Memories of Ma's Guru of Knitting

My mother is the most graceful and ladylike person I know. There is not an iota of tomboy in my ma. She is always poised and has the right expression for most occasions except when she is scolding me for being the exact opposite of her.

Portrait of my mother
Photo: Shoma Chakraborty

My mother is also a very complex person to understand. A child of the partition she had spent all her life telling us stories about their ancestral home in what is now Bangladesh. Though I could never imagine the sheer magnitude of that house but, the house in north Calcutta that she grew up in is a huge thing covering two lanes with openings on both sides. All her girlhood and early youth was spent in that cavernous building with latticed varandahs and stained glass windows and green Venetian blinds surrounded by family and relatives. She had scores of uncles, granduncles, aunts and grandaunts not to mention a zillion cousins. 

From a joint family of eight siblings where everyone was good at somethings and would help the others with their skills from school syllabus to culinary and fine art and knitting/ sewing she was married and had to start her own household in Delhi all by herself.

Suddenly in her late 20s my shy mother realized that she was knocked out for a six. Married and moved to a city where no one spoke her native language, she started from scratch to reinvent the proverbial wheel. From learning to cook with the vegetables and fresh produce available in north India to learning how to explain even the smallest of things in sign language to hoards of people everyday who were mostly uneducated like the vendors, cleaners and shop keepers she decided to learn everything from the language to sewing and taking care of one overweight and over-indulged over-energetic toddler (moi).

By the time she hung up her spurs, she was teaching Hindi along with Social Sciences in school. 

Her stories of how she picked up the skills are not always cute. Some reek of helplessness and others were sheer grit. Some like reading and writing Hindi happened because she had to help us with homework. Cooking is something she was always great at and her cooking was always healthy even before it became a fad. As an old school friend recently told me, "your tiffin was always great tasting with no oil running even when it was okra and your rotis were thin and even." She should know because she is a food Nazi these days.

But, it explains why all of us have stayed the same size through the decades.

Anyway, a few days back we recalled this really cute story about her learning how to knit - a skill she puts to great use every year though her skills are absolutely rudimentary - no purls and chains in her stuff but, lots of practical cover and tonnes of love.

Here's the story of her learning knitting.

As a young woman with a leaky toddler in the 1970s she needed a lot of sweaters because even at age -1 I was always hungry and ever eager to either throw up or pee and since there were no modern diapers, it meant her changing my clothes several times in a day.

So, my poor parents were buying mini sweaters by the buckets to keep me warm and clean because my ma couldn't knit. 

The house we lived in was divided into four flats and there were two more Bengali families with five teenage kids who were always taking turns to pet me like I was a little furry animal. Not to say that I did not lap it all up. Till the age of five we stayed in that house and I was the cynosure of all eyes - the happiest toddler ever.

However, among the five was this young boy who was very sweet, slightly crazy, artistic young man with a golden heart and a wicked sense of humor. He was in sixth standard and was very attached to my mother because she allowed him to eat from her kitchen all day. He too - like me - was always hungry.

He also had a soft corner for me and my mother and so would keep an eye on me when my ma was busy with chores or had to take a bath or use the toilet. He would bring his books and sit next to me doing his homework while ma finished her personal chores and tasks. I remember spending a lot of time with him even as a toddler. My ma also helped him with his studies because he was not too good on his own and there was no one else to help him because all the other elders in the house were working. 

So, the legend has it that one day he asked my ma in confidence why she was buying so many sweaters because all the other women knit for their children. It was the done thing and he himself had never worn anything off the rack. He was really outspoken for his age and no one minded it because their was no use asking him to mind his own business.

Hence, my mom broke her silence on the taboo subject and let him into her little secret. She told him in strict confidence that she didn't know how to knit. 

That sad confession must have really touched his heart. Imagine a mother who cannot knit for her child! It was a huge scandal. He had fodder for a big gossip but, his kiddy heart was not inclined to abuse the trust of the elder who was actually helping him with his studies and who trusted him explicitly to let him look after her infant and fed him scrumptious stuff everyday.

Instead he decided to change the situation. He could because he had the power to do so.

So, the next day - weekend, he asked her to meet him at the rooftop in the afternoon and leave me with my father.

My ma agreed without asking why thinking maybe he wanted to learn new English words like always.

The next day they met on the terrace. Everyone else was enjoying a siesta after a mutton lunch - those were the days without TV and Internet!

So, the two co-conspirators got to work. He had stolen a ball of wool from home and had brought it up with a couple of sticks from the bathroom broom. 

He had learnt how to do basic knitting watching the women in the house and since he was a little guy who was always crafting  something they never even bothered to tease him. Most were scared of pulling his leg because his sense of humor would tear them to pieces. 

With that one stolen ball of wool and two coconut leaf sticks from the broom he initiated my ma to the art of knitting and taught her whatever she knows today. Hence becoming her knitting guru.

My ma who learnt quickly never looked back, though she didn't try increasing her repertoire by adding designs and styles.

Just last week, when my mother was knitting a small yellow sweater for my toddler niece who wants - "verrrrry loooseee sweateee!" My father suddenly looked up and chuckled, "each time you pick up the knitting needles, you should take a few seconds and thank and bless your guru."

They both laughed and I felt warm without a sweater.

Memories are the most beautiful things and this one melts my heart. 

From Saving my Ma from Zombies to Losing my Family to Zombiehood

I woke up at 5 am today and with a distinct memory of saving my ma and me from being eaten up by a bunch of zombies pretending to be human. 

I swear we were invited to a posh restaurant with dark interiors and grey walls by a very suave ex-student of my mom's who looked a bit like a Bollywood A-lister last evening. I did hate all my mom's students at one time because she loved them and spent a whole lot of time with them but, didn't remember this guy. Though my ma seemed to remember him well enough to accept his invite. To me, he looked smarmy right from the start. What clinched the deal for me however was the fact that he was willing to drive us both in his luxurious dark-tinted SUV and anyone who knows me knows how I hate to drive.

So, off we went, nicely dressed and happy. I was dreaming of the lovely food that I would get to click for my Instagram account while, ma was busy chatting up with the 40-something 'boy'!

We reached this posh and unlisted looking restaurant whose entrance looked like that of an old fort with grey exposed rocks and accompanying arches. It looked pretty cool with vintage furniture and liveried staff.

I was so busy dreaming of kebabs and biryani by now that I couldn't wait to get inside and start. I however saw that the place had valet parking before we all went in to meet this middle-aged smarmy guy's family - this was a lucky thing to do. 

The inside was a bit of a let down because once you entered, the walls didn't change. They were still grey exposed stones as outside. The furniture was very flimsy and the people looked almost lost in their own world. Most-importantly, there was no aroma of food. But, I chalked it all up to - bad place to eat and walked with my ma to the table where the family of some kids and their mom was waiting for us. I was looking at a very boring evening by now and all dreams of food photography was off because the place hardly had any light.

We sat down. The entire trek from the door to the table laid out at the back of the restaurant took a while because of my ma's bad knee, She shuffled and walked leaning on her cane while the smarmy 'student' held her hand smiling like he was eyeing a trophy. My ma was obviously soaking in all the attention.

We sat down finally, I insisted on sitting next to ma - thank God!

After a while, I realized that there was no food coming in and then a strange feeling hit my spine. I turned around to see a sea of deadened eyes looking at us as if we were a feast served. I looked back at them archly like any Delhi girl used to having people stare at them in public places. But, suddenly as my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I saw a sea of grey faces and some with cracking make-up. 

I knew in a jiffy that we were in the wrong place and in wrong company thanks to all the paranormal romances I have been devouring in the last few years. I knew we were the dinner!

My only worry now was to get ma out of the place quickly which is next to impossible because of her arthritis. I turned back to the table to suddenly see that the kids were eyeing my ma with similar hungry eyes as the others at our back. The smarmy guy was still acting suave and so was his wife though her make-up had started cracking. Ma was oblivious to all and talking 19 to a dozen with the devious duo.

I had to do something and I did. With SFX-defying speed, I stood up dragging ma up from the flimsy chair that broke when it fell. Ma yelped and I said, "grab the cane."

She did it with the speed of a parent who is tired of her defiant-since-teenage rebel-wihout-cause offspring and looked up. I said, "run".

She looked at me as if I had finally lost my mind. With regret on her face, she turned to our hosts who were yet to order dinner and finally saw what I had already seen - the drying make-up that had fallen-off the smarmy guy's cheek showing a row of dirty exposed teeth and rotting gums.

It was perhaps the teacher in her that got really disgusted by the lack of hygiene despite having taught it to all her students that she got wildly angry and suddenly picked up the stick and whacked him on his head. 

I must say, that her action took everyone in the room by surprise and bought us a lot of time. I knew already that zombies are slow on the uptake thanks to the paranormal series I had been devouring and broke into a run pulling ma by her wrist. 

My only fear now was the arthritic knee that might stop us from making the escape. I spied a closed doorway on my left and suddenly remembered all the airline safety drills that insisted on telling you about the doors on the left and right that "open in case of emergency." This was a bloody emergency said my brain and I dragged ma to the door.

And yes, it opened. Because, it WAS an emergency.

We were out in a sunlit lawn and there were shaded deck chairs full of - yes - more zombies!

I knew that we had walked out into the frying pan from the fire but, still we were out in the open and we could see things clearly. I also suddenly realized that ma could keep pace with me. I looked at her and then her knee and up back at her with awe in my eyes pride in my swelling heart and like some Bond girl she shrugged her shoulder delicately and kept running with me.

My heart swelled in gratitude to see her walk without any pain. I loved this moment more than anything but, we had zombies to get rid of before we could rejoice.

So, I shoved her into an alcove in a stoney wall which was covered with moss and flowers and put a finger to my lip to tell her to keep quiet. The zombies on the deck chairs were stirring a little and I could hear a bit of a commotion coming from inside the faux-restaurant - or was it a real one for "zombies only"?

Anyway, I had no time to loose. I ran to the the edge of the parking and spied an old and battered red Maruti 800 and quickly memorized the number off the twisted plate. With that I ran back to ma and took her out of the alcove and walked boldly back to the entry. A swarm of zombies ran past us - apparently looking for us, so we held our breath. No breath means you too are a zombie - thanks to my knowledge of paranormal literature.

We quickly made it to the front door and I gave the number of the red car to the liveried staff who didn't at all look like a zombie - how were they managing to stay alive? There was no time to investigate or even ask because, they could tip us off to the swarm of greys still running around in the garden looking for us. 

Anyhow, the car came in, I took to the wheels, ma got in quicker than me still clutching her walking stick like a talisman or a weapon of mass destruction and I strapped her to the seat. I drove like a manic without sparing any rubber till I remembered that the zombies could follow our tracks and slowing down. When I checked left, ma was fast asleep like my baby niece often is after a day of adventures. 

What woke me up was the fact that the zombies knew where my folks lived. I had to move them quickly to my place.

It was still dark when my eyes popped opened and the phone said it was 5 am. Adrenaline levels were still high in my blood and the zombies had lost us for good.

By 9 am I was already up and around for four hours. So, decided to call ma to see if she was doing good. I must confess that I half expected her to be unwell while the other half wanted her to be rid of the pain like she was in the dream. 

So, she picked up on the nth ring when I was about to hang up and walk down to her place and said, "you are awake?"

I must say that was a low blow but, I managed to carry on saying, "yes and also done with tea, Yoga and breakfast."

Her reply was a very casual, "oh."

I thought something was wrong and asked her if all was well. 

She sounded sad and said, no, Nonie - my niece - was unwell and had been sent to her already for the day because she was not going to school. I tut-tutted and said, "can I talk to her?"

My ma said, "I don't think she'd be interested."

I was aghast. I said, "how can you say that?" 

She totally side-stepped that and said, "Are you coming now?"

I said, "Do you want me to? I can if you need help with the baby."

Her answer was a bored, "not really."

This conversation was getting messier by the minute. Had the zombies attacked my parents' home?

So, I persisted, "what's up with you all?" 

She sounded really bored with the conversation by now and said, "we are watching Masha and the Bear and Masha has made dresses out of all seven of the bear's towels and now he has nothing to dry himself with when he takes a bath..."

My head was reeling. "WHAT?"

I heard my niece's voice suddenly shouting, "didu, didu, the bear's in the shower..."

My ma said, "I have to go now. The bear's in the shower," and disconnected.

Surely, the zombies have won and even my little niece is one of them. So, much for my trying to save my family from the attack of the zombies. 

Realization: As long as there is the television hanging from the drawing room wall. My family will be a part of the zombie tribe however much I try to save their souls. 

Writing is a Creative Art

I was going through some emails from various organizations and placement companies that are constantly looking for freelance content writers recently. I was going through them with customary nonchalance that has become the norm now when such emails hit my inbox.

Most of them want the same output at similar pathetic budgets. Let me put down here some of the ‘usual offers' that pour into the overstuffed inbox:

• Need 18 - 25 articles (in a month) if you are a fresher, in case of experienced writers, the demand can exceed 50 articles in a month. They can be from any sector or industry. Internet can be used for research. All articles should be rewritten and proof-checked.
  
• We will give you a wonderful platform to showcase your talent but, sorry we can't pay as publicity is a priority over content. We want great quality content with original images, if possible.
  
• Need articles for websites. Will be paid 30 paise per word (1 rupee is 100 paise). Length of article should be around 1000 words... etc. etc. etc.

Many learning and training organizations also seek the earth and the moon (read customized and quality training content) at ridiculous budgets and practically zero timeline.

After going through such emails for years now, I have decided not to raise to the bait ie. write back saying, "Sorry. You are being ridiculous." I just ignore or delete them in my attempt to keep my inbox clutter-free.

I know that consultants are not supposed to be negative about work of any kind because, hey they are ‘possible’ clients! And we depend on them for work. We are supposed to grin and be polite like some rag doll with a permanent smile painted on its face or a housewife forced to make laddoos like Sridevi in her comeback film, English Vinglish, to supplement her income. But, I choose to differ.

I have decided to completely ignore such summons. I have in the last few months even listened to many such pitches where the person-concerned tried to sell their wonderful concept to me soliciting my 'help' to put it on paper without discussing 'money' because, it's all between 'friends'.

But, wait a minute please! "You would not have suggested that I work for free if I was "really" your 'friend'!" 

I don't mind a few friends here and there who go ahead and tell me upfront that they are stuck and need help for which they cannot pay. I am perfectly fine with that. I get stuck and often seek help too.

But, people in general need to understand that writing is a creative art. It takes time, patience and craftsmanship to be delivered. It is in no way a cup of Instant Coffee.

Also Read: How to Write a Story

I take pride in what I do. I do it well. I am a writer and I treat my talent as something precious.

I am sure that there a whole lot of people willing to work for a lot less or even for free but, the quality of their work shows that they don't know the first thing about writing.

I had done a piece on story writing earlier. I have also done workshops on creative content writing for teams of 'writers' on the same. I realized however, that though everyone loves a story and often has several to tell, most are unable to follow the basics even after they have gone through the program. It is not easy to write a coherent story or even article with proper flow if you are not willing to learn the basics. 

The problem with most ‘aspiring’ writers being, “I know because I studied in school…” Sorry! You learnt only the basics of grammar and how to answer questions in school. That was definitely not content writing. It at best gives you basic communication skills through the written word. It would be great to accept the truth and learn how to write first before picking up jobs that helps you pay pocket money or maybe not even that going by the price of written words quoted by some of the advertisers.

I have also been told by many that people who often advertise such ridiculous sums often end up not paying at all. Well! I don’t blame them. You agreed on the ridiculous price in the first place, then delivered content lifted from the Internet and maybe they decided you have credibility or quality issues and refused to pay for shoddy work. It is perfectly understandable.

Most people don't understand that the Internet is at the best, two dimensional and at worst, a space where wrong information is teeming and crawling for attention.

Writing from the Net and for it is not writing because, it lacks the depth, feeling and understanding of the topic and that shows. The end result is shoddy and can easily be traced by the original writer because it is hastily slapped together with just about no care to even change the grammatical mistakes in the original story.

If you are lucky, you will not be caught but, if you are then, be ready to pay the price of such a transgression. It can be heavy.

Writing is a fine art and like most arts, it is not only something inbuilt (you are simply born with the talent) but, also something that comes with practice. You need to be critical of your own words and expressions, need to read extensively and with a keen eye for detail.

Anyone who says that they are professional writer but, don’t like reading or just read ‘airport / railway station literature’ needs to rethink their chosen profession.

If you don’t read, do not understand the nuances of dialogue writing, the power of words correctly used to convey a feeling and not to showcase your familiarity with the ‘lexicon’ or if you cannot write without being ‘inspired’ by other articles or stories need to take a rain-check. Maybe, it is really NOT your calling. 

You may earn a living out of it but, it may not be enough because, you are not passionate about it.

If you still think you want to write. My suggestions would be start with the basics:

• Read. Read as much as you can in the language you want to write in.
  
• Then, learn to write short, well-crafted original sentences. Keep them simple.
  
• Write short paragraphs to capture real experiences you have had using short, succinct sentences and dialogues.
  
• Bring out the sentences and paragraphs after a week and check for possible improvements.
  
• Rewrite, craft, make others read them and seek active criticism.
  
• Rewrite again. Keep writing and rewriting till you feel it is good enough to be shown to someone from the fraternity or to be entered in a contest.
  
• Meanwhile, don’t stop reading. 

Writing demands lifelong improvement just like any other skill especially if you want to pursue a career in it. 

Styles change with the season, new words enter the vocabulary. Delivery of dialogues undergo changes as new words make entries. The society changes sometimes slowly and sometimes rapidly and a writer needs to capture all such changes in their craft.

Remember there are no shortcuts to this. If you want to be a professional writer you should be ready to be a lifelong student. Only then, will you be able to command the price for your skill.

How to Write a Story

I don't know how other people do it, but, this is how I write a good story. I am writing this article (full of trade secrets) because lately, a friend of mine asked me to help her out with writing real life case studies.

The cases happened to her but, after putting them on paper, she still needed someone else to clean them up.

When the lot came to me, this is how I assessed:

1) Too much Information: Too much information, mostly unnecessary or personal which has nothing to do with the story is a definite 'no'. Always remember to take a step back when telling a tale. You cannot become the main character in a story about other main characters. Unless it is your story. If you are a catalyst, then stay that way. Be detached until your cue. Don't clutter your tale with information that is irrelevant.

2) Exposition: Just like good drama, a story should also open with introducing the characters and the problem statement. Don't talk about the nice weather or the cute puppy unless it is for setting the mood. Even then, you should never give it more than 10 - 12 words - max!

3) Character/s: I always create my characters before writing their stories. If your characters are well defined on paper and in your mind, they will tell your story for you. Try it at your own risk though because they will start talking to you and wake you up in the middle of the night and compel you to make changes - joking. But, if you take longer than one sitting to finish your tale, it could become a reality! Don't add unnecessary characters unless they are going to be a part of the narrative with a role to play in pulling the story forward.

4) Problem/s: Your story has to have twists. If your story is a simple narrative of a day in the life of Mr X, it better be more than Mr X waking up and going to the loo and then to work. Ensure that Mr X goes to the loo and meets his match or more in there. Unless there are insurmountable-sounding problems, no one is going to read through it. A story should have enough twists to keep the reader guessing and wanting to know how it will end. Even if your story will have a happy ending or if the outcome is already known from the start, you need to keep throwing twists and suspense to keep the readers glued.

5) Emotions: Don't forget emotions. Humans are a strange species, they have achieved so much in the last few millennia but, despite all the scientific and technical achievements, they only operate out of emotions. Think about it. If your story has the right emotions it will move your audience, make them empathize with your readers and sell your idea. If your tale is cut-and-dried though brilliantly written, don't blame the readers when they stop reading mid-way. You have not been able to build a bond with them.

6) Dialogue: Keep your dialogues simple and short. Write them in the language of the masses if possible. No one speaks using the lexicon to talk to people in real life. Remember, Shakespeare said, "Brevity is the soul of wit." Long dialogues/ monologues and soliloquies are fine for drama but, no one whispers and talks aloud in real life in difficult sentences without being called a cuckoo! Your dialogues should move the story and add drama. Don't waste words on mundane conversations that don't pull the story forward.

7) Resolution and Climax: Resolution is a must. All the open ends in the story should be closed with proper explanation before the end. If even one problem is not closed or one action by a character is not explained the story remains open-ended and loses its punch. All the characters that you have introduced through the tale and their problems should all be put to rest right before you close the tale. There should be NO lose ends.

8) The End: If your story is written for commercial purposes then end it on a happy note. Even if the protagonist has taken a difficult decision, it should make either him or someone else very happy. It should come out as a sacrifice for 'greater good'. This will help by increasing his worth in the eyes of the reader and raising him to the level of a hero. Ensure that at least one character of the story stays with your audience when the tale is over.

Note: Avoid footnotes at the end! Never moralize or summarize. Don't ever make the mistake of putting a note at the end of your story with a moral or a summary. Never! If you want to preach, then do it through the tale and write it in such a way that everyone is able to get the moral without your preaching.

Here's hoping to read good stories! 

Confession of a Dreamer who Lost to a Toddler

Yes, yes and yes! Child is the father of man amd that is the truth universally accepted though we all have to learn this by burning our hands and egos. Believe me.

My little niece has picked up one phrase these days that defys all preconceived notions about age vis-a-vis intelligence. Losely translated, It goes this way, "I may be a kid but, I'm no fool!" or as she says in Bangla, "Ami bachcha kintu boka na!" 

I agree!

Today I tried to confuse her by making the doodle tree sprout an orange. Not a one to be taken up by any magical nonsense, she calmly picked up the orange, while I was busy trying to impress upon her that it had sprouted from the doodle tree, and ran with it to my ma saying, "oraaaaange!" 

Yes I should have known she'd see through this elaborate arty nonsense because she's the one who had actually spotted orange on a tree growing in our society while we were playing on the swing a couple of weeks back. I hadn't even dreamed of finding any fruits hanging from that dust-laden tree even if my entire life (whatever its worth) depended on it. It just so defied logic. You wouldn't too if you were me. I fib you not!

Yes babe! You are a genius. You may be all of 2 years and 3 months young but, you definitly outshine me in commonsense. 

Of my Grandma, Varanasi, and the Monkey King

Today I was thinking of Varanasi or Banaras. Since my grandmother from my father's side lived and died in the city, we used to visit it pretty often during Summer breaks while I was in school.

She passed away when I was in college, thus breaking my regular link with perhaps the most interesting city in India. But, the images that I carry from my childhood refuse to go.

Banaras is a city that has preserved so much of the old that it is difficult to believe that it is a part of modern India that flaunts huge glass-fronted office buildings and soulless malls. Here, there are temples in every crack and crevice and cows and bulls rule the narrow lanes foraging for food as if it was their birth right. No one messes with them even if they hogged the entire lane making people walk around them or jump on the porches to give them a wide birth. Make no mistake, these are the holy cows!!!

I was always fascinated by the jams that occurred due to back to back cycle rickshaw traffic! People would shout and curse and finally, get down and start walking. I've been told that things have not changed much even now.

My favorite area to browse used to be the lane through Vishvanath gulley to the Dashashwmedh Ghat. I covered  it everyday I would be there. 

The lane is so narrow and full of colorful and kitschy shops that you can spend hours just photographing them or gaping, like I did as a child. The hippies and the cult of Krishna, all white skin and ocher robes vie for space with the ash-smeared, scantily-clad Shivaites who believe Banaras to be the abode of Shiva, the destroyer, the loving husband and a most beloved deity of many contradictions and ambiguous benevolence. If you can wake him up from his sadhana and get him to notice you, he'll grant you anything, however, he is a very taxing God to pray to. A colorful and mystical divine, a dancer and lover as well as a father and a  saint...

I can still spend days just sitting at the steps of the ancient burning and bathing ghats and see life troop by as if in an ancient, forgotten world. As a child, I saw the ghats as a microcosm of a long-forgotten world, like a trip to Jurassic Park of what India was.

There are always crowds at the ghats. More people than imaginable. They are mostly tourists, from India and the world, in search of Moksha. But, there are also as many plying their various trades and vocations including, wrestlers, palm and face readers, beggars, yogis and sadhus, teachers, pupils, barbers, singers, tea sellers, wooden toy seller, the monkey trainer, the flower sellers, the conch shell wielding babas, who jostle for space and your attention.

But, what stands out most vividly in my mind when I think if Banaras are the monkeys. They rule the city. Every house has an iron mesh protecting the terrace and any other open areas. The monkeys spend the days jumping and swinging on the mesh and making faces at humans. To a child, they looked and behaved like soldiers on warpath and my grandma would never lose the opportunity. She told me stories of their valor as soldiers in Rama's army against Ravana in the epic, Ramayana, each time they passed jumping and wildly gesticulating overhead.

Moving in packs they are thieves and pilferers of the first order. They flinch anything they find abandoned, clothes on a line, drying veggies during winters, toys left around by kids, books forgotten at a balcony... They often get angry and if you happen to fall in their way, trust me they'll reassure you that they don't like humans as roadblocks.

They slap and bite and even latch on to your dress if they are in bad mood or hungry or just want to play! I know the last one because, a baby monkey had once latched on to my frock at the Annapurna temple. I was so scared that I just went around running and shouting at the top of my lungs while the baby, holding on to my dress jumped about chattering and enjoying the free ride - no different from a professional water skier!

Soon, the mother and her cronies joined from the balconies and parapets and started making menacing noises in my general direction while moving in towards the area I was circling like a headless chicken. Most of the tourists and even my cousin who had come with me, moved back and started shouting for help. 

The help came from a young priest at the temple, dressed in white with a glowing red tikka on his forehead. He came out of the sanctum and just harrumphed once! Loudly! All the primates melted away. The smallie who was enjoying a ride clutching my frock, ran pell mell to its mother who caught it tight and melted up in the temple's dome.

Today, as I spent the day rehashing all those memories, about my grandmom and the peaceful-turbulent Ganga. I smiled many times thinking of the monkey packs of the city and their stupid antics and legendary tales of their attacks like, when they had bitten my granny for no reason but, that she was in the way and unarmed and had left her bleeding at the terrace. They seemed no better than the thugs and goons of the city who were a staple topic for lunchtime conversation.

And then, I came across this story from the Jataka Tales about the Boddhisatva who was also the wise monkey king. It made me think that we never know who is the monkey, and who, the king! So, I decided to share it here with everyone...

There was once a kingdom of monkeys in the forest. The king of the monkeys was very large, He was also,  very kind and wise. One day, the king was strolling through the forest and he noticed mango trees along a riverbank. He also noticed a human castle downstream. He then ordered the monkeys to remove all the mangoes from these trees, "or there would be disaster". The monkeys did not understand the king's intention, but they did as told anyway. All the mangoes were taken off these trees except one. This one was hidden behind some bushes and brambles.

One day, a ripe mango fell into the river from the hidden tree. It flowed downstream where the human king was having a bath. He noticed the mango and asked the prime minister what it was. The prime minister told him it was a mango, a fruit of wonderful taste. The king then ordered that the mango be cut into small pieces and he gave a piece to each of his ministers. When satisfied that the mango was not poisonous, he ate the rest of it and realized how tasty it was. He craved for more.

The next day, the human king, with his troops, went upstream to search for more of these fruits. There were lots of mango trees, but also lots of monkeys. The human king didn't want to share the mangoes with the monkeys, so he ordered all of them to be killed. A massacre started.When the news reached the wise monkey king, he commented, "The day has finally arrived". The thousands of monkeys were chased all the way to the edge of the forest. There was a deep cliff at there and a bamboo forest at the other side of the cliff. The monkey king saw that if his subjects could cross over to the bamboo forest, they would be safe.With his huge body, he formed a bridge over the cliff and thousands of monkeys trampled over him to reach the safety of the bamboo forest. He endured the pain without a word. One monkey, who did not like the king, saw this as an opportunity to get even. As he was crossing over the king's body, he pierced a spear through the king's heart. The king screamed in pain but endured until all his subjects were safely across. Then he collapsed.The human king had witnessed the whole drama. He was so touched that he ordered the monkey king to be saved. When the monkey king recovered his consciousness, the human king asked him, "You are their king. Why did risk your life for them?". The monkey king replied, "Because I am their king". After that, he died.The human king was so touched that he decided to be a good king from that day and he ordered that the monkeys in the bamboo forest be protected from harm forever.