The Monkey and the Woman

Deep in the heart of the Western Ghats, where the jungle breathes like a living creature and ancient trees whisper secrets to the wind, there lived a woman named Mira. She wasn’t like the tourists who came with cameras and snacks; she came with notebooks and silence. A researcher of forest behavior, she had spent the last three years living on the edge of the rainforest, studying plant communication and the intelligence of animals.

Mira had always believed in the rhythm of the wild, in the quiet bond that could form between humans and nature. But what she did not expect was the monkey.

He was not just any monkey. With intelligent amber eyes and an unusual white stripe down his brow, he was known to the villagers as Chanda — "the moon-marked one." Unlike the other macaques, Chanda watched humans with more than curiosity. He observed. Calculated. And when Mira first saw him sitting quietly by her tree hut, she felt the same gaze she’d felt from no human — a gaze that saw into her.

At first, it was food. A banana, half eaten, left on her porch. A mango, mysteriously placed near her boots. Then, one day, Chanda brought her a stone — smooth, round, and etched with strange, ancient carvings. She stared at it, then at him. “Where did you get this?” she whispered.

The monkey only blinked and disappeared into the forest.

That night, Mira couldn’t sleep. Her dreams were filled with shadowy temples hidden under moss, and distant drums echoing through fog. The next morning, she followed him.

Chanda moved quickly but deliberately, looking back now and then to make sure Mira was still following. He led her off the regular paths, through thick canopies and across small streams, until they reached a clearing that pulsed with silence.

There it stood — a crumbling stone archway swallowed by vines. Behind it, steps led down into darkness.

Mira hesitated.

Chanda looked back at her, then darted inside.

Torch in hand, she followed.....

Torch in hand, she followed. The air inside was cool and damp. The walls were carved with murals: animals walking beside humans, a woman with long hair whispering to a leopard, and in the center — a monkey and a woman, hand in hand, standing before a glowing tree.

She gasped.

The carvings matched the stone Chanda had given her. This wasn’t just an old temple — it was a story, one possibly forgotten for centuries. And somehow, this monkey had brought her to it.

Over the next few weeks, Mira visited the site daily, documenting everything. Chanda would always be there, sometimes bringing her new stones, leaves, or even bits of clay figurines. Their bond deepened. She spoke to him like an old friend, and though he couldn’t respond in words, his eyes always seemed to understand.

But word spread in the village.

When the locals heard of the hidden temple, fear crept into their voices. They spoke of old spirits, warnings from the forest, and how the moon-marked monkey was no ordinary creature. Some said he was a guardian. Others, a curse.

One night, Mira awoke to the sound of drums and torches outside her hut. A group of men had come. “Leave the temple,” they warned. “The forest does not want you there.”

Mira looked around — Chanda was gone.

For the next two days, she searched. No trace. No stones. No fruits. Only silence.

On the third day, she returned to the temple one last time, heart heavy. She lit her torch and stepped inside.

He was there.

Chanda sat beneath the mural of the glowing tree, eyes dimmer than before. He was weak, his breathing shallow. In his paw was one final offering — a pendant, shaped like the tree in the carvings.

Tears filled Mira’s eyes. “Is this goodbye?”

She held his tiny hand and sat with him until the dawn filtered in through cracks in the stone.

When she emerged, the jungle felt different. Still wild, but gentler. The villagers noticed it too. The crops flourished. The rains came on time. Birds that hadn’t been seen in years returned.

They said the forest had been calmed. Balanced.

Mira never saw Chanda again, but she stayed. She became the unofficial guardian of the temple, teaching children about its history and the harmony that once existed — and could exist again — between nature and people.

And on quiet evenings, when the wind rustled through the trees just right, she would smile softly and whisper, “Thank you, my friend.”

The End.