Monkey Stories, the Best Kind of Stories — by Snigdha ManickavelI don't remember when the monkeys first started coming to our house. Possibly, it was while I was away at college. In those days something about the long, hot bus-rides home made me sleepy in a way that I could never shake off completely.
At home, I listened to my parents talk about the things that the monkeys had done and though I love my parents dearly, I often felt that they were exaggerating, in their sweet, old people way, making up unbelievable stories about monkeys to hold my attention. Over time, I too would become enchanted, could not stop talking about the monkeys, telling city friends stories that they did not know what to do with.
We would know that the monkeys had come from that first swooshing sound. The sound of a heavy weight pushing down the branches of the too many trees my parents had planted in the garden. Our little black dog Mia, would become very excited, barking and running in circles around the trees, now heavy with monkeys. The monkeys would look down at Mia and then look away to the side, bored. They knew, almost immediately that she was a dog who could be dismissed; she would not hurt them.
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