knuckles.
’Wait,’ Hanuman said. ‘We can’t start without Saira.’
I typed out an enquiry, and Ashok shook his head and shrugged:
‘I don’t know.’
‘Who are all these people?’ said Mrinalini, who had been peering out. ‘They’re not all children, you know’
‘One of them must have told a favourite uncle or something,’ Abhay said, ‘and then of course everyone must have found out.’
‘What are we going to do?’ Mrinalini said. ‘It’s getting packed out there.’
There was a determined knock on the door. Mrinalini opened the door and then stepped back. Saira came in, face tear-stained,
her hand firmly clasped by a large, fleshy woman dressed in a green salwarkameez, an older version of Saira herself.
‘Sister,’ she said to Mrinalini, ‘what is this Saira is telling me? She came home so late last night and I said, where were
you, but she wouldn’t tell. Again this evening she was ready, very eager to go somewhere, so I said unless she told me…’ Then
she saw me, sitting over the typewriter. ‘Oh, Allah, it’s true. A monkey. A typewriter.’
‘She wasn’t going to let me come,’ Saira said, wiping her cheeks with the back of a hand. ‘Mama, this is Sanjay. See, he types.’
Mama was staring at me, eyes bulging, caught half-way between horror and awe. So I typed: ‘Namaste, ji. I am Parasher. Your
daughter has helped me in my time of need.’
She backed away, moving her head from side to side.
‘Mrinalini, what is this thing you have in your house?’
‘Zahira,’ Mrinalini said. ‘It’s all right. He’s nothing bad.’
‘How do you know? He could be anything.’
‘Hanuman’s here,’ Saira said. ‘Hanuman the Great.’
‘Sanjay’s done nothing bad yet,’ said Mrinalini.
Zahira looked at both of them, perplexed. I started to type again, but stopped as three loud crashes rang out in the court-yard,
one after the other.
‘Mrinalini,’ said Zahira, ‘they’re knocking over your flower-pots.’ Glass crackled and splintered outside. ‘That was your
sliding window. Who are these people?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen them before.’
‘They’re not even from this mohalla. They can’t come into your house and do this. Come.’
Zahira left, followed by Mrinalini, and a moment later we heard Zahira’s voice lash out, and the court-yard fell silent. Smiling,
Saira peeked out the door.
‘Saira, you stay in there.’ Saira ducked back in.
‘She’ll have them organized in a minute,’ Saira said.
‘Too neat,’ Yama said. ‘Much too timely’
‘The three crashes,’ Hanuman said, jumping down from his perch and stalking around the room, tail swinging restlessly, ‘the
three crashes like three drum-beats rising to a crescendo, completed by the glass breaking, just in time to distract that
lady, to make her a participant. Much too neat.’
‘Do you sense a hidden hand?’ Yama said, standing up.
‘A hidden something or other,’ Hanuman said. ‘But where? Where are you hidden, whoever you are?’
‘Who?’ I said. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Someone who wants a story told,’ Yama said.
‘Someone who is bound to monkeys,’ Hanuman said, ‘but that’s me, and I’m already here.’
‘Judging by the timing and the rhythm of those crashes,’ Yama said, ‘an aesthete. A protector of poets.’
‘Too vague still,’ Hanuman said, ‘but apply logic; Yama, ratiocinate. I feel something, someone here; look at the hair on
the back of my neck. But my blood is rising, like on a hunt; you are the cold one, the icy thinker. Think. You know your own
methods; apply them.’
‘A protector of Parasher, and who is Parasher?’ Yama said, sitting down. ‘A sometime singer and poet, a lover, a fomenter
of revolutions, a monkey. No. Nothing yet.’
‘Nothing,’ said Hanuman, leaping around the room, his tongue flicking in and out between his hard yellowed teeth. ‘Something,
something, I smell
’Wait,’ Hanuman said. ‘We can’t start without Saira.’
I typed out an enquiry, and Ashok shook his head and shrugged:
‘I don’t know.’
‘Who are all these people?’ said Mrinalini, who had been peering out. ‘They’re not all children, you know’
‘One of them must have told a favourite uncle or something,’ Abhay said, ‘and then of course everyone must have found out.’
‘What are we going to do?’ Mrinalini said. ‘It’s getting packed out there.’
There was a determined knock on the door. Mrinalini opened the door and then stepped back. Saira came in, face tear-stained,
her hand firmly clasped by a large, fleshy woman dressed in a green salwarkameez, an older version of Saira herself.
‘Sister,’ she said to Mrinalini, ‘what is this Saira is telling me? She came home so late last night and I said, where were
you, but she wouldn’t tell. Again this evening she was ready, very eager to go somewhere, so I said unless she told me…’ Then
she saw me, sitting over the typewriter. ‘Oh, Allah, it’s true. A monkey. A typewriter.’
‘She wasn’t going to let me come,’ Saira said, wiping her cheeks with the back of a hand. ‘Mama, this is Sanjay. See, he types.’
Mama was staring at me, eyes bulging, caught half-way between horror and awe. So I typed: ‘Namaste, ji. I am Parasher. Your
daughter has helped me in my time of need.’
She backed away, moving her head from side to side.
‘Mrinalini, what is this thing you have in your house?’
‘Zahira,’ Mrinalini said. ‘It’s all right. He’s nothing bad.’
‘How do you know? He could be anything.’
‘Hanuman’s here,’ Saira said. ‘Hanuman the Great.’
‘Sanjay’s done nothing bad yet,’ said Mrinalini.
Zahira looked at both of them, perplexed. I started to type again, but stopped as three loud crashes rang out in the court-yard,
one after the other.
‘Mrinalini,’ said Zahira, ‘they’re knocking over your flower-pots.’ Glass crackled and splintered outside. ‘That was your
sliding window. Who are these people?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen them before.’
‘They’re not even from this mohalla. They can’t come into your house and do this. Come.’
Zahira left, followed by Mrinalini, and a moment later we heard Zahira’s voice lash out, and the court-yard fell silent. Smiling,
Saira peeked out the door.
‘Saira, you stay in there.’ Saira ducked back in.
‘She’ll have them organized in a minute,’ Saira said.
‘Too neat,’ Yama said. ‘Much too timely’
‘The three crashes,’ Hanuman said, jumping down from his perch and stalking around the room, tail swinging restlessly, ‘the
three crashes like three drum-beats rising to a crescendo, completed by the glass breaking, just in time to distract that
lady, to make her a participant. Much too neat.’
‘Do you sense a hidden hand?’ Yama said, standing up.
‘A hidden something or other,’ Hanuman said. ‘But where? Where are you hidden, whoever you are?’
‘Who?’ I said. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Someone who wants a story told,’ Yama said.
‘Someone who is bound to monkeys,’ Hanuman said, ‘but that’s me, and I’m already here.’
‘Judging by the timing and the rhythm of those crashes,’ Yama said, ‘an aesthete. A protector of poets.’
‘Too vague still,’ Hanuman said, ‘but apply logic; Yama, ratiocinate. I feel something, someone here; look at the hair on
the back of my neck. But my blood is rising, like on a hunt; you are the cold one, the icy thinker. Think. You know your own
methods; apply them.’
‘A protector of Parasher, and who is Parasher?’ Yama said, sitting down. ‘A sometime singer and poet, a lover, a fomenter
of revolutions, a monkey. No. Nothing yet.’
‘Nothing,’ said Hanuman, leaping around the room, his tongue flicking in and out between his hard yellowed teeth. ‘Something,
something, I smell
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