The Man-Eating Leopard of Gummalapur

Chapter Three

In which we build a home on Monkey Hill

Monkey Hill is the highest point in the greater Gumma region. It gets its name from the troupe of monkey thespians who call it home. These monkeys were amateurs (at best), and the steep slope provided impeccable sight lines for their public performances. I know, I know, you're probably picturing it and thinking it's the exact opposite of what we should have been looking for. You are correct. But that's precisely what made it so perfect. No one in their right mind would have shared a cliffside with these monkeys. Yet these monkeys were quite shrewd when it came to safety. They knew we'd be a massive deterrent to natural predators.

When we stumbled upon Monkey Hill that first day, we instantly spotted the gorgeous cave on its south side: bizarrely uninhabited, relatively hidden away, guarded by a veritable army of bothersome rock bees. It seemed impossible that this cave was just sitting empty and waiting for us. As Ramu said: there's always a catch when it comes to empty real estate. So, we cautiously made our way over to the north side of the hill, where we found the monkeys mid-rehearsal on their makeshift stage halfway down the slope.

As expected, the troupe froze instantly, mouths agape and terrified, ready to scamper for the trees. This was the way we were greeted by most animals, as you must imagine, so we were not offended in the least. I looked to Ramu, who would usually do the talking in situations like this, but he was rendered a bit speechless by the comical sight of a hillside play rehearsal and for once did not know where to begin.

"We come in peace—" I started, and he instantly swatted my shoulder.

Ramu stepped forward and the monkeys took a massive, unison step back. "Hello. We're new," he announced calmly. "We just want to know if that cave on the south side of the hill is vacant. We would be very good neighbors."

His statement was met with more stunned silence, the monkeys just as baffled by our presence as we were by theirs. They looked at one another and whispered in short, gruff sentences. Their shoulders stayed tense; they were still deeply startled, suspicious, and confused. One by one, they turned their attention to a shorter monkey near the front of the stage. He had stout legs, a wide belly, and a stern face. He didn't have any gray in his fur (far too young to be a leader, surely?) and I couldn't help but think they were about to make some sort of sacrifice. Feeling the eyes of the troupe on his back, he eventually stepped forward. I tried to read the faces of the monkeys behind him for some sense of what was to come, but they were all in berry makeup and that made things a little confusing.

After about five blinks he spoke: "Our performances follow the lunar calendar." It was a gorgeous, sturdy tenor. "A show each quarter moon, with bonus shows two nights later. Premieres receive five consecutive nights. On this stage," he gestured to the stage beneath them, "of course, with seating on these ridges all the way up to the top. First come, first served." And then he stepped back, proudly, and nodded. Reader...!

"Lovely," called Ramu after a few blinks, wide-eyed and still unable to wipe the amusement from his face.

"That sounds very accessible," I added weakly. The monkeys stared back blankly.

Ramu blinked a few times more. "And the cave?"

The stout leader turned to an older monkey on his left, who nodded. "We use the cave for building and housing scenery," he explained. "It's been empty for some time due to our current lineup. We can't promise it will be that way forever. But as our repertory is tight for the moment, I see no reason you shouldn't stay."

Ramu smiled. "Well, I appreciate that. We appreciate that."

The stout leader smiled back. "Welcome to Monkey Hill."

Reader, I know. I know! The monkeys were not only amateur, but they were also full of themselves. They took their work way too seriously. We could already tell in that moment and it just got worse from there. The culture of Monkey Hill depended entirely on that lunar calendar. We could go days without seeing anyone but monkeys. And then all of a sudden dozens of animals would show up at sundown for a performance on that north side of the hill. It wasn't bad most of the time. The more somber pieces (they really did love their tragedies) elicited very little audience response and were barely audible from the cave.

But the comedies. Oh, reader, the comedies. You know how dumb animals will laugh at anything? And sometimes it feels like they're only laughing because they are trying to prove that they got the joke? Multiply that by fifty and you've got the comedy audience. On the comedy nights, Ramu and I would either stuff our ears with mud and try to sleep, or, in our weaker moments, reluctantly show up and take in the "show." The other animals, though at first wary of two full-grown adult leopards sitting calmly in the last row of the audience, were encouraged by the actors to eventually tolerate, and later grow indifferent to, our presence

We reached this same agreement with the rock bees around the cave entrance: we let them be, and they let us be. I'm sure there is a pun in there. Ramu, with his fascination with numbers and patterns, was quite taken with their honeycombs. He began a collection of his favorites, prioritized not only by intricacy but also how by difficult they were to obtain. Though at first upset by this, the bees came to realize that our presence kept the sloth bears at bay. They could sacrifice a few of their prettiest honeycombs in exchange for the safety of the rest.

My initial contribution to our home was a few dozen peafowl feathers, spread throughout the cave to soften its appearance and make it more of the sanctuary I'd always wanted to live in. I didn't like the harsh tone set by the rock bees, and was desperate to find some warmth where I could. Which wasn't hard to do. Because Ramu was always there.

We began to fill Monkey Hill with other things that made us happy. In the kitchen we kept a small concave stone filled with mangos and papaya. A second bowl we kept filled with fresh water. In the back corner we piled fresh leaves to sleep on. We were here to stay. Monkey Hill, despite the bees, monkeys, and frequent crowds, felt like home almost immediately.

We sat watching the sunset on one of our first nights, feeling rested and calm for the first time in a long while. I sighed, content. Ramu reached over and gave my paw a squeeze. I smiled and looked at him. He was busy surveying the fields, the forests, the evening animal activity. He was always observing things. Of course, down that treacherous rock slope, through that big dry field of brown grass, and through a beautiful little mango forest, he'd soon discover the entrance to that little village of Gummalapur.

Did hearing the name send a chill down your back? It did for me. It wouldn't have then, of course. Back then it was the most charming place I'd ever laid eyes on. A few hundred residents living in brightly colored houses off a single main road guarded by two leering cashew-nut trees. The smaller homes had walls of thatch and planks supporting makeshift awnings. The highest home, at twelve feet tall, stood at the end of that main road in front of a large wall that protected the village from behind. I get gooseflesh when I think about that home. I get gooseflesh when I picture that road.

But we'll get to the village of Gummalapur soon.