In a patch of forest once rich with fruit trees, thick canopies, and the echo of playful calls, a heartbreaking scene unfolded beneath the darkening sky. Among the twisted roots of a dying fig tree, six tiny baby monkeys huddled together, shivering in silence. Their fur, once meant to be warm and soft, was damp from the morning rain, and their eyes held the kind of sadness only the truly helpless can show.
These six were not born into comfort. Their mothers had disappeared — some snatched by predators, others driven far away in search of food, never to return. The forest had changed. Where thick fruits once hung low, now only dry branches remained. The river that used to gurgle nearby had shrunk into a muddy stream. The cries of hungry babies echoed louder every day in the increasingly empty woods.
The eldest of the six, a weak but brave little one named Miri, was barely three months old. She had a strong spirit, though her body trembled from lack of food. Miri would always sit upright, wrapping her arms around the youngest, who was only a few weeks old — a fragile little boy with wide, tearful eyes. The others — Loka, Benu, Tika, and Sari — clung to each other, drawing warmth from skin-to-skin contact, each too tired to move or cry for help.
During the day, they crawled through the dirt and fallen leaves, sniffing for anything to eat — a bug, a rotten fruit, even bark. Often, they found nothing. Other monkeys would pass by, adults with food to spare, but they never shared. Sometimes they chased the babies away, snarling and baring their teeth, as if the six little ones were a burden or threat. Survival had made even the kindest monkeys cruel.
One evening, after a heavy storm had flooded part of the forest floor, the babies were stranded under a tilted log. The water had soaked their bodies, and two of them — Benu and Tika — were coughing weakly, struggling to breathe. Miri tried to lift their heads with her tiny hands, whispering little grunts of comfort, but she was only a baby too. She didn’t know how to save them.
That night, no stars could be seen. The forest was silent. Tika grew colder by the hour, her breath shallow and her limbs limp. By morning, she was gone. The others lay still around her, not fully understanding death but sensing something was deeply wrong. Miri sat beside Tika, not moving for hours, as if waiting for her to wake up.
The next days were no better. Food became even scarcer, and their strength was fading. The once-bright eyes of Sari had dulled, and even the youngest no longer whimpered. Then came the distant sound of human voices — workers clearing part of the forest to build a road. The machines roared louder each day. Trees fell. Nests were destroyed. The six, now five, had nowhere else to run.
But then, a miracle — a woman, part of a wildlife rescue team, spotted the weak group beneath the log. She froze when she saw them — five babies, barely moving, their bones sharp under thin skin, their eyes wide with fear. She dropped to her knees, tears stinging her eyes as she gently scooped them up, one by one.
Wrapped in warm cloth and taken to a nearby rescue center, the five survivors finally felt warmth and safety. Milk dripped gently into their mouths. Blankets softened their beds. And though they were far from healed, far from whole, the kindness of strangers began to undo some of the pain they had known.
Tika’s absence was still felt, an invisible space between them. But in the arms of care, under clean skies, the five poor babies had a chance. A chance to live, to grow, and to one day return to a forest reborn.
They were the forgotten six. But they wouldn’t be forgotten anymore.
