Poki the monkey had always been full of energy — a little ball of fur and curiosity. In the sanctuary where he lived, he was known for his playful mischief, swinging between branches, stealing mango slices from unattended bowls, and making the younger monkeys laugh with his dramatic tumbles.
But that was before the accident.
One rainy afternoon, Poki had slipped from a wet branch and landed hard. The caretakers rushed to him and noticed something was wrong. He winced when touched and wouldn’t stand. Without wasting a moment, they took him to the animal hospital, where he stayed for several days. He was treated gently, wrapped in warm cloth, given medicine, and checked by kind vets — but it wasn’t home. There were strange smells, cold tables, and no familiar faces.
When Poki finally returned to the sanctuary, everyone expected him to bounce back.
But Poki didn’t.
He sat quietly in the corner of his enclosure, legs folded, eyes dull. The other monkeys offered him fruit, even his favorite ripe bananas, but he pushed them away. The caretakers tried coaxing him with his favorite treats, but he refused to eat. Every time someone approached with food, Poki would just turn his head and curl into a tight ball.
The sanctuary grew quiet in a different way — not from the absence of noise, but from the presence of concern.
“He’s not just in pain,” said Mara, one of the senior caretakers. “He’s scared. Something in him has changed.”
Mara decided to spend time with Poki each day. No food. No coaxing. Just sitting near him. At first, he didn’t react. Days passed. She read aloud to him from her notebook, softly hummed, and sometimes just sat in silence. One afternoon, she held out a peeled mango slice and didn’t move.
Poki stared at it for a long time.
He didn’t take it. Not yet. But his eyes softened. That was something.
The breakthrough came a few days later. As the sun filtered through the leaves in golden streaks, Poki slowly reached out and took a small bite of banana from Mara’s hand. It was barely a nibble, but it was the first sign of trust since he’d come back.
Tears welled in Mara’s eyes, but she said nothing, not wanting to scare him.
In the following days, Poki began eating again — slowly at first, then more confidently. He returned to the trees, though he climbed more cautiously now. His playfulness was quieter, but his spirit was returning.
It wasn’t just healing. It was recovery — physical, emotional, and deep. Poki had been through fear and pain, but he had also learned that he was loved, even in his silence.
And that love, patient and unwavering, was what brought him back.
