In the quiet corner of a small forest near a village, a baby monkey named Kiri sat on a large rock under the shade of a banyan tree. His fur was thin and a little dusty, and his small hands were trembling as he picked up a half-rotten fruit lying on the ground. He was hungry—so hungry it hurt. His belly was empty, and the pain twisted inside him like a knot that wouldn’t go away.
Kiri was just a few months old, still too young to find food on his own. In the wild, a baby monkey depends on its mother for almost everything—warmth, comfort, protection, and, most importantly, food. But Kiri didn’t have that anymore. His mother had started ignoring him ever since a new baby was born into the troop. She now poured all her attention and care onto the newborn, leaving Kiri to fend for himself.
At first, Kiri had cried out, hoping his mother would return. He chased after her, clung to her legs, and made soft baby sounds, but she pushed him away each time. The rejection broke his little heart. His eyes were always wet, not just from the sadness but from the growing hunger that gnawed at him every hour of the day.
This morning, he hadn’t eaten anything. While other baby monkeys nursed or were hand-fed by their mothers, Kiri wandered alone through the dry leaves and underbrush, searching for something—anything—he could put in his mouth.
He spotted a piece of mango half-eaten by a bird. His eyes lit up with desperate hope. He ran to it, slipped a little on the damp ground, but quickly picked it up. His hands shook as he tried to bite into it. The mango was sour and covered in dirt, but to Kiri, it was a treasure. He chewed hard, even though the fruit was tough and his baby teeth struggled to bite through the skin.
Every chew was an effort. His mouth was dry, his lips cracked, but he pushed through the pain. He was so small, so weak, yet he fought for every bit of food as though his life depended on it—because it did.
Suddenly, an older monkey from the troop appeared. Kiri froze. He knew what might happen. And just as he feared, the older monkey walked straight over and snatched the mango from his hands. Kiri let out a tiny squeal, his mouth still wet with the taste of the fruit. The bigger monkey gave him a cold stare, then walked away, munching the rest of the mango with no guilt at all.
Kiri sat there, frozen. His tiny body slumped forward. His lips quivered not from cold but from the overwhelming sadness. The little bit of food he had fought so hard for—gone in seconds.
But he didn’t give up. Hunger is cruel, but it can also push even the smallest soul to keep going.
He wiped his face with his tiny hand, sniffled, and moved forward again into the underbrush. A few ants were crawling over a banana peel. He approached it carefully. It was dry, barely edible, but he tried anyway. He gnawed on the softest part, ignoring the ants that bit his fingers. A few bites got into his mouth, and he chewed quietly. It wasn’t much, but for a moment, he felt like he had won a small battle.
Nearby, a group of humans had gathered to watch the monkeys. One of the visitors noticed Kiri—his tiny body, his slow movements, and his sad little face. She whispered to her friend, “That baby looks too weak.” She reached into her bag and took out a banana.
Kiri noticed the banana. His eyes locked onto it like it was the sun. The woman peeled it and threw a piece gently toward him. But before Kiri could even move, two bigger monkeys rushed over and grabbed it. Kiri didn’t even try. He just sat there, watching them devour what could have filled his belly.
His tiny stomach made a loud sound. Kiri held it with both hands, curling into a ball. A tear rolled down his dusty cheek.
But then, something surprising happened. The woman, seeing how the bigger monkeys stole everything, slowly moved closer and gently tossed a small piece of banana right near him—just enough for a baby. The bigger monkeys didn’t notice.
Kiri’s heart pounded. He looked at the banana chunk, then at the other monkeys. Slowly, he crawled forward. He paused every few steps, ready to run. But this time, no one came. He reached the banana, picked it up with both hands, and without wasting a second, shoved it into his mouth. It was sweet, soft, and full of life.
His eyes closed. That bite was everything. It tasted like hope.
He finished every bit, licking his fingers as he ate. It was the most he’d eaten in days.
The woman watched with tears in her eyes. “He’s just a baby,” she whispered. “No one should go hungry like that.”
But the forest is not always fair. Nature doesn’t stop to pity the weak. For Kiri, life continued to be a fight—every bite, every breath, a struggle. But in that moment, with banana on his lips and a little more energy in his bones, he felt something that had been missing: a flicker of strength.
He stood up shakily and looked around. Maybe he wasn’t full, but he wasn’t empty anymore.
And as the sun slowly dipped behind the trees, the most hungry baby monkey, who had fought through pain, rejection, and sadness, sat under the tree with a small smile. He had made it through another day.
And sometimes, in the wild, that’s everything.
