Kiran Desai - Hullabaloo in the Guava Orchard

‘But, sir,’ shouted someone in the listening crowd, inspired by Mr Gupta’s little witticism, ‘can you really teach an old monkey new tricks?’

‘Arreji,’ said someone else, ‘we will have enough problems with the young monkeys, whether the old ones are learning anything or not.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr Gupta, ‘this would be a case of “Stick your head out in wartime and be hit on the head.’” He was enjoying showing off some of the lines he had learned from the Monkey Baba, especially since he had spotted Miss Jyotsna’s admiring face in the midst of the crowd. In fact, he was amazed at how he could say these things and somehow, without him having to think, they meant exactly what he meant. He imagined being alone with Miss Jyotsna on a moonlit night. ‘To make cream, you must churn the milk.’

Despite himself, the DC had begun to giggle. He felt surprisingly free. ‘I do not know,’ he said to the CMO, ‘if this revoking of liquor licences would be the best idea …

The CMO was dismayed at how his plan was being greeted. ‘Since this is the response I have been given,’ he said in a dignified and injured tone, ‘I might as well go home. I have another meeting to attend.’

‘Is this the meeting with Vermaji, the scientist?’ asked Mr Gupta with interest, and on hearing that it was, he turned to his boss. ‘We had better join in, sir. He too has a proposal, if you recall, to get rid of the monkeys. If the CMO passes it, it will be presented to you.’ He was loath to give up the fun and allow it to carry on somewhere else without him.

And so the three of them and their entourage of protesters travelled to the office of the Chief Medical Officer. On the way, the crowds gathered up their strength, even though they had been standing for quite a while now, and began to noisily shout their slogans. ‘Dab your mouth with honey and you will get plenty of flies,’ they shouted. ‘Sweep before your own door. Your answers are beside the question. Many a pickle makes a mickle. Every bean has its black. Gather thistles and expect pickles? Show a clean set of teeth.’

‘Do you hear them?’ asked the DC, puzzled, his thoughts side-tracked. ‘Many a pickle makes a mickle … what is a mickle? Guptaji, this town is full of adages I have never heard before.’

‘When the buffaloes fight, the crops suffer,’ the crowd continued. ‘It is a hard winter when dogs eat dogs. Every cock fights best on his own dunghill. Puff not against the wind. Talk of chalk and hear about cheese!’

‘Talk of chalk … and hear about cheese? Very odd. Where does this cheese come from?’ The DC found himself most interested. He wished he could have stopped to ask them the meaning of all they were saying. ‘Hear about cheese …’

While awaiting their arrival, Vermaji was sampling the tumbler of onion juice he had found sitting on the office desk in front of him, thinking, at first glance, that it was lemon squash. He took a gulp and immediately ran to the window to spit it out. He emptied the rest of the tumbler into the dry flowerbed.

‘Terrible juice,’ he said, making a face at the CMO when he entered. ‘Why don’t you drink orange instead?’ he asked. ‘Or pineapple?’

The temple people hammered on the door.

What a rude man, thought the officer, looking at the empty glass. First he had drunk all his onion juice and then, after that, he had had the audacity to criticize it. Why had he drunk it in the first place? Immediately he decided he was not going to approve Verma’s plan. It was an absurd plan and why should he pass it when his own had been dismissed so readily? Nobody was considerate of him and he would not be considerate of Verma.

‘Absolutely not,’ he said.

‘Why, what is wrong with pineapple juice? It’s very nice juice,’ said Verma, perplexed.

‘I mean your plan,’ shouted the CMO angrily. (Oh, and now he would get another stress-induced ulcer, he thought, in an immediate terrified aside.)

‘But it is the one simple plan,’ Verma pleaded, ‘the one logical and scientific approach to what is after all a scientific problem of langur and human interaction, of alcohol addiction in monkeys — why can’t it be approved?’

‘It’s a silly plan, that’s why,’ said Mr Gupta, although it was not his place to say anything. ‘It will cause all sorts of bad smells and unsanitary conditions and that too in a holy place. And, no doubt, our fly problem would get worse.’

‘We must categorically refuse your request,’ said the CMO.

‘Yes,’ said the DC, who was still thinking of the adages.

But when at the end of the day they realized they had come up with no workable plan, they drove home somewhat subdued.

The police superintendent brought the DC the news that the monkeys had been on another expedition and raided the cupboards of the retired District Judge. They had taken five bottles of whisky and bounded away before the servants had even realized what had happened.

The DC went back to his bungalow and sat down worriedly. There he had been, laughing in a way he did only with his one close friend — miraculously his shyness had somewhat disappeared that day — but the problem had not been solved. He must not forget his responsibilities. He mulled things over, but could not think of anything that would raise his spirits. When the cook served his dinner, for it was already quite late in the evening, he was even further discouraged; he saw, with a sinking feeling of his heart, that his meal consisted of burnt-looking cutlets upon one of the grubbiest plates he had ever seen. Just where a pattern of flowers or, say, stripes should have been, the platter was stamped about with dirty fingerprints. The cook put it down before him with an unceremonious thump, then, without looking at the DC, turned and left.

Government officials did not know how to eat properly any more. The cook felt full of bitterness. And unable to make cutlets the first night, he had been struck with an unshakeable determination to make cutlets the second night. He made cutlets with a vengeance, a whole pile of them, and what insipid tasteless things they were — the DC was forced to bring out his mother’s pickle to add a bit of flavour to his meal. He felt as miserable as ever.

Miserable as ever, and alone, sitting there by himself at one end of the huge dining table. A bare bulb dangled from a wire above him and cast a dim light upon the table, while the rest of the room disappeared into darkness around him. The windows were black, gaping holes to his right and left. Sad, dirty curtains hung limply at their sides. He got up, drew the grey fabric together and sat back down to his cutlets. Oh, how would he be able to finish the awful, charred things?

Just as he was wondering whether to flush them down the toilet, he was interrupted by Mr Chawla.

‘Who is it?’ said the DC, alarmed.

‘It’s the Monkey Baba’s father,’ said Mr Chawla and, opening the flimsy wooden door that led in from the front veranda, he stepped inside. ‘I too,’ he said firmly, ‘have a proposal to make.’

‘What proposal?’ asked the DC, putting down his knife. A wave of tiredness swept over him. It had been a long day. He took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes.

‘Let us train the army and police as monkey catchers,’ said Mr Chawla. ‘Decide on a day in the near future and catch all the monkeys in one go. We can use the army trucks to convey them to a far-off forest, preferably in another state, from where it will be impossible for them to return or to obtain any liquor. They will have to resume the life they should be leading as monkeys, eating forest fruits and nuts.’

The DC sat back, considering what he had heard. There seemed to be no problem with that … Who on earth could object? Monkeys eating forest fruits and nuts … It painted a very pretty picture. Provided it would work. At first glance, anyway, it was a harmless enough proposal. And this was the Baba’s father who was proposing this plan. Surely he would do only what was best for his son. With a rush of compassion, he remembered Sampath, who had turned his back on him when he paid a visit to the orchard. ‘Perhaps you have thought of something,’ he said, playing with his cutlets. And he thought it over some more.