The Monkey Trap

THE MONKEY TRAP
BY
VIKRAM KARVE

“And what are we doing tomorrow?” I asked my uncle.
“Let’s catch some monkeys,” he said.
“Monkeys?” I asked excitedly.
“Yes,” my uncle said and smiled,” And if you catch one you can take him home as a pet.”

“A monkey! As a pet?” I asked in astonishment.
“Why not?” my uncle said. “The monkeys here are quite small and very cute. And once you train them, they become very friendly and obedient. An ideal pet.”

And so, next morning, at the crack of dawn we sailed off from Haddo wharf in Port Blair in a large motorboat. Soon we were crossing the Duncan Passage, moving due south; the densely forested Little Andaman island to our right, the sea calm like a mirror. I began to feel sea-sick, so I stood on the foc’sle deck, right at the front end of the boat, enjoying the refreshing sea-spray, occasionally tasting my salty lips.

I looked in admiration, almost in awe, at uncle who stood rock-steady on the bridge, truly a majestic figure. He signaled to me and I rushed up to the bridge.

“Vijay, it’s time to prepare the monkey traps,” he said.
“Monkey-Traps ?” I asked confused.
“Tito will show you,” he said. “You must learn to make them yourself.”

Tito, my uncle’s odd-job-man, was sitting on the deck, seaman’s knife in hand, amidst a heap of green coconuts. He punctured a coconut, put it to his lips and drank its water, then began scooping out a small hollow. I took out my seaman’s knife and joined in enthusiastically. The coconut water tasted sweet.

“Keep the hole small,” my uncle shouted over my shoulder, “and hollow the coconut well.”

“But how will we catch monkeys with this?” I asked.
“You will see in the evening,” he said. “Now get on with the job.”
We reached a densely forested island at five in the evening. It was almost dark. The sun sets early in these eastern longitudes. And soon we set up our monkey-traps. Each hollowed-out coconut was filled with a mixture of boiled rice and sweet jaggery (gur) through the small hole. Then the coconut was chained to a stake which was driven firmly into the ground. Then we hid in the bushes in pin-drop silence, waiting in anticipation.

Suddenly there was rattling sound. My uncle switched on his torch. A monkey was struggling, one hand trapped inside the coconut. In an instant, Tito had thrown a gunny-bag over the monkey and within minutes we had the monkey nicely secured inside.

By the time we lit the campfire on the cool soft sands of the beach, we had captured three monkeys.

My uncle put his arm around my shoulder and, “Vijay, you know why the monkey gets trapped?”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because of its greed.”

He picked up a hollowed-out coconut and said, “Look at this hole. It is just big enough so that the monkey’s hand can go in, but too small for full fist filled with rice to come out. Because his greed won’t allow him to let go of the rice and take out his hand, the monkey remains trapped, a victim of his own greed, until he is captured; forever a captive of his greed.”

“The monkey cannot see that freedom without rice is more valuable that capture with it.”

My uncle looked at Tito and commanded, “Free the monkeys.” And, one by one, the monkeys jumped out of their gunny bags and started running, with one hand still stuck in a coconut. It was a really funny sight.

“There is a lesson for us to learn from this,” my uncle said. “That’s why I brought you here to show you all this.”

I looked at my uncle. Ranjit Singh. A magnificent man. Over six feet tall. Well-built. Standing erect in his khaki uniform, stroking his handsome beard with his left hand, his right hand gripping a swagger-stick which he gently tapped on his thigh. As he surveyed the scenic surroundings - the moonlight sea, the swaying Causarina trees, the silver sands of the beach in between - he looked majestic, like a king cherishing his domain. Indeed he was like a king here. For he was the Chief Forest Officer, in-charge of the entire islands.

Uncle Ranjit was an exception in our family—the odd-man out. My father always said that he was the most intelligent of all brothers. But whereas all of them were busy earning money in Mumbai and Delhi, uncle Ranjit had chosen to be different. To everybody’s surprise, uncle Ranjit had joined the Forest Service when he could have easily become an Engineer, Doctor, CA or even a top business executive. For he had always topped all examinations - first class first in merit, whether it be the school or the university.

“So, Vijay. You like it here?” he asked.
“It’s lovely, uncle,” I answered. “And thank you so much for the lovely holiday, spending so much time with me. In Mumbai no one has any time for me. I feel so lonely.”

“Why?” he asked, with curiosity.

“Mummy and Daddy both come home late from office. Then there are parties, business dinners, tours. And on Sundays they sleep, exhausted. Unless there is a business-meeting in the club or golf with the boss.”

Uncle Ranjit laughed, “The Monkey Trap! They are all caught in monkey traps of their own making. Slaves of their greed. Trapped by their desires. Caught in the rat race. Wallowing in their golden cages, rattling their jewellery, their golden chains.”


As I thought over Ranjit uncle’s words I realized how right he was. Most of the people I knew in Mumbai were just like that. Trapped by their greed. Chasing rainbows. In search of an elusive happiness. Planning for a happiness in the future which may never be fulfilled instead of enjoying the present.

“Happiness is liking what you do as well as doing what you like,” uncle Ranjit said, as if he were reading my thoughts. “Happiness is not a station which never arrives, but the manner in which you travel in life.” He paused, and asked me, “Tell me Vijay, what do you want to do in life?”

“I don’t know.”
“Come on, Vijay. You are fifteen now. By next year you have to decide. Tell me what are your plans?”

“It depends on my percentage,” I said truthfully.
“I am sure you will get more than ninety percent marks in your board exams,” he said. “Assume you top the exams. Secure a place in the merit list. Then what will you do?”

“I’ll go in for Engineering. Computers, IT.”
“Computers, IT! Why?” uncle Ranjit asked. “Why not Arts, Literature? Something creative? Something you would enjoy doing.”
“Job prospects,” I answered.
“Oh!” he said. “And then?”
“Management. An MBA from a top business school. Or I may even go abroad for higher studies.”
“Why?”
“Qualifications.”
“And why do you want so many qualifications?”
“To get the best job,” I answered.
“And earn a lot of money,” uncle Ranjit prompted.
“Of course,” I said. “So that I can enjoy life.”
Uncle Ranjit laughed, “My dear Vijay. Aren’t you enjoying life right now. At this very moment. What about me? Am I am not enjoying life?”

He smiled and asked, “ Vijay, you know what Maxim Gorky once said :

‘When work is a pleasure, life is a joy.
When work is a duty, life is slavery.’ ”

“Slavery!” I exclaimed, understanding the message he was trying to give me.

“Slavery to one’s elusive desires, one’s greed. Just like the monkey trap.”

“The Monkey Trap!” we both said in unison, in chorus.

And so, I decided to do what I really wanted to. To achieve true inner freedom and contentment..

And guess what I am today?

Well, I am a teacher. I teach philosophy. And let me tell you that I truly enjoy every moment of it. It’s a life of sheer joy and delight - being with my students, earning their respect and adulation, nurturing my innate quest for knowledge and feeling a sense of achievement that I am contributing my bit to society.

I shall never forget uncle Ranjit and that crucial visit to the forests of the Andamans, the turning point, or indeed the defining moment, of my life.

Dear Readers (especially my young friends on the verge choosing a career path); whenever you reach the crossroads of your life, remember the ‘Monkey-Trap’.



VIKRAM KARVE

vikramkarve@sify.com

Confluence

CONFLUENCE
by
VIKRAM KARVE


Winter. Early morning. Chill in the air. I stand alone on the metre gauge side of the lonely island platform of Mettupalaiyam Railway Station and stare at the peaks of the Blue Mountains (the Nilgiris) silhouetted in a veil of mist in the distance.

Nothing much has changed here since the last time I came here on my way to Ooty. Almost 30 years ago. The place, the things, the people – everything looks the same. As if frozen in time.

But for me there is a world of difference. Then I was a young bride, full of inchoate zest, in the company of my handsome husband, eagerly looking forward to the romantic journey on the mountain train, on my way to our honeymoon at Ooty.

And now! The same place which then felt so exciting now feels so gloomy. Strange. But true. What’s outside just doesn’t matter; what’s inside does. I try not to reminisce. Remembering good times when I am in misery causes me unimaginable agony.

I look at my watch. 7.30 A.M. The small blue toy train pushed by its hissing steam engine comes on the platform. Dot on time. As it was then. The same December morning. The same chill in the air. Then I had the warmth of my husband’s arm around me. Now I feel the bitter cold penetrating within me.

I drag my feet across the platform towards the mountain train. Scared, anxious, fear in my stomach, I experience a strange uneasiness, a sense of foreboding, a feeling of ominous helplessness - wondering what my new life would have in store for me.

I sit alone in the First Class compartment right in front of the train. Waiting for the train to start. And take me to the point to no return. Wishing that all this is just a dream. But knowing it is not.

And suddenly, Avinash enters. We stare at each other in disbelief. Time stands still. Till Avinash speaks, “Roopa! What are you doing here?”

I do not answer. Because I cannot. For I am swept by a wave of melancholic despair. My vocal cords numbed by emotional pain. And as I look helplessly at Avinash, I realize that there is no greater pain than to remember happier times when in distress.

“You look good when you get emotional,” Avinash says sitting opposite me.

In the vulnerable emotional state that I am in, I know that I will have a breakdown if I continue sitting with Avinash. I want to get out, run away; but suddenly, the train moves. I am trapped. So I decide to put on a brave front, and say to Avinash, “Coming from Chennai?”

“Bangalore,” he says, “ I’d gone for some work there.”

“You stay here? In Ooty?” I ask with a tremor of trepidation for I do not want to run into Avinash again and again; and let him know that I had made a big mistake by not marrying him - that I had made the wrong choice by dumping him, the man I loved, in search of a ‘better’ life.

“I stay near Kotagiri,” Avinash says.

“Kotagiri?” I ask relieved.

“Yes, I own a tea-estate there.”
“A tea estate?”

“Yes. I am a planter.”

Now I really regret my blunder 30 years ago. Indeed I had made the wrong choice.

“Your family – wife, children?” I probe, curious.

“I didn’t marry,” he says curtly. “There’s no family; only me. All by myself.”

“Oh, Avinash. You should have got married. Why didn’t you?”

“Strange you should be asking me that!” he says.

“Oh my God! Because of me?”

Avinash changes the subject, “I’ll be getting off at Coonoor. My jeep will pick me up.” He pauses, then says, “And you, Roopa? Going to Ooty? At the height of winter! To freeze there!”

“No,” I say, “ I’m going to Ketti.”

“Ketti ?” he asks with derisive surprise.

“Yes. What’s wrong with going to Ketti ?” I protest.

“There are only two places you can go to in Ketti. The School and the old-age home. And the school is closed in December,” Avinash says nonchalantly, looking out of the window.

I say nothing. I can’t. I suffer his words in silence.

“Unless of course you own a bungalow there!” he says turning towards me and mocking me once again.

The cat is out of the bag. I cannot describe the sense of humiliation I feel sitting there with Avinash. The tables seem to have turned. Or have they?

There are only the two of us in the tiny compartment. As the train begins to climb up the hills it began to get windy and Avinash closes the windows. The smallness of the compartment forces us into a strange sort of intimacy. I remember the lovely moments with Avinash. A woman’s first love always has an enduring place in her heart.

“I am sorry if I hurt you,” Avinash says, “but the bitterness just came out.”

We talk. Avinash is easy to talk to and I am astonished how effortlessly my words come tumbling out.

I tell him everything. The story of my life. How I had struggled, sacrificed, taken every care. But still, everything had gone wrong. Widowed at 28. Abandoned by my only son at 52. Banished to an old-age home. So that ‘they’ could sell off our house and emigrate to Australia. ‘They’ - my son and that scheming wife of his.

“I have lost everything,” I cry, unable to control my self. “Avinash, I have lost everything.”

“No, Roopa,” Avinash says. “You haven’t lost everything. You have got me! I’ve got you. We’ve got each other.”

Avinash takes me in his comforting arms and I experience the same feeling, the same zest, I felt thirty years ago, on my first romantic journey, on this same mountain toy train, on my way to my first honeymoon.



VIKRAM KARVE

vikramkarve@sify.com