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    Monkey: An Indian Tale
    Monkey: An Indian Tale
    Monkey: An Indian Tale
    Ebook60 pages49 minutes

    Monkey: An Indian Tale

    By Jules Okapi

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    About this ebook

    Tugli lives happily in a metal box on a friendly street where vendors hawk wares and a Buddhist stupa sits at his back. Everything pretty much goes the same way for a long time, until one day, the pickle lady stops delivering the pickles. After that, a disgruntled monkey, a three-legged dog and a kindly old woman pretty much disrupt the course of Tugli’s life forever.

    Keywords: monkey, fable, talking animals, animals, monkey, dog, pickles, children, middle grade, India, Tibetan, Dharamsala, Himalayas, travel stories, metaphysical and visionary

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWhite Sun Press
    Release dateJul 10, 2011
    ISBN9781452423340
    Monkey: An Indian Tale
    Author

    Jules Okapi

    Jules Okapi has worked as a freelance journalist, writing essays on graffiti art, psychology, journalism, meditation, movies and other topics. Jules has also lived or spent considerable time in India, Vancouver BC, San Francisco, Albuquerque, Portland, Los Angeles, Seattle, New York, San Diego, Prague, London, Berlin, Sydney and Swinoujscie, Poland. She currently lives in McLeod Ganj, India, where she writes full time and does volunteer work. For more information about her and her writing, visit http:julesokapi.blogspot.com

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      Book preview

      Monkey - Jules Okapi

      Synopsis:

      Tugli lives happily in a metal box on a friendly street where vendors hawk wares and a Buddhist stupa sits at his back. Everything pretty much goes the same way for a long time, until one day, the pickle lady stops delivering his favorite pickles. After that, a disgruntled monkey, a three-legged dog and a kindly old woman pretty much disrupt the course of Tugli’s life forever.

      MONKEY

      An Indian Tale

      A man named Tugli lived inside a metal box, which stood like an oven-shaped cabinet alongside a narrow road. On either side of his metal box, vendors hawked wares from hand-knitted blankets and colorful shawls to embroidered bags and tops and jewelry made from amber and silver and lapis lazuli.

      Everyone who worked on the narrow street knew Tugli, and they fed him momos and bowls of porridge and pieces of chicken from their grills.

      One of them, a kind old lady who could barely see from the cataracts in her filmy eyes, gave Tugli a bag of fresh pickles every day.

      Tugli didn’t like pickles.

      He didn’t have the heart to tell the old woman that he couldn’t eat what she brought. He knew she lived on the kindness of her grandsons, who owned the international cuisine restaurant at the end of the dirty street with the sewage trenches met in an ugly cross on their very doorstep before running along either side of the narrow street where Tugli’s metal home lived.

      The brothers scraped out a living there, feeding their eleven kids, respectively; that was in spite of the bad smells that sometimes drove the lighter-skinned tourists away, and even a lot of the locals. In the monsoon, it was worse for them; in fact, many days, Tugli heard from the other vendors, they didn’t bother to open at all if the grates were all flooded.

      Still, they managed well enough for their family.

      They let the old woman wash and fold the napkins so she could feel a part of their business, and they fed her and let her sometimes make the sauces on the dishes that came from the back room...especially those filled with spices and plants and special nuts from the old country.

      In particular, she had a fondness for pickles...so much so that the brothers feared that the smell of her daily cooking of the same, along with the sewer trench smell outside, might scare off even more of their customers. So they did not sell the pickles in their store; instead, they threw them away out back, or sometimes fed them to the cows, who lowed in complaint. Whey they saw them lounging on the stairs down to their four room apartments, they fed them also to the goats which bleated the same irritated critique as the cows.

      So the day their grandmother offered to give the pickles to the man Tugli in the box, who some said was a sage, some said was a crackpot, and some said was simply a nice, polite man with bad teeth, the brothers gave a sigh of relief. They handed her the largest bag of the pickles they thought she could carry easily, with kind words to their grandmother about how much Tugli said he loved her cooking, and would enjoy the company.

      They did not do it to be cruel. They really did not know that Tugli disliked pickles.

      However, being an even-tempered sort of person, which was what allowed him to live so happily in the metal box in the first place, he supposed, Tugli did not really mind.

      Not at first.

      They did, however, tend to smell up the inside of the metal box.

      After a few weeks of daily pickle deliveries, Tugli got in the habit of putting those bags of pickles on the roof of his metal box. He waited until after the kind old lady had gone back to her restaurant on the corner of the same street, and then snuck them up there, feeling only a little twinge of guilt as he worried about the smell of vinegar and garlic penetrating the walls of the

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