There I was, telling a colleague about childhood scars the other day, when they asked about a mark on my left hand. “Oh, that old thing?” I said, flexing dramatically. “That’s from my first, and thankfully last, encounter with organised crime.”
1997, Lucknow railway station, and yours truly at the ripe old age of six. Dad had just wrapped up his annual vacation from Saudi Arabia to his hometown of Aligarh, complete with the mandatory relative-visiting tour that always included Lucknow. You know how it is, one does not simply visit India without making the rounds to every uncle, aunt, and distant cousin.
We were heading back to Aligarh when the Indian Railways decided to bless us with their signature move: a one-hour delay. Because apparently, even trains need their beauty sleep. Dad, being the eternal optimist, suggested we take a leisurely stroll around the station. “Come beta, let’s explore,” he said, probably thinking this would be a nice father-daughter bonding moment.
If only he knew he was about to witness a monkey heist of sorts. So there we were, wandering around, when I spotted him. Sitting atop a mountain of bananas, atop a cart, was this monkey. This dude had the territorial instincts of a mall security guard.
Now, being six and having the social awareness of a golden retriever, I did what any reasonable child would do upon seeing wildlife: I waved enthusiastically and chirped, “Hi monkey!” Big mistake. HUGE mistake.
What happened next was like watching a Bollywood action sequence directed by someone who was wasted. Time simultaneously sped up and slowed down, you know that weird matrix-y feeling when you realise you’ve made a terrible life choice but it’s too late to take it back?
This monkey, clearly a graduate from the School of Aggressive Entrepreneurship, interpreted my friendly greeting as a direct challenge to his banana empire. Or maybe he thought I was placing an order. Either way, he launched himself off that cart like a furry missile. I watched in slow-motion horror as this banana-protecting bandit sailed through the air toward me, probably thinking, “Not today, tiny human. NOT TODAY.”
The landing was… less than graceful. For both of us.
He grabbed my left hand with the grip of someone who takes their job very seriously, and then—chomp. Apparently, his customer service training included a comprehensive module on “Dealing with Difficult Customers Through Strategic Biting.”
I started yelling like I was auditioning for a dramatic soap opera. The whole scene was so surreal that I actually passed out, though I’m pretty sure it was more from the shock of being outmaneuvered by someone with opposable thumbs and a fruit vendorship than from actual pain. The last thing I heard before everything went black was Dad shouting at the monkey in what I can only assume was very colourful Hindi, probably something along the lines of “Sir, this is highly inappropriate customer service!”
When I came to, Dad was in full damage-control mode, and our friendly neighbourhood fruit vendor had disappeared, probably back to his banana throne to file an incident report.
The aftermath? Seven rabies shots over seven days. SEVEN. Apparently, you can’t just put a band-aid on “got bitten by a monkey” and call it a day. We had to extend our Lucknow vacation by a week, which sounds fun until you realise it was a medical vacation involving daily injections and a lot of concerned relatives dropping by with home remedies.
The scar is still there, a permanent reminder of the day I learned that not all wildlife encounters end with Disney-style singing and friendship. It’s also why I maintain a respectful distance from anything with fur, claws, or strong opinions about fruit ownership.
But honestly? I respect that monkey’s hustle. Man was just protecting his business. Can’t fault someone for taking their job seriously, even if their conflict resolution skills could use some work.
