by Polly McGee
Sita finished her copy and was emailing it off to her editor with the exclusive photos, including some of New Delhi’s finest policemen undertaking their exhaustive investigation at the crime scene. There had been no evidence in the apartment of a struggle or foul play, but an aggressive male monkey had been spotted at the scene of the crime – with watertight evidence to prove it, thanks to the New Delhi Times soon-to-be deputy-chief reporter, Ms Sita Unival.
Chapter Eleven
Mortal Panics
Sita’s lucky timing at the crime scene attained Paksheet global notoriety. The photo that graced the front page of the New Delhi Times was shocking, even with the hand on his crotch obscured so as not to offend the citizens of India. (It was published uncensored on the internet and received more than five million hits in one day.) Paksheet was oblivious to his media profile in the days since he had torn into Godboley’s face and tasted the bittersweet white powder on the table. For Paksheet, that night had eclipsed all others in his short monkey life. It was better than the train ride and even better than when he’d attacked the dogs. It was the moment when he knew his power: he could kill humans.
He wasn’t sure what, where or when his next assault would be, but he would be ready. He had to have that feeling over again, and take out many more victims with the support of his henchmonkeys. Single-mindedly, he pursued this new goal now. He provoked the bigger male monkeys relentlessly, making them fight and wrestle, developing moves and methods of crushing each other to the point of harm. He wanted his troops to be prepared. Monkeys in the pack that Paksheet identified as being weak or somewhat compromised as fighting elite were surreptitiously used as practice beasts for the stronger ones. When they were so beaten that they became incapacitated, he would allow them to be finished off, often casting the final blow himself. This served as killing practice and a reminder for the foot soldiers of the penalties for weakness.
***
New Delhi became hysterical when news of Pushpant’s death-by-monkey went viral. The drills and kills of Paksheet’s monkey army, as witnessed by the few remaining passers-by in the park, reinforced the media messages that the monkeys of New Delhi were crazed, violent creatures. The park emptied out, leaving only the monkeys and the few remaining cowed dogs. Students of Delhi University were being bussed around the perimeter, and banned from the use of Kamla Nehru Park as a thoroughfare to the campus. The Monkey Wars had some significant collateral damage to a legion of lau and dau romances that were effectively nipped in the bud by making the Ridge off limits. Some afternoons it felt like a wave of pent-up hormones would simply erupt into a public petting frenzy. Study at the Delhi University library suddenly became a lot more popular than beating around in the bushes.
People locked themselves in their houses, too frightened to go out in case the terrifying regime of killer monkeys swarmed over them. Television, radio, column inches and social media were consumed by monkey business, real and imagined. More offerings than ever were made to Hanuman. Citizens of New Delhi would do drive-bys to temples and shrines, tossing bags of fruit and sweets from their car windows before spinning their tyres and screeching back off to their homes and their gnawing fear.
The net outcome of this – aside from the brief period that the monkeys, dogs and stray people of New Delhi had plenty of food – was that the city’s authorities spent many hours and days inside the fortress of the council compound. They applied their best groupthink, strategising on how to take back control of the city. With Pushpant Godboley dead, an acting acting director by the name of Gaurav Kamboj was hastily elevated from his position as Animal Eradication Manager. It was his surname that raised eyebrows for many in the council. A former Bollywood actor hopeful, his single job credential appeared to be that he was the only son of a prominent local politician.
***
Once it became clear to Gaurav that getting actual acting parts would remain elusive, he had channelled his good looks but limited acting skills into a new career in New Delhi’s civil service. Gaurav modelled himself on the collected works of his influential father, and his own action romance hero actor Shah Rukh Khan, or SRK as he was known by fans. Gaurav knew that his father, Kamboj Snr, had no time for his son’s acting aspirations and thought of him as weak and possibly a bit queer, even though he had somehow managed to catch a very attractive wife. He’d told him that the opportunity to get Gaurav back to New Delhi, away from all that ‘filmy’ nonsense down south and into a proper job had been one he had to take. So Kamboj Snr had manipulated the promotion of his son to acting acting director when that obsequious Godboley fellow had taken a dive, to ‘reveal Gaurav’s mettle’. Whatever happened with this new position, Gaurav knew his father would stick by him. Family was family after all.
Gaurav liked to be known as GRK in respect of his acting hero – although he pretended that this moniker came from the press, not from his own self-promotion. He often affected dark glasses, wore suits with tight black t-shirts and liked to keep his mobile phone and a multi-purpose pocketknife on his belt like a holster. He understood his mission and the intent of this new character he was playing on the council staff: to eradicate stray animals from the city. Godboley’s death had been a gift in more ways than one: not only had received Gaurav a promotion to a higher-paying job, but he now had the chance for blanket media attention. To exploit this opening, he needed a solution to the monkey problem that was action-packed and cinematic.
While Gaurav developed a suitable strategy, the city was in hiatus, with many executives and frontline workers seconded to be part of his animal-eradication fighting army. As staff awaited instructions, the garbage continued to pile up and services were abandoned. Gaurav threw himself into his new role, oblivious to the productivity slump he was causing. The whole work-strategic-planning thing was a welcome distraction from the disaster film that was his private life.
Since Gaurav had moved back to Delhi and into the house his father had arranged for him through the council, his relationship had imploded. From Gaurav’s perspective, his wife had been unbearable. She vehemently resisted leaving the bright lights of Mumbai and her career as an actress to be a bureaucrat’s housewife in New Delhi without any friends or family. He did not understand her resistance and resentment – he had even let her keep her stupid mongrel dog in a bid to compromise. He should have made her put that kutta down before they moved. Their arguments had escalated. He had had to be very firm with her, asserting his majority rule and rights as husband, but to no avail.
Gaurav hadn’t told his father yet about the morning she had stormed out two months ago, refusing to listen to reason and do his bidding. Her timing was terrible. Now more than ever he needed a suitably glamorous companion by his side for the many media appearances that he would make as he implemented his brilliant plan for eradicating monkeys – and dogs. The dogs weren’t in need of eradicating, but Gaurav had channelled all of the pain and rejection of his relationship failure into the only thing his wife truly loved. He had sunk his boot deep into her mangy animal as he’d tried to stop her leaving him. Gaurav wanted dogs to suffer like him, alone and abandoned. In fact, he wanted them to suffer more.
***
In the face of mounting filth, breeding monkeys and wandering dogs, many of the citizens of New Delhi took matters into their own hands, tired of waiting for civil leadership as Gaurav prevaricated about the atmospherics. In the new India of New Delhi, crises bred market gaps, and the Monkey Wars were no exception. An entrepreneurial fellow had convinced many householders that the best way to keep the macaque monkeys at bay was actually to get bigger monkeys to urinate around the perimeter of their houses. He had brought in a team of langur monkeys, and had them working day and night producing urine to splash around the homes of those who could afford to buy premium waste products.
There was an element of logic to the langur-monkey-urine barrier – mimicking the laws and boundaries of the jungle. The acrid smell of the urine was disgusting, and made life almost as unbear
able as the distant threat of a monkey biting your face.
Soon enough there were small industries dedicated to langur-urine production. As it was actually quite difficult to get urine from a langur, a secondary industry set-up. Teams of men on a rigorous regime of consuming tea and water filled bottles, which were then labelled as genuine langur urine and sprayed around the perimeters of houses and slums alike for slightly less than top dollar. The pervasive smell in turn birthed another sales-and-marketing opportunity. The trade in thick wool pashminas scented with fragrant oil was booming. Despite the oppressive heat of having a woollen scarf around the face during the height of the monsoon, it was preferable to the intense urine smell.
***
Baj was turning out to be something of a white tiger. Investing his cash-flow legacy from the death of the acting director (Baj told people his uncle had died and left him a modest endowment), he had bought a bulk load of thick pashminas and set up stalls across the city. He employed women and children to sell them direct: a neat package of shawl and oil for the scent conscious and stylish woman.
Baj treated his vendors well and paid them on time. This, in turn, meant that they tended to not rip him off quite as much. As the trade grew, he elevated the fortunes of those around him. He employed Vipin, the security guard from Hastinapuri whom he had befriended over entrances and exits through the gate, to drive around and restock the stalls and collect the cash.
Baj was particularly grateful for the support he had from Poona and Chatura. His loyalty to them around the Pushpant balcony incident had scored a lot of brownie points, and Chatura had taken a keen interest in Baj’s entrepreneurial spirit, giving him advice on business pursuits, offering suggestions for expansion and diversification, with Baj soaking up his wisdom. In Chatura, Baj had gained a mentor and what he secretly liked to think of as a father figure. With Rama by his side and the Sheenas at his back, Baj was feeling like he had gained the family that had been so missing in the last decade of his life.
Business was thriving. Baj soon had largely outsourced the pashmina business to Vipin, and taken up a prestigious new role at Hastinapuri Estate as the head of maintenance, security and a backfill for Gajrup with guest duties. As part of his salary, Chatura and Poona had allowed Baj and Rama to occupy Pushpant’s old apartment, which needed some serious prayer and renovation to remove the ghost of its former occupant before paying guests could be welcomed back.
Baj happily moved in and sublet the space to Vipin, who was a logical flatmate as he worked diligently on the pashmina supply chain and liked dogs. Baj thanked Hanuman for his accommodation every day – another prayer answered. He truly believed in the boons of the gods for those who led pure and pious lives in service, even if that service was now to urine-soaked householders, fast-growing puppies and wealthy landholders who valued discretion and chutzpah.
Chapter Twelve
The Briefing
It was the final day of the council lockdown. Sita observed the dynamics as the subordinate eyes of the room were reverently trained on Acting Acting Director Gaurav Kamboj. He cleared his throat. Sita switched on her recording device and Gaurav began his oration.
‘I have a dream. A dream of New Delhi being free of the scourge of monkeys and dogs. I have a plan to realise this dream. It’s ambitious, some would say a little dangerous, but if that’s what it takes to save our city, that’s what I’ll do.’ Gaurav’s hand went over his heart dramatically.
As Sita listened to the scant detail being laid out, it was clear to her that Gaurav’s dream was far beyond ambitious and dangerous. It was outright farcical. In other words, perfect Bollywood. It involved turning the dog-relocation-program vans into special-response vehicles. The seconded workers would be deployed on a mission across the city where they would simultaneously pour from the vans at a designated time and cull all monkeys and dogs on sight using net guns and tranquillisers. A genius strategy of two council activities for the price of one. Poisoned baits of fruit and food would be placed all over the city to target any animals that missed being captured with the net guns. Best of all, citizens of New Delhi who chose to take up arms could become vigilantes with a bonus paid for the number of monkey or dog bodies returned to city headquarters.
‘Any questions?’ Gaurav asked, and from the self-congratulatory look on his face she could tell that he was waiting for the accolades to flow.
Sita sat in the sparsely populated rows of plastic seats, designated by a handwritten sign to be for the media. She was the New Delhi Times lead reporter on the Monkey Wars and had been waiting for what seemed like an eternity to get some sense of what the council was going to do. Much as it had been an irritating disappointment that Godboley had been killed before her scoop could bury him, the monkey-murder aspect had been unplanned gold that she had leveraged to the hilt on as many media platforms as she could manage.
The local government’s response, under the leadership of this Gaurav moron, had truly got out of hand. Sita waited for an outraged reaction from the assembled civil servants. They had just been pitched a plan to engage the citizens of New Delhi in some kind of Bollywood genocide mission to pest-free glory. In the small, overheated room full of drowsy, belching, post-lunch civil servants, no one seemed to mind. One of the councillors fell off his chair. Not from shock as would have been appropriate, but from the after-effects of a couple of sneaky whiskies from his tea flask.
In the finest political tradition, it appeared to Sita that Gaurav simply took silence from his peers as consent and believed his plan a success: the mission was on. He did some quick calculations on a whiteboard for the benefit of the audience: it appeared the outfitting and logistics was going to take about a month, and he estimated it would be roughly six weeks before they could roll out the assault.
Only Sita seemed to have analysed that this timeframe would take them right to the middle of Diwali, where the whole city would be in an enlightened darkness illuminated with candles and firecrackers and, thanks to Gaurav, populated by armed citizens shooting at shadows. What could possibly go wrong in that scenario? Then there was the disposal of the animal bodies being brought to the council for bounty payments.
Sita raised a hand to ask a question. Gaurav gave her a movie-star smile. He pointed to her like there was a packed press scrum.
‘Yes, hello, did you need me to explain it more simply, I know there was a lot of complicated logistics and strategy talk just now.’
Sita controlled her outrage and ignored the bright lights pouring from Gaurav’s mouth. She grilled him about the cost to the ratepayers. The acting acting director assured her that the people of New Delhi would be getting excellent value for money.
‘And what of the poisoned fruit? The other animals – and humans – that regularly eat the offerings?’ Sita countered. ‘And Diwali, surely a holy festival isn’t the time to suggest a mass killing of anything.’
The acting acting director had clearly not thought this part through, as he wasn’t prone to eating from discarded fruit piles or paying too much attention to the holy part of Diwali. Gaurav looked for support from his counterparts. Eyes were averted or shut. He cleared his throat.
‘Obviously, the timing is God’s will. He will be guiding our hands as we rid the city of killer monkeys and dogs.’
Sita took in the detail that dogs had become part of the bounty. Shit. She had to tell Poona. Things could get uglier than they were already for those dogs in the park Poona doted on. She opened her mouth to let loose with a new barrage of questions.
Gaurav held up his hand as she started to speak, silencing with a gesture.
‘My dear, you must unquestioningly trust those trained for emergencies of this magnitude to do their work. I am touched by your interest in me, however, and would be honoured to give you a feature on my life and work for your women’s magazine.’
Sita’s mouth stayed slightly open. She could not believe what she was hearing. From her investigations about his past, the closest Gaurav had com
e to an emergency was auditioning for Ram Gopal Varma’s The Attacks of 26/11. Unsuccessfully. And her women’s magazine? Who did he think she was? Before she could reply, Gaurav quickly passed her a business card and left stage right, flanked by his men.
Sita sat, stunned. Surely if she reported on this, the world would think New Delhi had gone mad, which it obviously had. There were six weeks remaining before the streets would be filled with freshly outfitted council workers and carte-blanche vigilantes during one of the biggest celebrations of the year. As the recently deceased Pushpant Godboley would say – not marvellous. She began to wish he were still alive. The offer of a profile was a good opportunity to get an exclusive story – however painful the process of actually spending time with Gaurav was going to be.
Chapter Thirteen
Chandni Chowk
Lola took the escalator down to the bowels of the Civil Lines metro station. She nodded at the now familiar female guards as they frisked her and put her bag through the metal detector. She made her way onto the platform and queued at the ladies-only carriage, a welcome haven from the groping of the overcrowded subways.
Lola held the swing handle and let the crush of other bodies keep her supported as the train went along its tracks. She kept her eyes low, feeling the curiosity she aroused. She was by far the drabbest of the species on the metro, not like the bejewelled beauties clad in their colourful saris and shalwars who surrounded her.
The subway train shuddered to a stop. A press of bodies poured out, and a direct exchange of women pushed in. Connaught Place next, where she was supposed to spend another morning arguing about her marriage licence.