The forest around Angkor Wat holds centuries of silent stories — but none as raw, as tender, as heart-aching as the cry of baby Sariki. I was there. I remember the humid air trembling as Sariki’s call echoed beneath ancient tree canopies, the kind that have watched temple spires rise and fall.
Sariki — no more than a few months old — scampered across mossy roots, her small chest heaving with longing. She paused, looked skyward, and let out a plaintive wail. Her eyes, large and shimmering in the dappled light, searched for the familiar gaze of her mother, Sarika. But the forest gave nothing but rustling leaves and shifting shadows.
In that silence, I felt a knot in my throat. There’s something deeply human in a baby’s cry — and Sariki’s was as real as any child’s. The stillness around felt too vast, too indifferent, for such a fragile plea.
I followed her soft footsteps. She clung to a low branch, swaying slightly, trying to find comfort in the height — but it did nothing to ease her longing. She nestled her head against the rough bark, her small arms wrapping around the tree as though pretending it was her mother’s shoulder.
That’s when I realized how much we take for granted our human comforts — the warmth of a hug, the steady heartbeat of someone who loves us. Sariki had none of that.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Then a movement — slight, cautious. A rustle of leaves, soft and hesitant. Sarika, the mother, emerged from the jungle’s green gloom. Her fur glistened with dew. Her eyes locked on Sariki, and relief washed over the baby’s face.
The reunion was quiet. No grand gestures, no dramatic leaps — just a gentle, almost sacred, bending of Sarika’s body. Sariki scrambled up, her small arms wrapping around her mother’s neck. I remember the forest going silent as if paying respect to that moment.
But beneath that calm, I felt thunder in my chest — the weight of what I had almost witnessed: a baby alone, too young and too small, afraid of the forest’s coldness.
As dusk settled and golden light filtered through the canopy, Sarika held Sariki close. Their silhouettes merged into one. For a moment, all was peace. I stepped away quietly, not wanting to break the magic — but carrying that ache of longing within me, like a wound that refuses to fade.
I don’t know what Sariki dreamed that night. But I hope she slept knowing she was safe, knowing her mother’s love still surrounded her.
Because in the wild, when everything feels uncertain, love — even among monkeys — can still be the softest, strongest shelter of all.
