Baby monkey Shala is known for one thing more than anything else: her tantrums when hunger arrives. The moment her stomach wakes before her eyes, the room fills with sharp cries and restless movement. She kicks, twists, and shakes her tiny head, demanding milk with a voice far bigger than her size.
Hunger makes Shala impatient. Waiting feels impossible. Every second stretches too long, and frustration spills out as loud screams and dramatic sobs. Her little hands slap the table, then reach forward, searching for the bottle she knows so well. Tears gather fast, rolling down her cheeks as if the world has forgotten her.
To outsiders it looks like anger, but inside Shala’s heart it is fear. Hunger means emptiness. Emptiness means losing comfort. Milk is not only food; it is safety, warmth, and reassurance. Without it, her body reacts before her mind can understand.
Dad usually rushes to her side, speaking softly while preparing the bottle. But even those few moments feel unbearable. Shala cries harder when she sees him, knowing help is close yet not close enough. Her whole body trembles with need, breath uneven, voice cracking.
When the warm bottle finally touches her lips, the change is immediate. She latches on fiercely, drinking fast, almost angrily. Milk dribbles down her chin, but she doesn’t care. Her cries fade into steady gulps. Her shoulders relax. Her fists unclench.
Minutes later, the tantrum is only a memory. Shala’s eyes grow heavy, blinking slowly. She leans into comfort, calm returning as warmth fills her belly. The room grows quiet again.
Shala isn’t spoiled or difficult. She is small, sensitive, and learning how the world works. Until she learns patience, hunger will always bring storms. And love, arriving with milk, will always calm them. Every feeding teaches trust, timing, security.
