Monkey Deals & Tricks

Darwin said we descended from apes. Scientists say chimpanzees share nearly 80% of our DNA. Fair enough.

India, of course, looked at this theory and said, “Cute. But let us upgrade the script a little.”

We gave the world the Ramayana. Lord Rama. Hanuman. An entire monkey army that crossed oceans, burned Lanka and took down Ravana. Since then, our relationship with monkeys has remained beautifully complicated — part devotion, part negotiation, part armed conflict.

Even the Discovery Channel once did a full documentary on India’s monkeys. Frankly, they deserved a sequel after meeting the Vrindavan gang.

Here’s my classified field report.

Last Holi, end of February, I landed in Vrindavan for a photography walk. Our team leader gathered us like a commando unit before insertion into hostile territory.

“Seal your cameras.”

“Waterproof your gear.”

“And for God’s sake… protect your spectacles.”

Then came the final briefing.

“The monkeys here are professionals. They steal goggles, glasses, cameras, food packets, anything shiny. And remember this carefully — they love Frooti.”

That last sentence stayed with me. It would later save my mission. I stepped into the lanes of Vrindavan. Colours exploding everywhere. Drums. Gulal. Foreign tourists dancing like unpaid extras in a Bollywood film. Sadhus smiling mysteriously. Water balloons flying with military precision.

I had wrapped my head in a long scarf. My camera was strapped. My pockets secured. Veteran mode: activated.

Then it happened.

THUD.

A sharp hit from behind. Fast. Surgical. Clean. For half a second I assumed someone in the Holi madness had bumped into me. The crowd kept moving. I kept moving. Then suddenly the world blurred. My spectacles were gone. Not misplaced. Not dropped. Extracted.

A cold wave ran down my spine. Military training teaches you many things — survival, threat assessment, decision-making under stress. None of it prepares you for losing your glasses in the middle of Holi chaos.

I turned. Crowd everywhere. Noise everywhere. My eyes scanned rooftops, parapets, balconies. Then I saw him.

The Alpha.

Old. Muscular. Scarred. Sitting like a retired mafia don overseeing his territory. He held my spectacles casually in one hand.

We locked eyes. Three seconds. No blinking. He looked through me. Judged me. Assessed my net worth. Then — slowly — he placed one arm of my spectacles into his mouth.

My soul left my body. I knew the situation had escalated. Yes, I had a spare pair. But those were back in the bus, somewhere far away. Without glasses, my photo walk was finished. Mission failure.

My brain kicked into combat mode. Options. Risks. Time. Terrain. Negotiation strategy. Then I remembered the briefing.

Frooti.

I spun around and sprinted toward the nearby shops.

“Frooti hai?” No.

Next shop. No. Another. No.

At this point I was sweating like a RAW agent trapped at a border crossing. One shopkeeper pointed toward another stall almost 500 metres away. I bulldozed through the crowd and reached there breathless.

“Frooti?” The man looked at me calmly and said the one sentence capable of destroying civilizations.

“Finished.”

Finished?! My heart flatlined. Then I spotted salvation.

Lays chips.

Not ideal. But in hostage negotiations, you work with available assets. I grabbed two packets and charged back through the crowd. Five minutes gone. Adrenaline pumping. Hope fading. I reached the original spot.

The Alpha was gone.

That sinking feeling hit hard. I looked around desperately. Then suddenly — there he was. Sitting on a rooftop with my spectacles dangling from his mouth like a victory cigar.

I looked up. He looked down. Ancestor to ancestor. Primate to primate. NDA graduate to jungle professor. I raised the Lays packet slowly. His eyes narrowed.

He descended in three effortless jumps and stopped barely five steps away from me. Calm. Confident. Supreme commander of Vrindavan Sector.

I held up the chips. He examined the goods carefully. No hurry. No emotion. Pure business. I tossed one packet toward him. Smooth catch. International-level reflexes. But he still held my specs. Smart fellow. Advance payment wasn’t enough. So now came the final exchange. One hand stretched out for my spectacles  The other held the second packet. He understood immediately. Veteran operator. He grabbed the second packet, jumped onto the roof… and for one terrible second I thought I had been conned by a monkey. Then — casually — he tossed my spectacles back down.

I caught them like a World Cup final winning catch. Scratched frame. Glasses intact. I exhaled for the first time in ten minutes. Later I learned another photographer had lost two spectacles. Someone else lost one. Negotiations had apparently failed in their sectors.

But me? I walked away victorious. Years of military strategy. Tactical patience. Crisis management. Psychological warfare. 

And finally… a successful cross-species trade agreement brokered with two packets of Lays.