The Blue Hour
The blue hour is not really an hour. It is perhaps just a minute before dawn when the day birds aren’t up yet and the night birds and insects have fallen asleep. Then there’s real silence. It’s the only time it feels as though nature is holding its breath and anything could happen. Like holding a switch halfway in the middle with your finger. And if you let it go suddenly – you don’t know whether it would turn on or off. Both become equally probable.
As a child, Mr Ghosh would ask his mother to wake him up then. Maybe two or three times in a year, especially in December when the sky is clear and the scent of parijat fills the air in a heady stillness. Mr Baku Ghosh lived in a colonial house, on the riverine belt of the North 24 Paraganas, a few kilometres shy of the Sundarbans. He had spent all his days of his sixty-six years without wife or wealth, where his parents had lived and died, and where he proposed to die alone, in the same bed he was born.
His father had received the house as a gift from the East India Company for managing revenues from the Sundarban timber trade. He had little regard for the forest flora and his conservation efforts largely involved arresting peasants who relied on the timber to survive. During the forty years of service to the British Raj, his father had amassed a fortune in deadweight – teak almirahs and bookcases with intricate latticework, chairs with looped arms, mahogany desks and a twelve-seater solid wood dining table. The house was spacious with stucco arches and floors tiled with Italian mosaic and three balconies that led to a wraparound garden. Mr Ghosh had auctioned all that he didn’t need to live which was almost everything save the plants in the garden, the singular joy of his life.
The front door overlooked what people described as a dream from the Arabian Nights. Voluptuous with pomegranate and fig trees, lemon groves with hedges of flowering cactus, spectacular birds of paradise, dazzling banks of begonias and butter peas surrounding a riot of impatience. An heirloom teak marked the compass north of the house, in whose shade generous shrubs of hibiscus and honeysuckle climbed. The alabaster terrace on the north-east section of the garden was flanked by exotic hedges of leadwort consorting with luxuriant Siberian berberis that Mr Ghosh spent a good couple of hours every day tending to. At the centre of the terrace, sat a marble-basined fountain regaled by cherubs guarding the golden carps that slithered between the roots of lilies at their feet. As for the roses, one could not help but wonder if an angel visited every night in the winter to sprout a hundred, yes literally a hundred gorgeous hued buds that created the perfect background to enjoying cups of peppermint tea. The whole effect was suggestive of a bewildering fragment of fairyland.
Numerous other exotic shrubs and succulents adorned the garden, but for now it is enough to peruse only the most treasured, the most delicate - those that would prove to be the most delectable of treats for an unexpected visitor that morning. In the inky light of the blue hour, had Mr Ghosh known it was the final glimpse of his most prized possession, he may have loaded his father’s rusted rifle and stood guard. Oblivious to the impending doom, he went back to sleep, waking up to the horror of horrors.
*
High Noon
It was the sweet-smelling honeysuckle along the boundary wall that stopped an unexpected visitor passing by that morning. She was without home or a clan to call her own, ambling along the path in search of knick-knacks and titbits. Climbing boundary walls was a bad idea and the last thing she wanted was trouble. But the honeysuckle growing in lush bunches was too much to resist on an empty stomach. Once inside, an extraordinary buffet of flowers greeted her.
She surveyed her options carefully for she was not a beggar but a proud monkey of the mighty Sundarbans. She took her time to relish the sharp citrusy begonias, peppery hibiscus and daylilies that tasted like fresh cucumbers. The stalks were avoided as they could contain unpleasurable juices and each stamen and pistil meticulously removed should they send her into a sneezing fit. Every foliage, every hedge, every trim and border were prised apart. Plants uprooted for their tasty roots; leaves discarded to clear delicate shoots. If not for Shambhu, the gardener, who came hollering through the gates – she would have had a go at the delicious roses too.
Baku Ghosh lived without servants or dogs, except for the faithful Shambhu who came thrice a week to take care of whatever there was to do, even in the state he was in - losing sight and acumen. He ran in panic to Mr Ghosh’s bedroom where he was still fast asleep.
Grief is a distressing problem for the mind to solve. It wraps its wily tentacles around the brain putting up barricades in our very understanding of the world. The synapses shaping every thought and feeling must suddenly reconstitute a new map of the world, but with one less variable. The dearer the variable, the more overwhelmed the neural circuitry. As Baku Ghosh surveyed the devastation from his balcony, a nothingness enveloped his mind. It simply could not fathom a thought as neurons misfired into a growing void at the centre of his cortex. His face turned a deep red mirroring the half-eaten pomegranate lying bloodied on the lawn.
The news of Mr Ghosh’s ill-fortune spread through the lower reaches of Sundarbans like wildfire. Shambhu described the monkey, juicing up the details to the milkman who very much enjoyed the excitement. Mr Ghosh’s house was the first of fifteen houses on his delivery route, so by eleven that morning, every house in a five-kilometre radius was recounting some version of the story. The quiet monkey morphed into a langur, a wolf, a hyena, a Bengal tiger and even an elephant at some point. The milkman himself had altered the specifics of the destruction – the lemon tree took an imaginary beating; the boundary wall had crumbled. The news travelled on buses, boats and rickshaws, passed from ear to mouth, in busy markets, in government offices, in the dark alleyways where sozzled no-gooders made topsy-turvy of the truth.
The phone rang all day, long tenacious, unpredictable rings that echoed through the house. Soon the bell began to trill as well and strangers filled the lawns. The village sarpanch, an old school friend of Mr Ghosh dropped by in the afternoon to offer his condolences. Shoot the rascal, he said surveying the flowerless hedges of berberis. Mr Ghosh brought out his father’s old rifle. But on a closer look, they found the rust eating into the bolt and the firing pin, rendering it a useless relic. Nameless others who had never stepped foot on the premises, visited the garden now that it had ceased to be the horticultural marvel it once was.
After the initial shock, viscous red-hot anger oozed into the void left by the flowers. Mr Ghosh set the alarm for five am to stand guard over his garden. He sat at the entrance of his house with a long stick.
Since monkeys have no names, let us give her one for convenience’s sake. The Rascal.
Mr Ghosh waited patiently and sure enough the Rascal returned, ambling across the garden as though she owned the damned place, going straight for the delicate passion flowers.
Huttt!
Hutt! Hutt! Mr Ghosh brandished the stick with ridiculous gravity. She jumped more in surprise than fright.
The rhesus macaque has a reputation for being aggressive. But up until then, the Rascal had lived a peaceful life deep in the forest. A maze of salt-water creeks separated the monkeys from any settlement and so they remained insulated from human violence. When the first humans arrived in boats, the monkeys approached with the reserve and curiosity exhibited by the fishermen of Calicut greeting the arrival of the first Europeans. But the group that alighted on these shores were particularly disenchanted. After the cyclone had flattened their mud huts and flooded their fields with saline water which made them useless for cultivation, they set out in search of a new home. The journey was fraught with difficulties – disease, dehydration and starvation. Their numbers had dwindled to a half by the time they reached the stretch of Nipa palms where the Rascal lived. The first night, both man and monkey coexisted in the palm’s protection. But the next morning, the men began to cut the trees down. Displaced from their homes, a rebellion was afoot in the higher ranks of the monkeys. They conspired to drop beehives to derail the work but it did not bode well with the humans. They retaliated with quiet force, poisoning little balls of rice that the monkeys gobbled up with glee and died with a smile on their lips. And hence, the Rascal had learned to fear tigers, pythons, crocodiles and little balls of cooked rice. Not old men waving sticks.
Over the week, Mr Ghosh dug into his repertoire of scare tactics – from sticks and stones to guttural snorts and hoots, but it became obvious to the Rascal that he meant no real harm.
When everything else failed, Mr Ghosh bared his teeth and jumped up and down like a baboon in heat. The irony of the moment was not lost on him. The man looked more monkey. The Rascal turned to pluck a hibiscus.
No! Nawwww!
The Rascal looked at him, holding the scarlet flower inches from her wide open mouth as though taunting him.
Drwapp it!
Which she must’ve interpreted as ‘have it’ and proceeded to munch on them, rolling her tongue around her lips to wipe up tiny bits of stray petals.
Mr Ghosh followed the Rascal helplessly around the garden every day, grunting the occasional reproaches – no, stop that, don’t you dare – but she did dare and how – chomping on soft butter peas, bright roses and scarlet hibiscus. One day she picked out a golden carp from the fountain and whacked the life out of the beautiful slender creature. It is rare for a monkey to be feasting on meat but it is rarer still to find a monkey without a tribe. The Rascal was an oddity even in her own specie. Thwack! Thwack! Blood and guts spewed on the white alabaster as the marble cupids watched in horror. Tears of rage streamed down Mr Ghosh’s face, watching the Rascal relish the soft creamy flesh of his beloved fish.
Various home remedies made their appearance as well. Shambhu mixed crushed groundnut and fistful of chili with boiled rice, hoping to send the monkey into a sneezing fit. But alas the monkey had learned her lesson and the next day all the rice balls were found infested with ants and the rose bushes ransacked as usual. A great flurry of activities overtook the house in the following weeks and new faces began to frequent the gardens. Wicker chairs were laid out around the fountain to discuss the monkey menace. The district forest officer came bearing toy rubber snakes – the arch enemy of the monkey, he said confidently but the Rascal though gentle was no idiot. A visiting herbologist suggested they burn dung cakes covered in chili for effectiveness. But it was Mr Ghosh and Shambhu who fell prey, coughing and sneezing till their faces were red as ripe plums. Tormented by loss, Mr Ghosh set about repairing damages to the house he had put off for many years. New curtains were put up in the parlour and the old piano player was discarded along with rolls of moth-eaten classical music sheets. Broken pipes were replaced and a fresh coat of paint enlivened the doors. The house rose from the ashes sailing on Mr Ghosh’s latent rage and his determination to put an order to everything. What the garden lost in splendour the house gained in equal brilliance but Mr Ghosh remained blind to its transformation.
As the weeks turned to a month, the garden began to resemble the natural flora of the region with vast stretches of matted green foliage. Without the regular sprucing, trimming and pruning – the shoots stretched out in uninhibited languor in the cool winter breeze. The Rascal added an occasional supplement of proteins to her diet – geckos, garden skinks and caterpillars, that further augmented the lushness without the usual suspects preying on foliage. As a new ecological balance was struck in the garden, Mr Ghosh continued to descend into a stupor.
The truth was that he was becoming aware of his old age because of his weakness in the face of loss. Shambhu tried to reason with him – Saab flowers come and go, it is the way of nature – but it only further aggravated Mr Ghosh’s temper. In the end, change is acceptable as long as it’s controllable.
The Rascal discovered peace at the cost of Mr Ghosh’s peace-of-mind. He could barely eat and lost so much weight that his trousers became lose around his waist. He had erratic pains in his bones and his mood would sour for no reason whereas the Rascal would loll on the lawn, smacking her lips to the newfound bliss. Mr Ghosh began to drink regularly, often waking in the middle of the night in a dazzled state that neither let him sleep or read or listen to music, and wasted the next day in a stupefied hangover.
Relief arrived quite unexpectedly. A young man eating paan and carrying a long metal pole walked in to greet Mr Ghosh sitting in his usual morose state in the parlour. He introduced himself as Shikari, the monkey catcher. His metal pole was an electrocution device to stun the monkey, he explained. Once unconscious, it would be a matter of minutes. To do what exactly, Mr Ghosh enquired. To put her to sleep permanently of course, Shikari said without qualms. Though it was unclear how the final deed would be carried out, the very thought of taking a life made Mr Ghosh queasy. It is inhuman babu, Shambhu implored. But Shikari was convinced that death was the only permanent resolution to their problem.
Together the three headed out to the garden to find the Rascal sleeping soundly under the dappled shade of the teak tree. Shikari removed his rubber sandals and crept up the lawn barefoot, his metal rod pointed in readiness.
The day of the Rascal’s reckoning had arrived and once again peace would prevail in his beautiful garden, Mr Ghosh reasoned to calm the little flutter in his chest. He tried to picture the flowers that would bloom at winter’s end. The feeling he was searching for was relief, maybe happiness even. Then why did a lump rise to the base of his throat?
A wave of tenderness swept over him as he watched the Rascal’s furry chest rise and fall to her gentle breathing. Her soft eyelashes rested delicately on her cheeks and her thick lips were caught in a cute little pout. What happened next could either be fate or pure reflex. The Rascal opened her eyes, trusting as always. Before she could react, Shikari jabbed the metal rod into her middle and a bolt of electricity whizzed through her chest. In the excitement of the moment, Shikari hadn’t noticed Mr Ghosh lurch towards him. He found himself pinned to the ground by the old man with a wild look in his eyes. Shambhu whimpered, leaning over the limp body of the Rascal. It was as though she had never woken.
*
Dusk
At dusk, there was a hailstorm whose hurricane winds threatened to bring down the house. Shambhu had made a makeshift bed for the Rascal in the gallery at the back of the house. He carried her in his arms like a baby.
Mr Ghosh suffered an attack of dry cough and his skull hurt. He placed pot under leaks that had cracked open, despite the recent repairs. As the rains lashed incessantly, the largest of the leaks began to flood the right side of the library. When he rushed to the rescue of the authors residing there, he discovered a broken pipe at the bottom from where water gushed out. There wasn’t much he could do save them. Must he lose all that he holds dear? His flowers, his books, the house too if the storm had its way.
Mr Ghosh sat down for dinner but the sight of food made his stomach churn. He pushed away the plate of weak dal and rice. Had the monkey come to, Mr Ghosh asked Shambhu who shook his head, his eyes averted. It was like Mr Ghosh had let him down or maybe he was only projecting his own feelings. He picked up his plate of food and walked towards the kitchen, Shambhu in tow. The gallery, a narrow passage between the kitchen and the back door had an asbestos roof where the deafening noise of the hail and the howling of the wind seemed to intensify. The Rascal slept fitfully with little jerks and twitches that spasmed through her vulnerable frame. Mr Ghosh tucked the woollen cardigan under the Rascal’s chin – he almost ran a hand over her head in compassion but it felt unnatural and so he stopped himself. His grief had somehow disassociated itself from its source and all the rage he had felt for the Rascal melted into something soft and pliable. Flowers - the pride and joy of his existence or a voluntary delusion? What kind of love is that? He could no longer fool himself and call it sublimity when the extent of its cruelty lay in front of him. A phantasmal flash of lightening crackled and a simultaneous clap of thunder saturated the air with a strong sulphur odour. The Rascal opened her eyes then, looking squarely into the eyes of Mr Ghosh as though searching for any remnant of hate in them. But soon they rolled over and she was once again overcome by fatigue and sleep. Mr Ghosh placed the food next to her and asked Shambhu to fetch a bowl of water as well.
The next morning Mr Ghosh was woken by a gentle knocking on the balcony window pane. The Rascal stood upright on her hind legs; face peeled to the surface of the glass with her palms blocking out the light. She peered intently, looking straight at Mr Ghosh. She knocked again and moved away from the glass. She was calling to him. Mr Ghosh walked out to the balcony that opened into the wraparound garden from the north-east corner.
In the surreal light of the blue hour, the man and the monkey surveyed the destruction left by the hailstorm. The plants were uprooted and most of them washed away. The branches hung limp with its leaves wilted and withered. The earth resembled wet mulch; the grass had all but disappeared. The rose bushes were trampled beyond repair its delicate petals strewn in disarray. Though it was not a pretty sight in the most traditional sense, there was an undeniable beauty in decay.
The Rascal held out a branch of honeysuckle, its blooms still fresh on its severed branch. She plucked one and sucked on the flower before holding it out to Mr Ghosh. He followed her lead and plucked one as well. A floral honey-like flavour spread across the roof of his mouth, sweet with hints of peppery bitterness that tingled at the tip of his tongue. He had never tasted anything quite as divine.
Madhusre Das works as an independent creative director with advertising agencies. Her short stories have appeared in Ptenopus magazine and won the Soup Magazine 2022 short-fiction contest. She is a Kolum Writer’s Workshop alumnus, chapter 2023. Madhusre loves fermenting and runs a small set-up from her ever-expanding pantry, called @pupaferments. She currently lives in Coimbatore with her husband and their dog, Nori.