In the playful troop of macaques, Kaya was a jealous older sister. Her baby brother, Benji, had become the center of their mother’s attention since his birth, and Kaya’s once-unquestioned spot had vanished. One afternoon, as the family foraged near a rain-filled depression in the earth—a muddy sinkhole—Kaya saw an opportunity.
Benji was teetering curiously at the edge. In a sudden flash of impulsive spite, Kaya didn’t nudge him away to safety. Instead, she grabbed his tiny arm and, with a deliberate tug, dragged him over the edge and into the thick, oozing mud below. It was not an accident. It was a selfish act of displaced anger, a dangerous attempt to remove the source of her irritation.
Benji disappeared with a soft plop before emitting a shocked, gurgling cry. The cold, clinging mud swallowed his legs and weighed him down. He flailed, his cries becoming desperate, panicked shrieks as he struggled against the suction. Kya watched from above, her initial satisfaction quickly melting into uncertainty as his terrified screams filled the air.
Their mother arrived in a heartbeat. One glance told her everything. She let out a sharp, furious bark at Kaya, who cowered backward. Then, without hesitation, the mother monkey slid down into the pit. She waded through the mud, her own body becoming coated, and scooped Benji from the mire. He was a small, trembling statue of mud, his cries now muffled and choked with sludge.
The mother carried him out, cleaning his face and airways first with her fingers, then with urgent, soothing licks. The selfish act had not won Kaya any attention; it had only brought severe disapproval and temporarily endangered the troop. Benji, once cleaned and comforted, stayed glued to his mother’s chest. Kaya was left on the outskirts, watching. She learned a hard lesson that day: that selfish actions could create real danger, and that the consequence was not reward, but isolation. The muddy sinkhole became a stark reminder—a place where jealousy almost led to tragedy.
