We had just missed the bus to Vasai.
A and I are sitting
on the minimalist steel rod bench at a bus stop on LBS Road waiting for the
next bus from Mulund to Vasai which would arrive after an hour. The
day is overcast with dark clouds and there’s nothing much to do
except wait. The world around us is busy – barefoot devotees on
their way to the temple, drilling machines at the metro construction
site in the middle of the road, a loose sewage hole cover, a tall building opposite the road
with windows dressed with plants and clothes hung out to dry, a
shattered showroom window…
A thinks of a game.
Pick a person or
object and make up a story about that.
Simple.
Rich scope for
creativity.
Some of our stories
were solo and some we built up together.
Here is one that we
took turns imagining…
The Monkey Man from LBS Road
If
you stood at a certain bus stop on LBS Road in Mumbai, you will
surely notice an apartment window filled with green bushy trees. My
husband lives there.
I
refuse to live with him anymore and have taken up residence a couple
of floors above his where you might notice clothes put out to dry
gaily fluttering in the breeze.
I
am always OCDing about clean clothes and my husband could not stand
it anymore. Similarly, he has recently developed an obsession for
illegally housing monkeys in his apartment and it makes me mad. Those
monkeys once draped themselves in my sarees and preened all over the
living room. That was the day I moved out.
Can
you imagine how flustered I was to put out all those yards of
colourful sarees to dry from a tiny apartment window? It greatly
amused people waiting at the bus stop to see such long buntings and
they pointed it out to others. I’m surprised how they could never
notice my husband’s monkeys. The foliage perhaps cleverly concealed
them.
What
do you think he did after I moved out?
He
went to Baroda.
He
had seen monkeys at Sayaji Park once on a trip there and wanted to
bring them home. Using his research skills, he knew of an underground
sewage channel which opened at the above-mentioned bus stop. One by
one he dragged ten monkeys into this tunnel and brought them all the
way to Mumbai, a laborious operation which might remind you of the
rescue of the Thai boys from the narrow cave last year.
Now,
those new monkeys who were habituated to the freedom of an expansive
park found his apartment claustrophobic and longed to go back. They
looked like a bright bunch with great ideas.
In
the meanwhile, the authorities in Baroda had got wind of this theft
of wildlife and sent a spy all the way to Mumbai to keep an eye out
for the culprit. He sat at the bus stop reading the same newspaper
everyday, much to the chagrin of other waiting passengers who would
have preferred to sit in the prime space he occupied.
I
knew he was a spy from the very beginning. It was my habit to observe
people at the bus stop while I put out my laundry. I knew who boarded
which bus at what time. There was no reason for a person to be
sitting there all day just watching our building for abnormal
activity. I tried to tell my husband about this development but he
ignored my fears.
When
the authorities came knocking at my husband’s door, he was still
asleep. He opened the door and found them holding an arrest warrant
for smuggling wildlife. Sadly he looked around for his monkeys but
not a single one was around. He looked so sleepily confused that they
could not arrest him without proof. They searched the apartment and
then left, disappointed.
That
morning passengers waiting at the bus stop noticed a huge shattered
glass window in a showroom in our building. Perhaps there has been a
break-in, they thought.
Only
I knew it was a break-out and not a break-in.
If
you look through the uneven large hole in the window, you will find
the green jungles atop Yogi Hills beckon those born with a free
spirit.
