The old farmer, Ravi, carried a small, trembling monkey baby in his arms, its thin body covered in dust and dried mud. He had found it near his farm, curled up beside a pile of discarded ropes. Its tiny chest rose and fell weakly, and when Ravi looked closer, his heart sank—there was a dark, bruised mark around its neck. A noose mark.
“Who could have done this to you, little one?” he whispered, his eyes filled with sorrow.
Ravi took the baby monkey home, filled a small basin with warm water, and gently placed it inside. As he poured water over its fragile body, the monkey whimpered, its big, frightened eyes staring at him. He worked slowly, rinsing away the dirt, revealing soft brown fur underneath.
“It’s okay now,” Ravi said softly. “No one will hurt you anymore.”
The baby monkey shivered, clinging to his arm as if afraid he would disappear. Ravi wrapped it in a warm cloth and fed it tiny pieces of banana. At first, the monkey hesitated, but hunger won, and soon, it nibbled eagerly.
As days passed, the monkey—whom Ravi named Chintu—began to heal. Though the scar on its neck remained, its eyes no longer held fear. It followed Ravi around the farm, playing in the sunshine, climbing trees, and even snuggling beside him at night.
One evening, as Ravi sat on his porch, Chintu crawled onto his lap, wrapping its tiny arms around him. A silent thank-you.
Ravi smiled, stroking its fur. “You’re safe now, little one.”
And for the first time in its short life, Chintu believed it.
