Cwapugun khane madu thaya conpin manuta biswas madu

Nepali Proverb

(Those who live in a place from where the Himalayas cannot be seen may not be trusted.) 

At the time of writing, the monkey menace is a lightning rod for a great deal of public anger in the hills. Everyone seems to be perpetually persecuted by them. At the old Charleville, guards armed with airguns stalk the campus to scare off the simians, especially after one of the aggressive rhesus monkeys lunged at one of the Deputy Directors, completely disregarding his seniority, forcing him to take immediate evasive action. He jumped over the railing straight into the defile down below. Result? A broken arm!

Or you could say that Mr Obtuse, a college professor was to a certain extent responsible for the sudden explosion in the rhesus population. Don’t jump the gun and get me wrong. It all goes back to the winter vacation when our dear teacher went off to his home in the plains.

On meeting an old friend, he jokingly complained of a flagging libido. ‘I’ll fix that!’ promised the friend. Later, he gave him some specially concocted sweetmeats put together by a renowned herbalist, who’d made a minor fortune peddling cures for all kinds of sexual ailments, near the Clock Tower in Moradabad. Fortified with a box brimming with aphrodisiacs, our professor came home to his flat in the narrow lanes of our bazaar. On the very first day, he ate one, leaving the box near the window. The rest, as they say, is history— not his, theirs! A pesky monkey grabbed the box, spilling the contents on the ledge below. In the ensuing free for all, the sweets were gobbled up by a troupe of monkeys. Now don’t ask me if it worked. Honestly! I don’t know. But you have my word for it—there was an immediate jump in the population of simians. I hear there were rumours that one of these red-bottomed rhesus’ had a big grin on his face whenever he peeped through the barred windows of the learned professor’s abode looking for fresh supplies!

And grinning were the langurs too at one of the town’s best walkers, a certain Miss Crabbit who, having retired from a girl’s school settled here and has not stopped walking since. Given to the belief that those who walk sixteen kilometres a day are blessed with an eternal life, she sets off on her walk after a frugal breakfast, returns home for lunch, and takes off again to stagger home at dusk.

Things went well for years, that is until one of her nieces brought her a silvery fur coat to keep her warm through the cold winter. Hardly had she stepped out of her flat, when she noticed that she was being trailed by a troupe of amorous black-faced langurs marching in step behind her!

Now! That’s real monkey business.

Up until the 1960s, we had a tradition of doctors who made their way to the mountains from the sultry Ganges delta of Bengal. Foremost among these was a Dr Mitra, who ran a private clinic near the Old Theatre. On retiring, he passed on his practice to Dr Bagchi who, for some weird reason, always wore a monkey-cap. You could tell that summer had come when the good doctor removed his cap and little kids on the road went around yelling: ‘Papu ki topi uttar gayey!’ (Old man’s taken off his cap!)

Dr Bhaduri though had no cap fetish, he specialized in sex problems. Right next to the Electric Picture Palace cinema, he had a garish hoarding that showed an exhausted lion lying flat on its face before imbibing his magical aphrodisiac, while on the other side there was that magnificent pride of Africa, roaring at the tourists much in the manner of the MGM lion. Things were going well for the good doctor, up until the day police came knocking at his door.

What could he have done? He wondered. His medicines were not that bad!

The warrant stated he had certified as dead a man who was alive and kicking, and mad and angry too, because meanwhile his estranged wife had run off with the proceeds of his insurance policy. Off to the police station they marched and into the lock up he went for the night. The barred metal door clanged shut only to be opened the next morning when he was produced before a magistrate.

Lo and behold! As luck would have it, the doctor recognised Mr Tormented, the duty magistrate, as the errant youth whom he had a long time ago treated for venereal disease. Now, seated on his august chair, memories of another day came flooding back, he could still remember the burning sensation every time he had to visit the loo. Bashfully, he now remembered approaching the doctor, and managed to mutter: ‘Doctor Sa’ab, I think my thing has a cold.’

Dr Bhaduri had taken one look, smiled and said: ‘Till it sneezes, may be I’ll treat you with penicillin.’

On this fated day, their eyes met again. Time’s relentless sand papering had weathered them both as the clock rewound to twenty years ago. What mattered was that at the decisive moment, they were partners in crime again.

‘Doctor Sa’ab! What are you doing here?’ asked the judge.

‘Police say I’ve certified the living as dead! And his wife has taken off with his insurance!’

‘How did that happen?’

‘These men dragged me out of my bed at night and into a hotel room,’ he recalled, almost as in a dream. ‘Yes! There was a body. I wrote the name they gave me. Can you ask a dead man his name?’

‘True! Very possible!’ nodded Tormented, saying: ‘A case of mistaken identity. Bail granted.’

For the rest of his days, I am told Dr Bhaduri stopped taking house calls. The word was out that he would break out in hives if you so much as phoned him to take a house call.

[Niyogi Books has given Fair Observer permission to publish this excerpt from Gupp and Gossip from the Hills, Ganesh Saili, Niyogi Books, 2012.]

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Fair Observer’s editorial policy.