It was afternoon, the kind of hour when the street usually went quiet, just the fan whirring and a radio playing somewhere far off. Then came a sound, dum, dum, dum, someone was playing a damroo, still far away, but our ears were already up. Spoons got left mid bite, slippers stayed behind, we just ran for the gully.
Everyone found their spot like it was some unwritten rule. We kids sat right up front on the ground, not caring about the dust. The grown ups stood behind, someone leaning on a wall, someone with arms crossed. That was the madaari. A long stick over his shoulder, a monkey tied to it, and often a female monkey along with him too.
Once the crowd gathered he hit the damroo harder, and the monkey folded its hands and did a salaam to everyone. He'd loosen the rope a little and the monkey would leap toward us, and whoever was sitting in the front row would scramble back, someone always yelped. The madaari would smile and pull the rope back, "daro mat, kaatta nahi hai," don't be scared, he doesn't bite. Next round, the same thing happened again.
All through the show he kept stopping to say, "taali bajao bhai log," clap, everyone. Even if the trick wasn't finished yet, everyone clapped anyway, like that was part of the act too.
Then the real show began. He'd call the monkey jamoora and sing while playing the damroo, "naach mere jamoore." The monkey would jump up and dance, arms raised, sometimes spinning on one leg. Midway the madaari would stop suddenly, make a face and ask, "kyun re, aaj jamoora naraaz ho gaya kya," annoyed today, is he. The monkey would sit down and sulk, like it really was upset. Then he'd coax it, "chal aaja, kursi pe baith ja," and the monkey would climb onto an old empty box lying there and sit like it was a proper chair, legs crossed, full attitude.
Then came the running commentary. "Arre bhai log, aaj bazaar mein paanch sau wali ghadi pachaas mein mil gayi, zara dikha jamoore, kitni khushi hui," a five hundred rupee watch for fifty, show us the joy. The monkey would jump around clapping, like it had won a lottery. "Ab dikha, Akshay Kumar wala back jump," and the monkey would flip backward and land standing. "Chal bata, Salman Khan exercise kaise karta hai," and the monkey would puff its chest, flex its arms, breathe hard like it was in a gym. Every round brought some new request, and we just waited for the next one.
Then the madaari brought out his best bit. "Arre ghar mein khud khaana bana bana ke thak gaya hai, ja apni bahu ko sasural se wapas le ke aa, chal dikha kaise jayega," tired of cooking his own food, go bring his wife back from her parents' house. The monkey would limp off, head hanging, like it was starting some long tiring journey. "Ab sasural aa gaya hai, ye le, kursi number do pe baith ja," and the madaari would push the same box forward, but this time the monkey shook its head, no. The madaari would act shocked, "kyun re, is par nahi baithega, damaad wali kursi chahiye," then grin, "arre ye kursi toh teri saali sahiba leke aayi hai," and the monkey would jump straight onto the box, and the whole street would burst into applause.
Last came the bride act, the one everyone waited for. "Ab dikhao dulhan banna." The monkey would drape an old, dirty cloth over its head like a ghoonghat, and look around shyly. Someone from the back would shout, "arre dahej bhi do," and the madaari always had some quick reply that had everyone in splits.
Once the show ended, he'd pull out a thaali, hand it to the monkey, and it would go around the crowd holding it out. A few people watched from their balconies, dropping a coin down. Some gave one rupee, some two, someone from the corner would hand over a biscuit. We stayed sitting right where we were, watching, like something big had just happened.
Thinking about it now, it was such a small show, and yet the whole street would turn up for it. No mobile phones, no YouTube, just the sound of a damroo was enough to pull everyone outside.
The madaaris don't come around anymore, the monkeys don't dance, the rules changed. Turns out those monkeys were a protected species all along, and the law slowly caught up with these shows, meant to stop them from being made to perform like that. Fair enough, probably, thinking about it now as an adult, but back then none of us kids knew any of it, we just knew the show stopped coming one day.
Anyone who wants to relive those days, or never saw one, there are a few old videos left on YouTube, though the sun on the street and the warmth of that crowd never quite make it into the frame.
