The forest was quieter than usual. Even the birds seemed to pause their songs as Dhira made his way through the dense undergrowth, Adolita tapping rhythmically against his shoulder. His breath was steady, his steps confident. He was six now—strong, fast, and stubborn. But today, he wasn't chasing wild boars or climbing trees. He was searching.
The image of the meditating monkey from days before had etched itself into his mind. It wasn't just the stillness—it was the serenity, the unshakable calm. Dhira had seen many animals in the forest, but none like that.
He reached the same moss-covered rock, thirty kosh from the Varha settlement. And there it was.
The monkey.
Same spot. Same posture. Eyes closed. Hands resting gently on its knees. Breathing slow and deep.
Dhira froze. A chill ran down his spine—not of fear, but of awe. "How?" he whispered. "How can it still be here?"
He crouched behind a bush, watching. Minutes passed. Then an hour. The monkey didn't move. Not a twitch. Not a blink.
Dhira grew restless. He stood up and walked closer, careful not to make noise. "Hey," he said softly. "Can you hear me?"
No response.
He frowned. "You probably don't understand me, do you?"
Still nothing.
Out of boredom, Dhira sat cross-legged and began talking—first about the forest, then about his tribe, and finally about Lord Varha, the boar-headed avatar of Vishnu. His voice grew animated as he described how Varha had lifted the Bhuloka—the earthly realm—on his mighty tusks, saving it from drowning in cosmic waters.
"He's strong," Dhira said proudly. "Like me. But calm. Like you."
The monkey didn't flinch.
Dhira sighed. The sun was dipping low. He was getting late. His mother would worry. Before leaving, he took out half of his lunch—roasted tubers and forest berries—wrapped it carefully in a banana leaf, and placed it beside the monkey.
"If you wake up," he said, "you'll be hungry."
Then he turned and ran back toward the settlement, Adolita bouncing against his back.
That night, under the moon's silver gaze, the monkey opened its eyes.
It blinked once, slowly, as if returning from a distant realm. Then it noticed the banana leaf beside it. Curious, it unwrapped the bundle and stared at the food inside. The scent was earthy, warm, familiar.
The monkey looked around. The forest was still. No sign of the boy.
It ate slowly, thoughtfully.
Then, with a deep breath, it closed its eyes again and resumed its meditation.
But something had changed.
A ripple had entered the still pond of its mind. A boy had spoken of gods and tusks and gifts. A boy had left food not out of fear or worship—but kindness.
And somewhere deep within the monkey's consciousness, a memory stirred.