desirable patch—the old Ambassador’s Palace, which had fallen into dilapidation.
“Fancy a stroll after Berries?” suggested Soames.
“Why not?” agreed Morton. “Be nice to have a shufti of the old spread.”
They said that every afternoon, but they never actually got round to doing it—too much effort in the heat. Which was a pity, because it was a lovely area—the bonnets had free run of the gardens from the Hooghly River in the west to Market Junction in the east, encircled by a wall that added an air of exclusivity. At the center of the gardens was the old residence, which had been the bonnets’ main dwelling until a series of harsh monsoons brought the roof down and the monkeys decamped to the summer house in the middle of the Great Lawn.
The name summer house implied an unassuming building, but there was nothing modest about it. Two long wooden halls were laid out in a large V; where they met, a tower rose up, affording the bonnets grand views of Kolkata. Punched into the walls were a set of openings that allowed a steady draft through the building; each one had a shutter that could be swung down for security if necessary.
But it never was necessary. No one had challenged the bonnets’ control of this part of the city for a long, long time.
Of course, the troop still sent out patrols to make sure that everyone respected their borders, but deep down, none of the bonnets ever expected to have to fight to keep what was theirs.
It was this invulnerability that was celebrated every afternoon in the sharing of juniper berries.
Morton and Soames chewed in silence while they thought of what to say next…when suddenly they heard a voice shouting across the lawns.
“Give us a berry, mate!”
The bonnets turned and peered at the far wall, on top of which was perched a single langur monkey, grinning at them.
“Bugger off!” bellowed Soames, expecting the langur to scamper away.
But he didn’t.
“There’s always one, isn’t there?” Morton sighed. Soames, however, was feeling irritated that some urchin had defied his authority. “Where’s the patrol? The rascal needs to be taught a lesson.”
“Patrol’s not due back till sunset,” replied Morton, scratching his buttock thoughtfully.
He didn’t know that the patrol was lying dead in a ditch, having been ambushed by a langur kill squad.
“Ignore the blighter,” counseled Morton. “He’ll soon get bored.”
But the langur monkey didn’t get bored. Instead he crouched on his hind legs and started to defecate down the garden wall.
“Good grief!” exclaimed Morton in disgust.
Soames stood up, trying to impose his authority, aware that everyone was watching. “Now look here,” he boomed, “this is bonnet land! I suggest you get your ragged, flea-infested hide off it before I come over there and give you a good thrashing!”
But the langur just grinned back. “You and whose army?”
“That’s it!” growled Soames. “Let’s break him in two!”
“Pleasure,” said Morton, cracking his knuckles.
But just as the bonnet leaders started striding across the lawn, they heard a strange massed scurrying sound.
The bonnets hesitated. “What was that?”
Then suddenly a whole army of langur monkeys appeared, a menacing presence perched along the entire length of the garden wall like birds of prey.
Apprehension gripped the bonnets.
“Stall them,” Morton whispered. “Play for time.”
But there was no time left. A couple of terse commands were shouted down the langur line, and the entire army dropped from the wall and started to advance across the lawns in a single, unbroken line.
Panic tore through the bonnets—females started smacking their lips in their distinctive alarm call; males ran in circles, trying to grab their young; Morton and Soames started thumping their chests furiously, hoping to intimidate the attacking army.
But still the langur line approached, unstoppable, unswerving. It caught up with an elderly
“Fancy a stroll after Berries?” suggested Soames.
“Why not?” agreed Morton. “Be nice to have a shufti of the old spread.”
They said that every afternoon, but they never actually got round to doing it—too much effort in the heat. Which was a pity, because it was a lovely area—the bonnets had free run of the gardens from the Hooghly River in the west to Market Junction in the east, encircled by a wall that added an air of exclusivity. At the center of the gardens was the old residence, which had been the bonnets’ main dwelling until a series of harsh monsoons brought the roof down and the monkeys decamped to the summer house in the middle of the Great Lawn.
The name summer house implied an unassuming building, but there was nothing modest about it. Two long wooden halls were laid out in a large V; where they met, a tower rose up, affording the bonnets grand views of Kolkata. Punched into the walls were a set of openings that allowed a steady draft through the building; each one had a shutter that could be swung down for security if necessary.
But it never was necessary. No one had challenged the bonnets’ control of this part of the city for a long, long time.
Of course, the troop still sent out patrols to make sure that everyone respected their borders, but deep down, none of the bonnets ever expected to have to fight to keep what was theirs.
It was this invulnerability that was celebrated every afternoon in the sharing of juniper berries.
Morton and Soames chewed in silence while they thought of what to say next…when suddenly they heard a voice shouting across the lawns.
“Give us a berry, mate!”
The bonnets turned and peered at the far wall, on top of which was perched a single langur monkey, grinning at them.
“Bugger off!” bellowed Soames, expecting the langur to scamper away.
But he didn’t.
“There’s always one, isn’t there?” Morton sighed. Soames, however, was feeling irritated that some urchin had defied his authority. “Where’s the patrol? The rascal needs to be taught a lesson.”
“Patrol’s not due back till sunset,” replied Morton, scratching his buttock thoughtfully.
He didn’t know that the patrol was lying dead in a ditch, having been ambushed by a langur kill squad.
“Ignore the blighter,” counseled Morton. “He’ll soon get bored.”
But the langur monkey didn’t get bored. Instead he crouched on his hind legs and started to defecate down the garden wall.
“Good grief!” exclaimed Morton in disgust.
Soames stood up, trying to impose his authority, aware that everyone was watching. “Now look here,” he boomed, “this is bonnet land! I suggest you get your ragged, flea-infested hide off it before I come over there and give you a good thrashing!”
But the langur just grinned back. “You and whose army?”
“That’s it!” growled Soames. “Let’s break him in two!”
“Pleasure,” said Morton, cracking his knuckles.
But just as the bonnet leaders started striding across the lawn, they heard a strange massed scurrying sound.
The bonnets hesitated. “What was that?”
Then suddenly a whole army of langur monkeys appeared, a menacing presence perched along the entire length of the garden wall like birds of prey.
Apprehension gripped the bonnets.
“Stall them,” Morton whispered. “Play for time.”
But there was no time left. A couple of terse commands were shouted down the langur line, and the entire army dropped from the wall and started to advance across the lawns in a single, unbroken line.
Panic tore through the bonnets—females started smacking their lips in their distinctive alarm call; males ran in circles, trying to grab their young; Morton and Soames started thumping their chests furiously, hoping to intimidate the attacking army.
But still the langur line approached, unstoppable, unswerving. It caught up with an elderly
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