The early morning mist curled softly around the ancient stones of Angkor Wat, veiling the sacred forest in a quiet sadness. It was here, just behind a crumbling sandstone statue covered in moss, that I saw himāBaby Nilo, sitting alone. His small body trembled. His eyes were wide, searching, desperate.
Only yesterday, Nilo clung to his mother, Luma, as she navigated the tall trees, her long arms always shielding him from danger. She was fiercely protective and gentle, a mother known by many who visited the forest. But something changed that afternoon.
A distant commotion had erupted near the outer edge of the forestāaggressive males fighting for dominance. In the panic, groups scattered, and Luma, carrying Nilo, was caught in the chaos. She was injured. And by the time we followed the trail she left behindā¦ it was too late.
She was gone.
And Niloāhe was still there, not understanding what death truly meant. He didnāt cry right away. He just clung to her lifeless body, nudging it gently, softly chirping as if to wake her.
We watched silently from a respectful distance, tears in our eyes, as this tiny soul refused to let go.
Eventually, the troop moved on. Lumaās body was left in the underbrush, and Nilo followed slowly behindā¦ until he stopped, exactly where she had fallen. He curled up and waited.
Hours passed.
Tourists came and went.
And stillā¦ Nilo waited.
He didnāt eat. He didnāt play. He barely moved. Each leaf rustle, each monkey call, he perked upāhoping, praying, somehow that his mama had come back.
I came back the next day with bananas, hoping he would accept them. He didnāt. He sniffed them, then looked at me with hollow eyes that seemed too old for a baby. I placed the fruit nearby and sat quietly. I didnāt want to startle him. I only wanted him to know that someone still saw him. Someone still cared.
Two elder females from a neighboring troop cautiously approached him. One tried to pull him gently toward her chest. Nilo resisted at firstāhis trust was broken. But slowly, he gave in. He leaned against her. Not fully. Not the way he had with his mother. But it was a beginning.
The forest had claimed Luma. But it had not forsaken Nilo.
Weeks passed. Nilo began to play with other young monkeys. He smiled occasionallyāthose tiny, shy smiles that melted hearts. He ate fruit, climbed trees again. But every time he passed the old stone where his mother fell, he paused. He remembered.
I visit often. And every time I see him, stronger now, braver, I canāt help but remember the day he sat in silence, wrapped in grief. And how this little monkey, despite all the sorrow, chose to live.
Not because he forgotā¦
But because he loved her too much not to go on.