The celebration had ended, and the crowd had dispersed. Babaru led Tashi Damba to the altar. The stars still shimmered in the sky, but the moon's glow had faded into a faint silver.
The noble princess let her long hair cascade down her shoulders, curling her arms around her knees as she sat in the center of the altar. Her eyes, filled with childlike wonder, gazed at the vast night sky.
"When I was little, I would often come to this altar alone to watch the stars," Babaru said softly, her voice carrying a distant warmth. "The stars seemed so far away, yet so close as if I could touch them. Back then, I always wondered—what is the world beyond this jungle like? But such thoughts felt like an impossible dream. Leaving the jungle and seeing the outside world was something I dared not even wish for."
She paused, turning her head to look at Tashi Damba, who was listening attentively. Her voice grew softer as she continued. "Later, more and more people came into the jungle. Drug traffickers tried to cross our land, guerrillas sought to avoid conflict, and there were even people who came hunting for rare animals. I heard many stories of the outside world from them—of cities with buildings a hundred stories high, of planes that could fly through the skies, and of humans traveling into space, all the way to the moon."
Babaru smiled faintly, but her eyes clouded with shadows. "When I was fifteen, my husband died in this jungle. They said he had angered the jungle gods. Who knows how he really died? My father told me, 'Born of the jungle, raised in the jungle, and dying in the jungle is the best fate.' When they carried his body back, half of it had turned black. That was the first time I felt true fear—fear so overwhelming that I desperately wanted to leave this place. But in our tribe, no one can leave without the chief's permission. My father, the chief, had that power but refused me outright."
A wild glimmer flashed in Babaru's eyes. "Later, I found a man who came to buy wild animals. I spent two nights with him—on one condition: he would take me out of this wretched, endless jungle. He agreed but betrayed me in the end. He tried to kill me and steal my ornaments. My brother shot him dead with an arrow. Perhaps out of guilt, my father finally agreed to let me leave. They sent me to study in Santa Fe de Bogotá first, and later to the United States.
"My father was an enlightened chief. He said that the world is changing, and for our tribe to survive, we must learn and adapt. He hoped I would return and bring change to our people. But—"
With a long sigh, Babaru fell silent. Tashi Damba could feel the weight of her sorrow. To carry the fate of an entire tribe was a burden too cruel for anyone, especially for a young woman.
"I'm afraid," Babaru admitted after a pause, her voice trembling. "The longer I stayed outside, the more afraid I became. I realized I could change nothing. To transform an ancient tribe, to uproot centuries of tradition—it's impossible. Yet, for the tribe to grow, they must leave the jungle. But if they leave, the tribe loses its identity, its soul."
Her eyes glimmered with tears as she looked up at the stars. "I stayed outside for ten years. When I returned, I found nothing had changed. Whenever I felt trapped or frustrated, I would run away to be alone—just like the last time you saw me arguing with my brother. They want me to come back, to take up my role, but I don't want to. According to tribal laws, I can't remarry."
Her gaze lingered on the stars above, their reflections shimmering in her long lashes. "While I was studying, I had boyfriends. But the moment they learned I was the daughter of a tribal chief, they were terrified. I remember one of them asking me, 'Is it true that in some tribes, women eat their husbands after… you know?'"
Babaru laughed bitterly, but the sadness in her eyes deepened. She suddenly stood up and spun in a slow, graceful circle. The moonlight bathed her smooth, silk-like skin, and her hair cascaded like a river of starlight. Her perfect features, her luminous eyes, and her proud, sculpted figure made her look like a goddess brought to life.
"Am I beautiful?" she asked, her voice soft but challenging.
Tashi Damba nodded. He offered no words of praise, but the admiration in his eyes was unmistakable. Babaru pouted like a defiant child and said, "If I ever meet a man I can trust with my life, I will leave this place forever. I've always thought so. I still do."
She sat back down, curling her legs beneath her, her face illuminated by the silver moonlight. Her gaze drifted to the village below—hundreds of grass huts resting in peaceful slumber. The silence between them stretched, filled only by the whispers of the wind.
The night deepened. The cool breeze stirred her hair, and the stars above glimmered like tears frozen in the sky. Enveloped in moonlight, Babaru looked more like a contemplative goddess than a mortal woman.
And then, a soft sound—like a distant hymn—began to fill the air. It was Babaru, singing in a low, ethereal voice. Though Tashi Damba couldn't understand the words, the melody transcended language. It was like a breeze rustling through ancient forests, a river murmuring over stones, an army marching to war, and stars whispering secrets to the night.
The song ebbed and flowed, echoing with sorrow and hope. It spoke of loss, endurance, and longing. And when the song softened into a lullaby, it felt as though a weary traveler had finally returned to the comfort of a mother's embrace—safe, loved, and at peace.
Tashi Damba sat motionless, mesmerized. Even after Babaru fell silent, the echoes of her song seemed to linger in the air, as though the earth and sky themselves had joined in her lament.
"That song is sacred to us," Babaru said quietly. "It's our tribe's hymn, passed down through generations. It tells the story of our people—our origins, our struggles, and our fate."
Tashi Damba's voice was calm but curious. "Your history, told through song? What does it say?"
Babaru smiled faintly. "It's long—very long. But since you're leaving tomorrow, it might be a shame if you didn't hear it all."
And so, Babaru began to sing once more. The hymn painted the history of the Kukur tribe—their rise from darkness, their migration through endless forests and rivers, their battles and losses, and their eventual search for peace. It was a story of resilience and tragedy, of gods and mortals, of hope and despair.
Tashi Damba listened in silence, his heart stirred by the ancient tale. The weight of history, of life and death, seemed to press upon him. When the song ended, he finally spoke.
"Sometimes, you don't have to change everything," he said softly. "You just need to find yourself. Finding yourself is easier than you think—it only takes a little courage."
Babaru looked at him, curiosity lighting her weary eyes. "And what about you? Why are you traveling through this jungle?"
Tashi Damba smiled. "That's a long story too. But first, let me tell you about my childhood—about my friends."
Babaru tilted her head, intrigued.
"I grew up in Tibet," Tashi Damba began, "in a small village surrounded by deep forests and towering mountains. There were no roads, no cars—just endless trees and silence."
And so, as the stars watched over them, Tashi Damba shared his story—of wolves in the mountains, of secrets whispered in the dark, and of a bond that transcended words.