In the hush of early morning, the jungle stirred awake—soft rustles, birds calling, dew catching sunlight in glittering drops. But beneath a tall kapok tree, not far from the troop’s resting spot, came a different kind of sound: the weak, trembling cry of a newborn monkey.
He was barely the size of a fallen mango, with wrinkled skin and patches of thin, damp fur. His body twitched uncontrollably—tiny seizures rattling through his limbs. His fingers, fragile as twigs, scraped against the dirt as he tried to crawl. His cries, cracked and desperate, barely reached above the hum of the waking forest.
His name was Nilo.
Just a few feet away, his mother, Emila, sat on a flat rock, her back turned. She munched calmly on ripe jackfruit, juices staining her lips, eyes heavy with indifference. Her face was blank, unmoved. The cries behind her didn’t break her rhythm. She didn’t even glance back.
The troop had seen it before. Emila had never been the nurturing kind. She was young, still finding her place, never truly connected to her newborn. Some said she had lost a sibling when she was small—others whispered she was simply cold.
But the baby didn’t understand any of that.
Nilo shivered on the cool earth, his cries growing hoarse, his body jerking in brief, frightened spasms. He didn’t know why his mother didn’t come. He didn’t know why her scent was near but her warmth never followed. He only knew hunger, pain, and confusion.
A few monkeys glanced his way, but none approached. The troop kept a cautious distance—out of respect, fear, maybe even habit. The jungle was cruel at times. Weakness often met silence.
Yet one watched longer than the rest.
From the low branches above, an elder monkey named Suma crouched silently, her face lined with age and loss. She had raised many, buried some. Her gaze stayed fixed on Nilo, her eyes dark with sorrow. She waited, unsure whether to interfere. The rules of the troop were unspoken but firm—mothers tend to their own.
But this one wasn’t.
Nilo let out one last, dry cry, then collapsed, his tiny limbs spread out on the dirt, seizing softly. His breath came in shallow bursts. That was the moment Suma descended. Without a sound, she landed beside him and scooped his frail body into her arms.
He twitched, but the warmth soothed him. Her old chest bore no milk, but her arms carried comfort. She curled around him, humming low.
Emila never turned. She finished her fruit, licked her fingers, and climbed into the trees.
That night, the troop huddled in nests, but Suma lay curled beneath the tree’s roots, Nilo tucked close. He didn’t cry anymore. Just whimpered now and then, unsure of where he was—but feeling something he hadn’t felt since birth: held.
And though the jungle forgot many things, it remembered this—the newborn who cried for a mother who never looked, and the elder whose heart refused to stay silent.
