Monkey PavPav, a young macaque with a tuft of reddish-brown hair and a mischievous glint in his eyes, was having a terrible day. It wasn’t because he’d lost a bet with a parrot or stolen bananas from a sleeping panda. No—today’s problem was much worse. Today, Monkey PavPav had an itch. A bad itch. A terribly itchy, maddeningly annoying, deeply distressing itch… on his private parts.
And it wouldn’t go away.
He had tried ignoring it at first, sitting stoically on a tree branch, legs crossed like an enlightened monk, eyes squeezed shut. “You are the master of your body,” he whispered to himself in his monkey mind. But the itch came knocking, subtle at first, like a soft breeze. Then it intensified into a relentless inferno of discomfort. Before long, Monkey PavPav was wriggling like a worm on hot sand.
“Eeeeeek!” he squealed, leaping to his feet and spinning in circles. “Eek eek eek!”
He began to scratch—quickly, furiously, urgently—his little monkey fingers moving at lightning speed. He scratched with both hands, then tried one hand while bracing himself against a tree. He rubbed against the bark, he dragged himself across the ground like a shaggy rug, and when none of that worked, he sat down and bounced up and down like a broken wind-up toy.
From the high branch above, Old Grandfather Langur watched with narrowed eyes. He puffed on a stick of sugarcane like it were a fine pipe and said in his gravelly voice, “PavPav, boy, you’ll wear yourself bald doing that.”
“I’m itchy, Grandfather!” PavPav cried, clutching himself with a wince. “Very itchy! Bad itchy on my private very much!”
Grandfather Langur nodded solemnly. “A terrible fate for a young monkey. Is it fleas?”
“No,” PavPav moaned.
“Ticks?”
“No.”
“Leaf rash?”
“NO! I DON’T KNOW!”
The older monkey sighed. “Did you roll in the red bushes?”
“…Yes,” PavPav admitted, ears flattening.
“The ones near the poison nettles?”
PavPav groaned. “Maybe.”
Grandfather Langur shook his head. “That’ll do it.”
Down below, the jungle was becoming aware of the commotion. Little birds flitted by to watch. A squirrel snorted with laughter from a mango tree. Even the usually stoic lizard paused in his sunbathing to peek over a leaf.
Soon, the younger monkeys gathered. A small circle formed around PavPav, now frantically scratching and whimpering. Dudu, the tallest of the bunch, raised a brow.
“What happened, PavPav? Wrestling with a cactus?”
“Private itchy!” PavPav shouted. “Too itchy! Can’t stop scratching!”
The troop stared for a beat… then burst into laughter. Monkey PavPav didn’t care. He was beyond embarrassment now. Modesty had flown out the window ten scratches ago.
Trying to help, one of the smaller monkeys, Momo, fetched a cool mud patty and slapped it on PavPav’s groin. PavPav sighed in temporary relief. But the mud dried quickly, and the itch returned, angrier than ever.
PavPav tried swinging from vines, hoping the breeze would help. It didn’t. He tried dunking himself in the pond. The fish scattered, and the frogs croaked in protest. The water was cool, but as soon as he climbed out, the itching came roaring back. It felt like his privates were on fire, hosting a dance party for invisible ants.
Eventually, PavPav lay sprawled on a wide rock, panting, defeated, and twitching with every fresh wave of itch.
Grandfather Langur descended slowly and sat beside him.
“Young monkey,” he said gently, “you must learn the way of the scratchless soul.”
“There is no such thing,” PavPav groaned.
“There is. It begins with herbs. Come.”
Reluctantly, PavPav followed. They walked deeper into the jungle, past tangled vines and thick ferns, to a small patch of low-growing, spongy green plants with tiny white flowers. Grandfather Langur plucked a handful.
“This,” he said, “is calmroot. It soothes inflammation.”
He crushed the leaves into a paste with a stone, added a splash of pond water, and gestured to PavPav to sit still. The old monkey smeared the paste carefully.
“Ahhhhhhh…” PavPav let out a long, trembling sigh of pure relief. It was as if a gentle breeze had swept through his fur, calming the storm.
“No more scratching now,” Grandfather warned. “Let the herbs do their work.”
For the rest of the day, Monkey PavPav walked carefully and sat gingerly, but he smiled. The itching had subsided. His monkey heart felt grateful, his spirit lifted. He had learned something important that day: don’t roll in red bushes you don’t recognize, and if you do, trust the wisdom of those who’ve scratched before.
As the sun dipped below the horizon and the jungle glowed orange and gold, Monkey PavPav climbed to the top of his favorite tree. He looked out over the canopy, scratched his head (not his private this time), and whispered, “No more itchy…at least, for now.”
