Story: “Tiny and Starving: A Second Chance for the Orphaned Baby Monkey”
The forest was unusually silent that morning, the heavy mist hanging low over the trees like a blanket of sorrow. A rustling leaf here, a distant bird call there—but nothing moved on the forest floor. Hidden in the undergrowth, curled in a shaking ball, was a baby monkey no older than a few weeks. His eyes were wide with fear, his tiny ribs visible under his dull fur, and his lips cracked from thirst. He had been waiting. Waiting for a mother who would never return.
She had fallen from a branch two days earlier—weak from starvation herself. A silent predator had taken her before she could get up. The baby, too small to understand death, had stayed nearby, crying softly and clutching the air where her body once lay. Each cry became quieter as his strength faded. No other monkeys had come. His troop had long since moved on, and now he was truly alone.
But not everyone had moved on.
Mira, a young woman from the nearby village, had come into the forest that morning with a sack of fruit and a camera. A wildlife volunteer and aspiring documentarian, she often wandered the outer edges of the forest to observe animals—especially monkeys. She didn’t expect heartbreak that day. She didn’t expect to find a life hanging by a thread.
She first heard a weak, rasping squeak—a sound so soft it could be mistaken for the wind. She stopped. Listened again. It came from a thicket near a fallen log. Mira crouched low, moving slowly, aware that a frightened animal might run. But the moment she brushed the leaves aside, her heart nearly broke.
There, trembling and barely moving, was the smallest baby monkey she had ever seen. His face was streaked with tears and dirt, his belly sunken. He looked up, too weak to cry anymore. Mira’s hands reached out instinctively.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, her voice gentle as a breeze. “You’re not alone anymore.”
Carefully, she wrapped the baby in her scarf, pressing him to her chest. He was so cold, so still. She could feel the thump of his tiny heart struggling inside his fragile body. She didn’t waste a second. Mira ran—ran through the brush, past the old fence, down the dusty trail to her home on the forest’s edge.
Once inside, she placed him in a small box lined with soft towels, warming a blanket in the sun to cover him. She grabbed a small baby bottle and filled it with diluted goat’s milk. The monkey was too weak to latch, so she used a syringe, carefully squeezing a few drops at a time into his mouth.
At first, he didn’t react.
But after a minute, a flicker of life returned. His tongue moved. He swallowed. Then a tiny hand gripped her finger—not out of strength, but out of desperation.
“You’re going to make it,” she said, tears falling as she fed him every hour, day and night, sleeping in short shifts by his box.
She named him Tomo—meaning “friend” in the local dialect.
Over the next week, Tomo slowly improved. His cries became louder. He started to lift his head, and even try to crawl. His fur regained some shine. Mira took him outside to feel the sun, the wind. He clung to her shirt as if she were his mother now. And in many ways, she was.
But raising a baby monkey was not simple. Tomo needed round-the-clock care. Special formula, heat, hygiene. And above all, love. Mira reached out to a nearby animal rescue center, and they offered to help. They sent supplies, checked his health, and advised her on rehabilitation.
Tomo began to play. First with his fingers, then with the toys Mira gave him—old shoelaces, soft cloth, branches. He squealed when she tickled him and curled up in her lap when tired. The haunted look in his eyes began to fade.
Weeks passed. Tomo grew stronger, livelier. His little belly filled out, his legs became steady. He explored the house with wide-eyed wonder, and every evening, he and Mira would sit under the mango tree watching the stars. It became their ritual. Her grief over losing her own mother years ago softened with every chirp and cuddle from Tomo.
One day, Mira took him to the forest’s edge. She introduced him slowly to a group of rescued monkeys in a sanctuary zone. At first, Tomo was scared, clinging to her as if he’d never let go. But soon, curiosity took over. He reached out to another young monkey and touched its hand.
He looked back at Mira with a wide-eyed expression—part fear, part hope.
“You’re ready, aren’t you?” she whispered, her voice tight.
The staff agreed to start the process of reintegration, slow and gentle. Tomo would never fully forget the arms that saved him—but he belonged to the wild.
As weeks turned into months, he visited Mira less and less. He had found his place among his kind. But one day, as she sat under the mango tree again, now alone, she heard a familiar sound. A soft chirp. She looked up.
Tomo, bigger and bolder now, swung down from a nearby branch. He didn’t stay long. Just nuzzled her cheek, chirped once, and leapt away into the forest.
And that was enough.
She had saved him, fed him, loved him back to life. And now, he was living.
