By Susan Iona Swan
Where in the name of Hanuman is everyone? The street is silent – no roar of delivery trucks, no rattle of the shops’ metal shutters as they open for the day, no cries of shop keepers greeting each other and yelling at us. Today the sun wakes me as it creeps round the side of the temple and streams through the window. Usually by this time, tourists are visiting, posing for photos and handing us food. Of course we see fewer in the rainy season and rely on the council workers to feed us. But I haven’t seen them either.
Others begin to wake. You lie still, fear seizes me and I prod you until you stir. Some young ones are gathering on the edge of the park, waiting expectantly, looking around, confused, probably thinking the same as me – where is everyone? Usually you’d be playing with them.
A vehicle drives by and all eyes swivel towards it as if we’ve never seen an orange jeep before. Oddly, it stops at the traffic lights even though there’s no traffic. Someone jumps into the open back and it accelerates away in a cloud of fumes. I notice the fumes. Usually they’re so pervasive I don’t smell them but these past few days the air has been sweeter.
You nudge my breast and I know what you want but I’ve had no milk for five days, not since this quiet descended. The screech of a parrot breaks the silence and I glimpse a flash of green. Amazing. I haven’t seen one since we left the forest fifteen years ago. The city has been good to us, but it’s made us lazy. No longer do we have to forage and labour for our food the way my parents did. We’ve lost those skills. Food comes in foil packs and plastic bottles and crinkly packets and is full of sugar and calories. But now the shops are shut what are we to do? Our youngsters wouldn’t recognise a mango if it dropped off a tree and hit them on the head. At the thought of a mango I begin to salivate.
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Do you know, Baby, that I grew up in the forest not far from here? Our home nestled amongst giant teak trees, screened by thickets of bamboo, with palm fronds that dripped dew in the mornings. I would play with my brothers and sisters in the forest, splashing in streams and climbing trees. Sometimes we would venture to the edge of the village to steal jackfruit – competing with each other as to who could find the largest before an angry villager stung us with a catapult. But the dragon fruit were my favourite. Oh, those scaly pink exteriors, those soft insides studded with black seeds. My mother would prepare them for us and I’d cram them into my mouth before another could snatch them. She taught us how to crack open rambutans by squeezing them between our palms, chewing off the white around the seed and sucking the sweet, cool texture. She’d part the undergrowth and reveal where the peanuts grew, showing us how to shell them without damaging the nut. You never needed to know those things, Baby, not here in the city. I regret not teaching you. I look at your dull eyes and prominent ribs and realise I have wronged you.
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Something is afoot. The elders sit in the temple park as they always do, sunning themselves and watching the little ones play but the chatter is no longer carefree. I sense a simmering unease. The youngsters still run around jostling each other but the adults no longer look on indulgently but snarl and swipe at them when they come too close. A group peels away – the aggressive youth that frighten me with their posturing and arrogance. The temple gang we call them. The sort my mother wouldn’t let me mix with. I wonder they have the energy to move if they’re as hungry as I am. It’s a group I avoid but I’m intrigued. They usually keep to themselves but as they circle restlessly their numbers grow, like the way thorns snag fur. They’re up to no good; I’m sure of it.
The gang leave the park and gather on the pavement. The street, usually packed with shoppers, is empty. There are no shopkeepers to chase them from scavenging the goods displayed, no one to report them to the police for thieving and vandalism. The police are nowhere to be seen, save for an occasional police car cruising up and down. Curious, I move to the edge of the park. What are they looking at?
Across the street I see the other gang congregating. Suddenly, the temple gang charges towards them. Then both gangs are racing up the road in an angry swarm. I thrust you into the arms of your aunty and follow them. There are about a hundred of us now and the other gang is even larger. Energy pulses through me and I forget my hunger and break into a run. We’re all heading in the same direction, to the roundabout at the end of the street, usually blocked with slowing traffic. I’m distracted by a shout and my head swivels towards a jeep. A man’s arm appears through the window. I see a flash of yellow as something arcs through the air and lands on the side of the road. Both gangs rush towards it in a single surge. The noise is deafening. Some are knocked over and trampled. I hold back, fearful, and call out in alarm as another object is chucked into the crowd. The streets are now thronging. Everyone runs towards the commotion, eager not to miss out. The bolder ones advance on the jeep. A door opens and a sack of something heavy drops. Everyone swarms in a frenzy. A sweetcorn husk rolls towards my feet. I grab it but others set upon me, striking me with arms and legs. I smell the hot tar of the road as my face smacks into it. I crawl to the kerb and see another sack drop before the jeep drives off. Hungry hands rip it and husks spill onto the road. I grab four and run. The crowd is quietening now. Groups are dispersing and heading home. One or two jostle me but they too are holding husks for their little ones. On the side of the road lies a yellow yoghurt pot – the banana flavour I like. That was what the man threw. I’m shaking. I have witnessed something extraordinary that I don’t understand.
Safe at the temple, I pull you onto my lap and hand you a husk. You snatch it greedily and begin to munch. I can’t tell you how happy it makes me. I hear a soothing chattering and see others doing the same. I give a husk to your aunty and wish I’d seized more but I only have two hands. Will that man in the jeep return tomorrow? Will our hunger be abated?
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I dream of the fruit pyramid taller than two men. Row upon row of smooth skinned papayas and diamond patterned pineapples, electric pink rambatans and halves of watermelon, rose-red apples and frog green guavas. Their competing smells make my head spin. Delicious snacks, cans of sweet cola and wobbly deserts are spread in a feast before us. We gorge ourselves and enjoy the music, watching the pretty dancers and laughing at the monkey costumes. Juice dribbles down your chin and I am drunk with fun. When I wake up my stomach is rumbling. There was so much food at those festivals that the remains lingered for days. There is still no sign of life. Will we eat today?
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Your little chest is heaving. You will be my last baby. Because of my age, I was surprised when I found myself pregnant with you. The others don’t need me anymore. You deserve a chance of survival. I know what I have to do, but knowing and doing isn’t the same thing. When I tell the others my plan they kick up a fuss. The city is all they know. The oldest were actually born in the forest but they can’t remember it, or claim they don’t. They won’t leave the city.
But three days later, something happens.
Two open-back jeeps pull up. A crowd amasses, expecting food, waiting for the sacks to appear. Some grow impatient and climb onto the roof of the cab, jumping up and down. Hunger makes us angry. I watch from several metres away. I’ve learnt by now to let others battle it out and to grab what I can while they squabble. Anyway, I‘m carrying you today. You screamed when I tried to hand you over to Aunty. We stand on tiptoe as the window opens but instead of hessian sacks, something glints in the sun. Before I realise what it is, the firing starts. Everyone scatters, screaming. I run away, you clinging to my front. When the shooting stops I turn and see jeeps driving away in a cloud of dust. Most of us managed to scatter, but bodies lie in the road. The men throw them into the back of their jeeps.
Safe inside the temple we stare at each other, wide-eyed. When did they decide to stop food aid and kill us? I suspect the gangs have been invading the gardens on the edges of the city, scavenging for whatever they can. To my eye some of the gang members look well fed. It seems that now food is scarce, we are a threat, even though we are at the bottom of the pyramid.
The next time I suggest returning to the forest, your brothers and sisters agree.
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We set out at dusk – a group of around twenty, varying in age. When we reach the outskirts, some make forays into gardens, and one comes back with a cabbage. I scrabble around in a patch of earth beside the road looking for roots, nervously glancing around. People are inside their homes, some sitting on their porches. I thought they’d all gone, but they’ve been here all along. Why are they no longer going into the city? Is it to do with the police cars that glide past every day?
On and on we go. Along stretches of road where timber lies stacked and the ground is brown and burnt. We pass fields of cattle and pigs, nuzzling around the tree stumps for grass and roots. When we reach the banks of a river, fear grips me. We’ve come too far. And yet I saw no forest. The forest home is no more. I hide my despair from the others and press on. After an hour of walking, a stray bamboo gives me hope. Another hour and they’re lining the roadside. My heart leaps as I spy a cashew tree. I show them how to pick the black seed that grows at the end of the fleshy red fruit and they enjoy cracking them open to reveal the creamy treasure. I explain the green fruits will be bitter and should be left to ripen but they strip the tree anyway – something my mother told us never to do. The tree gives me the strength to carry on. I note your eyes are brighter and you’ve began to chatter to yourself.
The light fades to dusk. We’ve been travelling a whole day now. In the distance I think I see trees reaching high into the sky, trailing lianas. This is not the forest home I remember but it looks familiar despite the high mesh fence. I bristle with excitement. We follow the fence for a long time to a gate. In the moonlight I see a round sign on the front and I’m startled by a picture of me and you. The image looks familiar and then I remember – it was on the jeep that brought us food. The others crowd round, excited. We climb the gate, you clinging to my front, gripping my fur so hard that it hurts but I don’t care. We drop to the other side, scamper over to a banana palm and feast until we can eat no more. Then we head to the top of a tree to find a resting place for the night. It’s so cold that we huddle together for warmth. Tomorrow, Baby, I’ll show you where the peanuts grow.
Human Business is based on what happened at Phra Prang Sam Yot Temple in Lopburi, Thailand, home to thousands of macaque monkeys, when the tourists stopped coming and the shops had to close during lockdown. If you google it you can see film of the event dramatized in the story.
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Copyright © 2021 · All Rights Reserved · Susan Iona Swan
Susan Iona Swan 