In a small village nestled between green hills and tall palm trees, there lived a mischievous monkey named Kalu. Kalu was well-known in the area—not just for his clever tricks, but for being fiercely protective of his space. He liked things a certain way: quiet mornings, his favorite tree untouched, and most importantly, no surprises.
But one morning, a surprise came waddling into his life—small, noisy, and completely unaware of jungle rules.
A baby.
Little Tara had just learned how to walk, and her curious feet led her straight to the edge of the forest, where Kalu was lounging on a branch, munching on a mango. At first, he watched her with mild interest, tilting his head. But then she reached for his mango.
Kalu screeched in outrage.
He jumped down and waved his tiny arms, baring his teeth—not to bite, but to make it very, very clear: “That mango is mine!”
Tara only giggled. She thought it was a game. She clapped her little hands and tried to hug him.
Kalu was furious.
He leapt onto a rock, pulled at his fur, and tossed the half-eaten mango to the ground in dramatic protest. The baby laughed again, now crawling toward his favorite spot beneath the tree. She drooled on his banana stash. She poked at his tail.
Kalu couldn’t take it anymore.
He scampered up the tree, sat on a high branch, and turned his back on her with a deep huff. From above, he glared down at the giggling baby. “Why is this tiny human ruining my peace?” he seemed to say.
The villagers, hearing the commotion, rushed over. They scooped up Tara and apologized to Kalu, who, with arms crossed and eyes narrowed, refused to be soothed.
From that day on, whenever Tara approached the forest, Kalu would hide behind a tree, peeking out suspiciously. He never trusted her again—not after she drooled on his bananas.
Some said Kalu was being dramatic. But others knew: when a monkey loves his routine, even the tiniest baby can turn his whole world upside down.
