After her bath, baby monkey Shala felt cool and uncomfortable. Water had washed away the day’s warmth, leaving her tiny body shivering softly. She sat wrapped in a towel, eyes wide, lips trembling, and suddenly her patience disappeared. A loud cry burst out, sharp and urgent, filling the room with need.
Shala cried for warm milk with all her strength. Her arms waved, feet kicked, and her voice cracked again and again. To her, warmth meant safety. Milk meant comfort. Without it, the world felt too big and too cold. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she searched desperately for her caregiver.
Mom hurried closer, rubbing Shala’s back to bring heat back into her skin. Still, Shala cried louder, demanding what she needed now. Her small body leaned forward, mouth opening eagerly, every sound saying the same thing: hurry. The towel slipped slightly as she squirmed, impatient and miserable.
At last, the bottle arrived, warm and familiar. Shala cried once more, then latched on eagerly. Her hands gripped tight, afraid the warmth might vanish. Milk flowed slowly, and with each swallow, her cries softened. The shivering eased. Her shoulders relaxed. Her eyes blinked slower.
Mom held her close, keeping her warm, pausing gently to burp her before offering more. Shala sighed between drinks, tiny sounds replacing screams. The cold feeling faded, replaced by comfort spreading through her belly and chest.
Soon, the storm passed. Shala rested quietly, cheek pressed against mom, breathing calm and steady. Bath time had stolen her warmth, but love and milk brought it back. In that peaceful moment, Shala felt safe again, wrapped in warmth, care, and trust.
She drifted toward sleep, comforted by gentle hands, full belly, quiet room, and the promise that warmth would always return whenever she cried and called for her mom.
