Under the soft rustle of leaves in a quiet jungle clearing, a father monkey named Ranu cradled his baby close. The little one, barely a few weeks old, had stopped playing two days ago. Her eyes, usually bright with mischief, were dull and half-closed. She was sick, and Ranu didn’t know why.
The troop had moved on, but Ranu stayed behind. His mate had died shortly after giving birth, and now, the baby was all he had. He didn’t have the instincts of a mother, but his heart beat with fierce love. He searched for ripe fruit and soft leaves. He dipped his fingers into streams, gently pressing water to the baby’s dry lips. But nothing seemed to help.
Other monkeys sometimes came by and watched. “What can a dad do?” some of them muttered. “He should have left her. She won’t survive.” But Ranu didn’t listen. He stayed up all night, wrapping his body around hers to keep her warm. He groomed her tiny face even when she was too weak to return the gesture.On the fourth morning, just as the sun broke through the canopy, the baby stirred. She sneezed—soft and sudden. Then again. Ranu froze. She opened her eyes wider than she had in days and gave a weak, familiar squeak.
Hope.
With tears in his tired eyes, Ranu held her tighter. He didn’t know if she was truly better yet, but she was fighting—and so was he.
No one had taught him how to care for a sick baby. But love had shown him the way.
In the jungle where survival was never promised, a worried father’s care had become the strongest medicine of all.
