One even I was idly chatting with my
carer. Duties were done and differences put aside, on neutral ground
when the subject of abbreviations surfaced. In a little quiz I asked
him: “We all know what B.C. means. Know what A.D. Stands for?”
“Yes” answered the proselytiser smugly, “I do. It stands for
“After the Death.” I don’t think Benjamin really believed me
when I told him it didn’t, even if it amounted to almost the same
thing, so to keep the new peace I added that I was sure that in some
small corner of my universe, A.D. will indeed stand for just that.
That moment has now arrived. In my precarious hamlet known as Raj
Acre we are indeed eight weeks After the Death. After the death of
the matriarch monkey who lies buried a small stone’s throw away
from where I write these lines, pondering at times what she meant to
the community, what her position was in the society and whether she’s
remembered.
She had a place all right. Opinion
here seems to be that she was Chief Wife to the group leader. Being
the largest and the best-fed female in the troupe, she was
undoubtedly his favourite concubine. She carried his child. The child
clung to her belly like anything, so much so that if you saw her in
the half-shade you’d think she had an excrescence or overgrowth, a
giant skin-tag attached dependently from her underbelly. Which course
of he was. It wasn’t that he couldn’t take
his leave of her independently. He could do that. He could wander one
or two metres from her body as if he was a thread on a reel. But she
never reeled him in. He reeled himself in, his instinctive recall
leash triggered by the slightest fright. The slightest thing which
happened and it was Back to Mum, because Mum was the safest place in
the whole wide world of Raj Acre. Whatever nasty fights broke out
amongst the monkey gang, or between the monkeys and the wild dogs
here, things were always safe for our infant. Safe from everything he
was when he was with Mum.
Dad in a Reflective Mood |
The death of the
matriarch saw a sea-change. Her baby was in denial. He had one
solution to all his problems which was Go Back To Mum so that’s
what he did now that she was dead. He wrapped himself tightly round
her still body, sucking on her cold, black milk-less nipple, puzzled
bewildered and unbelieving. All the troupe were watching from their
hidey-spaces between the trees, and most of all the Leader was
watching, very carefully. Of a sudden he ran down from the branches
and scooped the youngster up, carrying him up and away.
It was a rude
weaning for the infant. I wondered how he would eat and whether there
was another female with milk, a wet-nurse who would take him on.
There wasn’t. It was take what Dad offered you, eat it and enjoy
it. It’s what he tried to do, and the child grew thinner and
thinner. Then he turned a corner; forgetting about Mum, his
allegiance was transferred to Dad who couldn’t offer milk but gave
the best protection he could give, which was the best there was.
There’s only one guy allowed to be Dad in the troupe, one guy who’s
allowed the mount the females. He who must be obeyed and given the
biggest, choicest share of everything there is.
The Orpan Tentatively Plays |
The infant now
clung to the male’s belly, pressed closer to him than a limpet. And
the close bond soon turned to tough love. Dad would biff him, chasing
him along a tree branch, toward the thinner end where it was thin and
green. He learned that there was nowhere left to go, and after a few
moments of junior’s panic twisting his wizened old face, Dad would
lumber back into the bole of a tree, sitting there resplendent in his
leadership.
And so it went on.
The sea-change continued its progress slower than the hour hand of a
clock. Members of the troupe were now more inclined to carry on their
business amongst themselves, while we tried to mind ours, which
usually included quite a bit of theirs.
Peeping Out from the Lower Fork |
When the caring troupe have
left me to make my meal or wash clothes, leaving me alone in my Cave,
the leader comes to see me, usually without baring his teeth and
without making a rude noise at me.
He keeps his willy well tucked
into its fur pouch touch too which I gather is a sign of respect. I
don’t treat him any different to anyone else. He comes into the
‛Main Hall’ room and has a look around and I chat to him as if he
was anybody else, remembering not to smile. The other day I caught
him looking in my cloth bag and I told him off. He just lay it to one
side.
The baby is the
shyest one of all. He seems seems terribly in awe that Dad can be so
bold as to approach a Monster Ape and not get chased away. That’s
where I sign off from this file, abruptly and without notice, like
the power-cuts we get so suddenly here. My days here are numbered,
almost down to the fingers of one hand, and my laptop battery zooms
toward the zero point. These notes will be posted soon.
17/02/12
05:28:07
Kanantham Poondi Village, India
Thanks for sharing ... sometimes it's amazing how creatures, no matter if humans or animals, deal with a death.
ReplyDeleteIt's so interesting to hear about them! I was thoroughly absorbed and wanting to hear more.
ReplyDelete