry Hop boy had been demoted from a life of self-imposed imprisonment to one of family-enforced detainment and he felt as if his pride were being overlooked and insulted. He paced up and down his small room, wondering about Pinky’s fate in the midst of all the monkey trouble, about his own fate … Up and down. And whenever he stopped to listen, with an indignant ear pressed against the door, he could hear the babble of marriage negotiations rising up the stairs from the living room down below. Time was running out. They were resorting to the oldest trick in the book.
He smuggled an urgent note to Pinky via the faithful milkman, who delivered it when he returned home on the same bus Sampath had taken when he had first left Shahkot six months ago. ‘Very little time to lose,’ the note read, a little runny from a leftover bit of buffalo milk in the canister where the milkman had placed it. ‘Marriage is in the works.’
As he waited for a reply, he paced the length of his room with greater and greater vigour. From time to time, he stopped and tossed back his hair, a thrill running through him like an electric current. Here was his life, just like in a scene from the movies. He felt grateful for the glamour; his heart hung suspended as if dangling from a mountain ledge.