Angry Cries in the Canopy: Baby Monkey Suffers From Mother’s Rage
— A Heartbreaking Tale of Rejection and Fear in the Jungle
In the thick, tangled canopy of a tropical jungle, where the sunlight barely reached the forest floor and birds sang softly from the branches, a small baby monkey named Tulu huddled on a mossy branch, his tiny chest rising and falling in frightened breaths. His fur was damp with tears, and his wide eyes were filled with confusion and hurt. Just moments before, his own mother had shoved him away with a force that sent him tumbling.
Tulu wasn’t more than a few months old. His limbs were weak, his grip uncertain, and he still relied on his mother for every bit of care—from milk to warmth to protection. But lately, something had changed. His mother, Lira, once so gentle and attentive, had grown distant. Her once-warm gaze had turned cold. Her loving hands now struck instead of soothed.
It hadn’t always been this way. In the beginning, Lira had held Tulu close to her chest every hour of the day. She had groomed him, fed him, and rocked him to sleep with the rhythm of the trees. But as weeks passed, something in her demeanor hardened. Perhaps it was the scarcity of food. Perhaps it was the pressure of being part of a demanding troop. Or perhaps, hidden trauma in Lira’s past had awakened, triggered by her own struggles as a mother.
Now, each time Tulu tried to crawl into her arms, she growled or pushed him away. Sometimes she even slapped his little head or pulled his tail roughly. And worst of all, it always happened in front of the troop.
The other monkeys rarely interfered. Some looked on with passive disinterest, others turned away, too used to seeing such moments to care. Only one, an older female named Nana, sometimes made soft calls toward Tulu, but she never stepped in. In monkey society, mothers often raised their own babies alone—and intervention could lead to fights or exile.
That morning, Tulu had made the simple mistake of whining from hunger. His belly was empty, and he hadn’t nursed for two days. He crawled slowly toward his mother, reaching with trembling arms. But Lira, perched on a higher branch, turned suddenly and snarled. With a flick of her arm, she swatted him hard, sending him spinning down to a lower branch.
He didn’t fall far—but far enough to hurt. Far enough to make the world blur and his breath catch in his throat.
He landed awkwardly, scraping his tiny elbow on the bark. His cry echoed through the trees—a sharp, high-pitched sound of pain, betrayal, and confusion. Birds fluttered away. Leaves trembled. But the canopy was silent in response.
Lira didn’t even look down.
Tulu lay there for a long time. The warmth of the branch beneath him couldn’t compare to the warmth he longed for—his mother’s chest, her arms, her heartbeat. He curled into a tiny ball and closed his eyes, hoping sleep would take him far away. But sleep wouldn’t come. Hunger gnawed at his belly, and sadness weighed on his soul.
By the time the sun started sinking into the horizon, painting the sky in strokes of orange and gold, Tulu had found the courage to try again. Slowly, cautiously, he climbed back up to where Lira sat, her eyes scanning the trees for danger, but her face still hard.
He approached her not from the front, but from the side—quietly, carefully. Just to be near her. Just to feel her presence.
He didn’t even try to nurse. He simply sat beside her, hoping that maybe—just maybe—she would allow him to stay.
But Lira shifted and looked down at him. Her eyes, once filled with maternal instinct, now burned with frustration. With a quick, irritated sound, she raised her arm again.
This time, however, someone intervened.
Nana, the older female, had been watching from a few branches away. With a sharp bark, she leaped toward them and placed herself between Lira and the baby. Her body language was calm but firm. Her eyes met Lira’s, and for a long second, the air was heavy with tension.
Lira’s body tensed. But then she turned her face away and leapt into the higher branches, disappearing into the thick canopy.
Tulu sat frozen. His tiny hands gripped the branch, his heart pounding like a distant drum. He didn’t understand what had just happened—but he was grateful.
Nana reached out slowly, not touching him at first. Just sitting near him, letting him feel safe. Then she scooted closer and gently pulled a piece of bark from his fur, cleaning him the way his mother once had.
It was the first gentle touch he had felt in days.
Night crept in, and fireflies began to flicker between the leaves. The jungle turned quiet, except for the calls of distant owls and the rustle of sleeping monkeys. Tulu nestled beside Nana, still scared, still hungry, but no longer entirely alone.
He didn’t know what would happen tomorrow. He didn’t know if Lira would ever love him the way she once did. But that night, under the stars and the ancient trees, he felt a flicker of hope. A hope that maybe, even in a world where anger sometimes replaces love, kindness could still find its way through.
And as he drifted into sleep, the angry cries that had once echoed through the canopy were replaced by soft, sleepy breaths—proof that even in pain, there can be peace.
