Monkey Business
Nimisha Ajaikumar
©
Copyright 2025 by Nimisha Ajaikumar
|
Photo by Tobias on Unsplash |
During
the summer vacation of 2015, I temporarily left my Dubai school
behind and returned home to Kochi, hoping to escape the scorching
desert heat. My dad, always up for an adventure, decided we should
take a family road trip to Thekkady, a forested town in Kerala’s
Idukki district.
That’s
how we found ourselves at the Periyar National Park, a reserve known
for its wild flora and fauna, with signboards displaying species
names in Latin to prove it. “Look, it’s your family,”
I chuckled, directing my brother’s attention to a family of
baboons. “Hi bros,” my brother waved.
As
we explored the park, the four of us spotted an adorable baby monkey
casually sipping from a paper cup of coffee a tourist had discarded.
“At least there’s no wastage here,” my mom
muttered, casting a sharp glare at the littering tourist, clearly
wishing the forest officers would reprimand him.
We
were already a little on edge. The previous night in Vagamon, the
nearby meadowy town nicknamed the ‘Scotland of Asia,’ our
local friends had served us wild boar for dinner. Technically
protected, wild boar wasn’t something we were supposed to be
eating, especially within miles of a national park. We joked
nervously that the forest officials might sniff out our illegal meal
and jail all of us—except my younger brother, a proud
vegetarian, who would finally get to say, “I told you so.”
Honestly, the meat had been so tough I suspected our hosts had chosen
it more out of rebellion than taste. Pork had definitely been kinder
to my teeth.
“Everyone
aboard!” a forest official called out, directing the line of
tourists toward a boat that would take us on a safari across the
Periyar River—famously scenic and, according to my anxious
Googling, occasionally prone to flooding accidents. I clutched my
dad's hand as he helped me step onto the boat, praying I wouldn't
fall into the water. My brother followed behind me, and we settled
into our seats. I placed a cap to hold one for my mom, then craned my
neck to find her.
The
boat filled up quickly with Hindi-speaking tourists. We were the only
Malayalis on board besides the forest staff.
“Where’s
Amma?” I asked, my voice rising with worry. She had been right
behind us a few minutes ago.
Just
as the boat was preparing to leave, my mom appeared—grinning.
That goofy smile meant only one thing: she had done something
ridiculous. My dad sighed, recognizing the look. “What took you
so long?” he asked, half expecting she'd been bargaining with
the forest staff for saplings or photographing some wildflower.
“I
was attacked by a monkey,” she announced cheerfully.
My
eyes darted to the plastic bag in her hand—ripped open. No
bruises, thankfully. But clearly, something had gone down.
“Madam,”
a forest guard scolded, “you can’t bring bananas into a
forest and not expect monkeys to attack you.”
Still
giggling, my mom could barely respond. Her laughter was contagious,
and soon I was laughing too, relieved that she was fine. “I
just wanted to feed my kids on the boat,” she said, winking at
us.
The
monkey, luckily for all involved, had only managed to steal a chilli
from the bag. Somehow, my mom still considered that a win.
The
boat ride turned out to be a much-needed escape from reality. I
forgot all about the fear of drowning as I watched majestic eagles
glide overhead, water birds stretch out their wings to dry in the
sun, and monkeys swing from branch to branch with enviable ease. By
the time we disembarked, the chaos of the monkey attack and my mom’s
heroic chili-sacrifice felt like a distant memory.
Helping
her carry our things, I somehow ended up with the infamous bag of
bananas. I had spent my pocket money on them, thinking we could eat
them on the drive back. But as we walked through the shaded trail
toward the park exit, a monkey appeared out of nowhere—calm,
calculated, and directly in my path. It stopped and locked eyes with
me, gaze fixed on the bag I was holding.
“Madam,
unhand the bag,” a forest guard commanded, emerging from behind
a tree in full camouflage like it was a covert mission.
“But
it’s our food,” I pleaded, clutching the bag tighter. The
rest of my family chimed in, echoing his warning.
I
was on the verge of tears. I had sacrificed ice cream for those
bananas. Slowly, I lowered the bag to the ground and raised my hands
in surrender, walking away like a hostage in a wildlife standoff. To
this day I cannot fathom how my mom was able to fight off the first
monkey.
“At
least the monkey didn’t steal your phone,” the forest
guard offered, attempting to cheer me up. Apparently, monkey
pickpocketing was a real issue in the park. But I wasn’t ready
to laugh. My heart ached more for those bananas than for the risk to
my life.
“You
would’ve ended up like that plastic bag,” my mom
muttered, referring to her earlier ambush.
Even
though we left before sunset, the road winding through the forest was
long and treacherous. The trees thickened as the light dimmed, and my
dad carefully navigated the tight hairpin bends, each one sharper
than the last. Suddenly, he slammed the brakes.
“Something
wrong?” my mom asked, looking up from her phone in the
passenger seat.
In
front of us, partly obscured by trees and shadow, was a massive
elephant crouched at the bend. We all froze. It was a lone tusker—a
male, separated from its herd. My dad had told us about these rogue
elephants before, often driven mad by testosterone and loneliness,
sometimes aggressive, sometimes not. But you could never be sure.
“He
could crush this car with one step,” my dad whispered.
My
mom began whispering prayers to every Hindu deity she could think of.
My dad turned off the car engine—and the lights. We all held
hands and sat in silence, the only sound the rustle of leaves and our
collective breathing. The elephant took its time, slowly crossing the
road with the majestic indifference of a king. He didn’t even
glance at our indigo Tata Indica. With a flick of his ears, he
disappeared back into the forest.
Only
then did we exhale. My dad restarted the engine, and we drove away in
stunned silence—afraid to make a sound, lest we summon the
elephant back. But deep down, we knew we could park this conversation
for later—this story would be retold at every family holiday,
again and again.
Nimisha
Ajaikumar is a counselling psychologist who has been writing a mental
health blog called Silence the Stigma for the past five years,
exploring topics at the intersection of existentialism and feminism.
Her blog is driven by what triggers her to write each day. Recently,
she has ventured into fiction and poetry on Medium and aspires to
publish a novel one day.
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