The Monkey and the Crocodile

Once upon a time, on the bank of a wide, slow river, there grew a tall rose-apple tree. Its fruit was round and pink and so sweet that the bees hummed with happiness around it. In that tree lived a monkey named Raktamukha, which means “Red-face”, because his cheeks were as rosy as the fruit he loved.

One hot afternoon, a big crocodile named Karālamukha dragged himself out of the water to rest under the tree. He looked tired and hungry.

“Hello, friend!” called the monkey. “You look like you’ve swum a long way. Would you like some rose-apples?” He dropped a handful of fruit into the crocodile’s open jaws.

The crocodile crunched. His eyes went wide. “These are delicious!”

From that day on, the crocodile came every afternoon. The monkey would toss down the ripest fruit, and the two would talk for hours: about the river, the sky, and the faraway places the crocodile had seen. They became the best of friends.

Each evening the crocodile carried some rose-apples home to his wife. She ate them and licked her lips. But she was not pleased.

“If the fruit is this sweet,” she said slowly, “imagine how sweet the heart of a monkey who eats it every day must be! Bring me your friend’s heart. If you don’t, I will never speak to you again.”

The crocodile’s tummy turned over. “But he’s my friend!” he said.

His wife turned her back and would not listen.

The next day, the crocodile came to the tree with a sad smile. “Dear friend,” he said, “my wife wants to thank you for all the fruit. She has invited you to dinner at our home across the river. Climb on my back, and I’ll carry you there.”

The monkey had never been across the river. “How kind!” he said, and he hopped onto the crocodile’s knobbly back.

Off they went. The water grew deeper and darker. The tree grew smaller behind them. Then, in the very middle of the river, the crocodile stopped.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to tell you the truth. My wife doesn’t want to thank you. She wants to eat your heart.”

The monkey’s heart, which was very much inside his chest, began to thump. All around him was deep water, and monkeys cannot swim. He could have cried. He could have shouted. Instead, he took one slow breath and thought.

“Oh, my friend!” he said, sounding sorry. “Why didn’t you tell me before? Monkeys never carry their hearts around when they travel. It’s far too precious! I left mine safely up in the rose-apple tree. Take me back, and I’ll fetch it for your wife at once.”

The crocodile, who was not very clever, said, “Oh! Of course!” He turned around and swam all the way back.

The moment they reached the bank, the monkey leapt off and scampered to the very top of the tree.

“Come on, then,” called the crocodile. “Bring down your heart!”

The monkey looked down at him, and his voice was kind but firm.

“Foolish friend. Nobody keeps their heart in a tree. You were ready to trade our friendship for a wicked wish. A true friend would never have done that. Go home. There will be no more rose-apples for you.”

And the crocodile slid sadly back into the river, knowing he had lost the best friend he had ever had.

The end.