The forest welcomed Dhira like an old friend. The air was thick with the scent of damp bark and wild blossoms, and the canopy above filtered sunlight into golden shafts. Adolita, his unbreakable stick, rested across his shoulders as he walked with a spring in his step.
He was returning to the moss-covered rock—his secret place, the place where the meditating monkey sat like a statue carved by time. But today, something was different.
As he approached, he paused behind a thicket. The meditating monkey was still there, unmoved, eyes closed, posture perfect. But now, a group of monkeys had gathered nearby—young, playful, and mischievous. They swung from branches, tumbled in the grass, and chattered loudly.
The moment they spotted Dhira, the games began.
One monkey tugged at his waistband. Another snatched Adolita and darted up a tree. A third leapt onto his back and covered his eyes. Dhīra laughed, dodging and weaving, treating it like a game. He leapt, rolled, and chased them back, retrieving his stick with a dramatic flourish.
But in the midst of the chaos, he misjudged a playful jab. His fist connected a little too hard with one of the monkeys, sending it tumbling. The others scattered. The injured monkey whimpered, clutching its side.
Dhira's smile vanished.
He knelt beside it, guilt washing over him. "I didn't mean to," he whispered. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a bundle of herbs—leaves and roots his sister Bhagyavati often used when he came home bruised or scraped. He chewed some into a paste and gently applied it to the monkey's wound, whispering apologies.
The meditating monkey remained still, as if untouched by the commotion.
Dhira sat down, heart still heavy, and began to speak—not to anyone in particular, but to the forest, the monkeys, and perhaps the silent figure on the rock.
He told stories.
He spoke of Lord Varha, the boar-headed savior who lifted the earth on his tusks. He described the cosmic battle against the demon Hiranyaksha, and how Varha roared with the voice of creation itself. Then, his voice softened as he shifted to the Ramayana, retelling the tales his mother had shared by firelight.
"I like Jambavan the most," he said. "He didn't need weapons. He fought with his body. Like me."
He smiled at the injured monkey, who now sat up, blinking curiously.
Unbeknownst to Dhira, an old rishi had arrived and settled quietly behind him, hidden in the shade of a banyan tree. The sage listened, his eyes twinkling, his breath slow and steady. He said nothing, letting the boy's voice carry through the forest like a sacred chant.
As Dhira finished his tale, he unwrapped his lunch—roasted roots and wild berries—and split it in half. One portion he wrapped in banana leaves and placed beside the meditating monkey, just as he had before.
He stood to leave.
And jumped.
The old sage was sitting right behind him.
"Why so startled, child?" the rishi asked, his voice like rustling leaves.
Dhira blinked, unsure whether to bow or run. "I—I didn't see you there."
The sage gestured to the injured monkey. "You tended to it with care. Why?"
Dhira straightened. "I fight to protect my friends and loved ones. I hunt to feed them. Hurting someone outside that… it's not right."
The rishi smiled, amused. "I've seen many hunters in these woods. Few speak of limits."
Dhira looked down. "I should go."
He turned to leave, then paused. From his satchel, he pulled the remaining half of his lunch—the part he hadn't shared with the monkey—and placed it gently before the sage.
"For you," he said, not meeting the rishi's eyes.
And then he ran, Adolita bouncing against his back, heart pounding—not from fear, but from something else. Something he couldn't name.
Behind him, the sage unwrapped the food and smiled.
"A boy who fights with fists, but feeds with heart," he murmured. "Interesting."