The sun had barely risen over the quiet village when Old Man Dara stepped outside his wooden hut, his walking stick tapping lightly on the stone path. His white hair caught the soft morning light, and though age had slowed his steps, his eyes still held the warmth of kindness that everyone in the village knew so well.
On most mornings, he would sit beneath the tall jackfruit tree behind his house, sipping tea while watching the world wake up. But today was different. Today, the faint cries he’d heard since dawn tugged at his heart like a memory he couldn’t ignore.
He followed the sound to the edge of the bamboo forest. As he moved aside the tall grass, he froze.
There—huddled together in a damp pile of leaves—were two tiny baby monkeys.
Twins.
Their bodies were trembling, their fur damp from dew, their bellies hollow with hunger. One clung desperately to the other, eyes wide with fear. The other’s small face was streaked with dirt and tears. They looked far too young to be alone.
Dara knelt slowly, ignoring the sharp pain in his knees. “Oh, little ones…” he whispered, his voice gentle as a breeze. “Where is your mother?”
The babies only whimpered in response, curling tighter against each other.
He knew instantly that they would not survive another day like this—not without care, not without warmth.
Very carefully, he slipped his hands beneath them, lifting them against his chest. The twins clung to his shirt with surprising strength, their tiny fingers curling into the fabric as if begging him not to leave them behind.
“I’ve got you,” Dara murmured softly, holding them close as he carried them back to his home.
Inside the hut, Dara lit a small fire to warm the room and placed the twins on a soft cloth near the hearth. They shivered, but slowly, as the warmth reached their tiny bodies, their cries softened.
Dara prepared warm milk in a small bowl. His hands were old and slow, but his movements were careful. He dipped a clean cloth into the milk, letting it soak, then squeezed gentle drops into the mouth of the weaker twin.
The baby latched on instantly, sucking eagerly.
“There now… slowly, slowly,” Dara whispered, smiling faintly.
The stronger twin reached out with both hands, tiny fingers trembling with impatience. Dara chuckled softly and dipped another cloth for the second baby. They both drank desperately, as though they had been starving for days.
As they fed, Dara watched them with deep tenderness. He had lived a long life, filled with seasons of joy and seasons of sorrow. Long ago, he had lost his wife, and later, his only daughter. The house had been quiet for many years—too quiet.
But now, with the soft sounds of the babies suckling, he felt a warmth he hadn’t felt in decades. Life—fragile and innocent—was breathing beside him again.
After their meal, Dara wrapped them gently in a soft cotton scarf. The twins snuggled together beneath the fabric, their little bellies round with milk. One of them reached up and touched Dara’s hand with a trembling fingertip.
The old man’s heart softened even more.
He carried them outside to sit beneath the jackfruit tree. The morning sun warmed the earth, and the breeze carried the scent of flowers and ripe fruit. Birds chirped overhead, and the babies blinked at the bright world around them.
When one twin tried to stand, wobbling hopelessly on weak legs, Dara placed a steady hand behind its back.
“Not yet, little one,” he said with a warm smile. “Your time will come.”
The baby clung to his finger, its tiny hand gripping with trust.
The other twin crawled onto Dara’s lap, curling up like a child seeking comfort. Dara stroked its back gently, marveling at how small they both were.
“You two are safe here,” he whispered. “I will look after you.”
The babies seemed to understand. They pressed closer to him, tiny hearts beating quickly against his old chest.
As the day passed, Dara fed them warm milk again and again. When the weaker twin grew sleepy, he cradled it like a newborn child, rocking slowly until it drifted off. The stronger twin toddled clumsily across his lap, clinging to his shirt and tapping at his beard with curious fingers.
Dara laughed—a sound that felt strange and new after so many quiet years.
“You rascal,” he chuckled. “Just like my daughter when she was small.”
At those words, memories washed over him—memories of a home once filled with laughter. For the first time in years, those memories didn’t hurt. They warmed him instead.
As evening arrived, Dara prepared a small bed from old blankets and set it beside his own. The babies curled into each other instantly. But before they fell asleep, they reached toward him with tiny hands.
He understood.
He lay down beside their bed, close enough that they could feel his presence. One twin gripped his finger. The other rested its tiny hand on his arm.
“You’re not alone anymore,” Dara whispered.
The babies closed their eyes, finally safe.
Over the next days, Dara cared for them tirelessly. He fed them, cleaned their fur, warmed them by the fire, and carried them on his shoulders as he walked through the village. The villagers watched with gentle smiles—some laughing softly at the sight of an old man with two baby monkeys clinging to his shirt.
But Dara didn’t mind. To him, they were not just animals.
They were the little lives he had been waiting for without knowing it.
They filled his days with love and purpose.
Every morning, the twins greeted him with soft coos and eager hands. Every night, they curled beside him, trusting him completely.
Dara’s home was no longer quiet.
It was alive.
And as he fed them warm milk beneath the jackfruit tree at sunset, with their small faces relaxed and content, he knew one thing with certainty:
He had saved them…
…but they had saved him too.
