A Walk Down the Monkey Lane: Coexistence in the Year of Mars

It was on a long flight from San Francisco to Singapore, somewhere in the stillness above the Pacific, when I found myself seated next to a young man from Karachi. He was traveling for work — something to do with urban development, he explained, though the fatigue of the journey made me only half-listen at first. But as the conversation unfolded, one detail struck me. His expertise lay in finding ways for humans and monkeys to coexist in urban environments.

Monkeys, I thought, and my mind immediately wandered to my childhood in Jaipur, where black-faced langurs often visited our courtyard, their bold antics both fascinating and alarming. They had a habit of sneaking into our kitchen, rummaging through fruit bowls, and, if lucky, snatching “roti” right off the stove. I thought to share this memory with the young man, but the weariness of the flight kept me quiet. Instead, I nodded politely as he described his work, but my mind was already elsewhere — deep in memories of monkeys and temples, of chaotic encounters and serene landscapes.

Later, after we had parted ways in Singapore, I couldn’t shake the thought. On a brief trip to Bali, I made my way to Ubud’s Sacred Monkey Forest, and it was there, among the trees and the sounds of Balinese flutes in the distance, that everything I hadn’t said to him came rushing back. My mind kept drifting between this lush forest, alive with the chatter of macaques, and the dry, rocky hills of Rajasthan, where the so called “sacred” monkeys of Galtaji Temple roam.

Galtaji Temple – Jaipur, Rajasthan

Galtaji lies about 10 kilometers from Jaipur, nestled in the rugged, arid hills that encircle the Pink City. It’s an ancient pilgrimage site, more than just a temple; it’s a living intersection of myth and daily devotion. The temple complex is dedicated to Hanuman, the monkey god, and it’s not surprising that rhesus macaques, medium-sized monkeys with their reddish-pink faces, are everywhere.

As a child, I found the monkeys at Galtaji fascinating. They roamed freely among the temple’s kunds—natural springs and water tanks—and along its winding staircases. My grandmother, a devout woman, used to tell me that these monkeys were Hanuman’s emissaries, divine in their presence. Most of the time, they were seemingly docile, often sitting in groups, grooming one another as if humans were irrelevant. They would watch us out of the corner of their eyes, feigning disinterest. But I knew better. They were always waiting for an opportunity—a bag left unattended, food too close to the ground—and when the moment was right, they’d dart in with astonishing speed.

Despite their outwardly aloof demeanor, I’d learned to respect the distance between us. If you got too close, they’d snarl and bare their teeth, their faces transforming into something far less innocuous. Even the temple monkeys had boundaries, a sharp reminder that they weren’t just religious symbols, but wild animals navigating the crowded space alongside us.

The landscape around Galtaji was as much a part of the experience as the monkeys themselves. Unlike the lush jungles I would later visit in Bali, Rajasthan was dry, with rocky outcrops that turned golden in the late afternoon light. The air was thick with the dust of the desert, and the monkeys seemed almost a part of the land, moving with ease through the sparse foliage and crumbling stone. In this environment, they weren’t just sacred—they were survivors, adapting to the urbanization creeping toward the temple, coexisting with the ever-growing human population of Jaipur.

Sacred Monkey Forest – Ubud, Bali

The contrast couldn’t have been more striking when I entered the Sacred Monkey Forest in Ubud. Here, the long-tailed macaques weren’t just temple dwellers; they were part of the forest itself, living in harmony with the towering trees, the rushing streams, and the intricate carvings of the Pura Dalem Agung Padangtegal temple. Unlike the dry, rocky expanse of Galtaji, this was a place of abundance—lush, green, and teeming with life.

The macaques here felt different, too. Smaller than their Indian cousins, with long tails and soft, gray fur, they moved through the forest with an ease that felt almost playful. They would sit in clusters, grooming one another, just like the rhesus macaques at Galtaji, pretending to ignore the constant stream of tourists. But I noticed their sharp eyes flickering towards any human who got too close, the way they instinctively scanned for an opportunity — a bag left open, a dangling piece of jewelry.

Most of the time, they were seemingly indifferent, but like their cousins in India, they had their limits. If a tourist came too near or attempted to touch them, they’d bare their teeth in a quick flash of warning. In an instant, their easygoing nature turned into something more primal. The guides warned us to keep our distance, to respect their space. It was a delicate balance, one that both the monkeys and humans seemed to understand instinctively. Too close, and the peace would break. Far enough away, and the monkeys would go back to their grooming and quiet watchfulness, keeping a side-eye on every move.

In Ubud, the relationship felt more dynamic, even more managed. The monkeys were an essential part of the tourist experience, and their interactions with humans were playful but also carefully monitored. The tropical environment gave them plenty of food and space, but the influx of tourists posed its own challenges. Conservation efforts were in place to ensure that the macaques—and the forest itself—were protected from the pressures of tourism.

Reflections on Coexistence

I couldn’t help but think of the young man from Karachi as I wandered through the forest. He had spent his career thinking about how humans and monkeys could share space in urban environments, and here I was, seeing two completely different versions of that coexistence. In Galtaji, the monkeys were sacred, but their relationship with humans was passive. They were fed and respected but also left to fend for themselves, adapting to the encroachment of human life on their temple home. In Ubud, the relationship felt more interactive, almost as though the monkeys were a part of the cultural and tourist landscape.

In a world where humans of different stripes find it difficult to coexist, the thought about coexisting with other species was important because we were on the brink of wiping them out. As responsible humans, improving our ecosystems and maintaining a balance without encroaching too much on the habitat of wild animals was our civic and moral duty.

2025 is the year of Mars, and a lot of monkey business has started, but praying to Hanuman, the monkey god, might just help appease the problems that the world is facing. As I left the Sacred Monkey Forest, I carried with me an awareness of how fragile our world is and the natural balance is tipping precariously. The monkeys of Jaipur and 

Bali had adapted to us — now, it was our turn to ensure they could continue to coexist in a world that is constantly changing.

---

With one foot in Huntsville, Alabama, the other in her birth home India, and a heart steeped in humanity, writing is a contemplative practice for Monita Soni. She has published hundreds of poems, movie reviews, book critiques, and essays and contributed to combined literary works. Her two books are My Light Reflections and Flow through My Heart. You can hear her commentaries on Sundial Writers Corner WLRH 89.3FM.