In a quiet countryside village, where the skies were wide and the fields stretched endlessly with golden grass, lived a small and playful monkey named Tilo. Tilo was no ordinary monkey—he was clever, full of energy, and deeply curious about the world around him. His favorite pastime was exploring every nook and cranny of the land near his forest home, jumping between trees, swinging from vines, and sometimes sneaking into nearby gardens for a sweet banana or two.
But one fateful afternoon, Tilo’s curiosity led him somewhere dangerous.
The sun was high, casting a warm golden glow over the dusty path that ran along the village’s edge. Tilo scampered along the road, chasing a butterfly with brilliant blue wings. He was so captivated by its fluttering dance that he didn’t notice where he was going. As the butterfly soared high, Tilo leapt after it—but landed on unstable ground.
The stones beneath his feet shifted, and before he could catch his balance, Tilo slipped and fell into a deep, forgotten well hidden by weeds and tall grass.
With a splash, he hit the cold, dark water below. The walls of the well echoed his surprised cries. At first, he thrashed, startled and frightened, before paddling to stay afloat. He looked up—the mouth of the well was so far away, just a tiny circle of daylight above.
He was trapped.
The water was chilly, and the stone walls around him were slimy with moss. Tilo tried to cling to them and climb, but his tiny fingers slipped each time. He scratched, scrambled, and leapt again and again, but the top was too far and the surface too slick. His strength began to fade.
His frightened eyes scanned the surroundings. It was so quiet down there. No sound except the drip of water echoing endlessly. He called out. “Eek! Eek!” His high-pitched monkey cry rose up the well, but it was swallowed by the open air. No one answered.
Tilo was all alone.
Hours passed. The light above began to change as the sun moved across the sky. Shadows crept in. The baby monkey hugged himself, shivering in the cold water, now clinging to a small rock ledge just above the surface. His teeth chattered. Hunger and exhaustion set in.
He thought of the forest—the rustling trees, the warmth of his mother’s arms, the sweet taste of ripe mangoes. Tears welled in his big brown eyes. How had he gone from chasing butterflies to being trapped in this cold, dark place?
But even as despair gripped him, Tilo didn’t give up.
Again and again, he tried. He pressed his feet against the narrow wall, used his tiny fingers to grip every rough stone he could find, and tried to climb. Once, twice, a dozen times—but each time he fell back into the water with a splash.
Above ground, the village animals had noticed something strange. Tilo hadn’t returned to his favorite tree. He hadn’t shown up near the fruit stands. A wise old parrot, perched high in a tamarind tree, squawked loudly. “Where’s the monkey? Where’s little Tilo?”
A gentle goat, grazing near the well, heard a faint cry. Curious, she walked closer and sniffed the edge. Then she heard it again—“Eek! Eek!”
She peered down and saw two small eyes looking up from the shadows. Startled, the goat ran back toward the village, bleating loudly.
It wasn’t long before a group of children and villagers came running. A boy named Dara, who had often fed Tilo bananas, rushed to the edge of the well. His eyes widened with shock. “It’s Tilo! He’s down there!”
The villagers quickly sprang into action. They brought ropes, buckets, and a strong bamboo pole. Dara leaned over and called softly, “Hang on, Tilo. We’re going to get you out.”
Below, Tilo’s ears perked up. He recognized Dara’s voice. Though tired, he chirped weakly in reply. Hope flickered in his heart.
The villagers carefully lowered a basket tied to a rope into the well. “Come on, little one,” an elder murmured, guiding it gently. At first, Tilo didn’t understand. But when the basket touched the water, he reached out with his trembling hands and pulled himself inside. He curled up, soaked and shivering.
“Pull!” shouted Dara. The rope was drawn up slowly, creaking under the weight of water and hope.
At last, the basket reached the top. The villagers gasped as they saw the pitiful sight: Tilo, wet and shaking, his fur matted to his skin, his eyes tired but still full of life. Dara rushed forward, gently wrapping the monkey in a warm cloth.
“He’s okay,” whispered a young girl. “Poor thing, he was so scared.”
Tilo looked up at the faces surrounding him. They weren’t his monkey family, but they were kind, familiar. They had saved him.
Back in the village, they set up a cozy resting place under a mango tree. Tilo was given warm milk, bananas, and gentle care. As the sun began to set, he finally closed his eyes and drifted into a deep sleep, safe and warm.
That night, the villagers told stories of the brave little monkey who survived the old well. Children promised to cover the well properly, so no other creature would fall in. And Tilo—though still as curious as ever—learned to be more careful on his adventures.
From that day on, Tilo never went near the well again. But he often sat near Dara’s porch, munching fruit and watching butterflies with a thoughtful gaze. His fall had been frightening, but it had also shown him something important: even in the darkest place, kindness could reach down and lift you up.
And so, the pitiful monkey who once clung helplessly in the cold shadows below became a little wiser, a little braver—and forever loved by the people who rescued him.
