A mother partridge lives in a woven roost of soft moss and dry grass in The Rimba, tucked safely in the crook of an old Meranti tree. She has three chicks, each as different as feathers on the same wing.
The eldest, Pena, is strong and steady, with wings that beat like drums and a voice that booms through the trees.
The second, Larik, is clever and quick, always first to solve a puzzle, or talk his way out of trouble.
And the youngest, Rawa, is gentle and kind, with soft eyes and a heart that overflows at the slightest thing.
Now, it must be said—these siblings love each other, in the way all siblings do. That is to say, loudly, competitively, and with a certain daily chaos that makes even the ants complain.
Because they are always trying to outdo one another.
If Pena fetches five sticks, Larik will fetch six—plus a shiny seed, just to win.
If Larik discovers a new shortcut through the forest, Rawa will lead a parade of beetles down it, just to be seen.
If Rawa cleans the nest till it sparkles, Pena will re-thatch the roof just to prove she can do it better.
Their mother, old and tired, watch their bickering with a sigh and a slight twitch of the tail.
During the rainy season, the mother bird grew ill. Not dramatically so—there is no falling from the sky or gasping for breath. But her wings grow stiff, her voice hoarse, and the days that used to be filled with her bustling presence are now quiet and slow.
The chicks, now nearly grown, gather round her.
“Children,” she says softly, “I need you to care for me… and for our roost. Until I’m better.”
And that’s when everything falls apart.
Pena, who always believes she should lead, fluffs up her feathers and declares, “I’ll take charge! I’ll keep everyone in line!”
She immediately begins barking orders—
“Larik, go gather food!”
“Rawa, sweep the nest—no, not like that!”
“You’re both doing it wrong! Just let me do everything!”
She stomps and storms and scowls, doing more than anyone… and leaving everyone else feeling quite useless.
Larik, meanwhile, rolls his eyes.
“Strong wings don’t make wise choices,” he mutters. “Watch and learn.”
He starts outsmarting Pena’s plans—rerouting food gathering, adjusting schedules, whispering to the neighbours about how “he is really the one keeping things running.”
But he never helps their mother directly. He is too busy proving he can outthink his sister.
And Rawa, sweet Rawa, does not argue.
Rawa stays by their mother’s side.
He cleans her feathers, fetches water, brings her soft berries, fans her in the heat, and humms old songs she used to sing when they were small to help her sleep.
But in his quiet devotion, he forgets about the roost.
The food supply dwindles.
The nest grows ragged.
The roof begins to leak.
By the end of the week, the roost—once full of music and light—is a mess.
Pena and Larik argue constantly, feathers ruffle, voices raise.
Rawa barely leaves their mother’s side, his own feathers drooping with exhaustion.
And still, the rain leaks in.
The larder is nearly empty.
Their mother sleeps more and more.
No one is happy.
Pena struts through the clearing, wings stiff with purpose. Her voice cuts through the air like a beak through bark.
“If we want to survive the rains, we need order. That means listening to me!”
She stacks leaves in perfect piles, patrols the edge of the clearing, and barks at Rawa for wasting time bringing their mother wild berries.
“She’s resting, not starving. Go fix the eastern wall. It’s sagging.”
Their mother watches quietly from her nest, too weak to speak up.
Larik, meanwhile, flits in and out of the roost, always looking busy but doing very little. He has a way of appearing helpful without getting his feathers dirty.
“I’ve drawn a schedule,” he announces. “Very efficient. Everyone follows it and the roost will run like clockwork.”
But when it comes time to actually follow the schedule? Larik is nowhere to be found.
Instead, he’ll whisper to the neighbours about his siblings’ mistakes.
“Pena’s a little too intense, isn’t she?”
“Rawa? Sweet, but no spine.”
“Me? I’m the glue. They’d be lost without me.”
He winks. They laugh. And Larik basks in the sound of his own cleverness.
One night, a storm rolls in. Not a polite drizzle, but a howling, leaf-ripping, sky-tearing monsoon, the kind that makes even the tallest trees bow low.
Pena stands firm against the wind, yelling instructions no one can hear.
Larik has vanished, sheltering under a stranger’s branch.
Rawa holds his mother close, whispering “It’ll pass. Just a little longer.”
But the eastern wall collapses.
The roof flies off.
The food stores are spoiled.
When the rain stops, their clearing is a mess.
The roost—their home—is broken.
And so are they.
The next morning, the sky clears.
Their mother, weary but stronger, steps into the light.
She looks at her three children, each sulking in different corners of the clearing—wet, muddy, and miserable.
She says nothing at first. Just looks.
Then she speaks.
Softly.
“You are the strongest,” she says, turning to Pena. “But you’ve forgotten that strength is not in how loudly you speak, but how gently you hold others.”
Pena blinks, eyes wide.
“You are the cleverest,” she says to Larik. “But what use is cleverness if it’s only used for yourself?”
Larik looks down.
“And you,” she says to Rawa, smiling softly. “You are the kindest. But kindness alone cannot hold up a home. It needs hands. And help.”
The clearing falls silent.
“I asked you to care for me and our roost. Not to prove who is best.”
“Because no one stands tallest alone. Not in this jungle. Not in this family.”
That day, without another word, the three siblings begin again.
Together.
Pena gathers the biggest branches and lays the foundation.
Larik redraws the schedule—but this time, follows it himself.
Rawa fetches the softest moss, now with help on both sides.
They still bicker, of course (they are siblings, after all).
But they also laugh again.
And the roost, rebuilt with unity and effort, stands stronger than ever.
Corporate Trainer, Consultant, Entrepreneur & Author | Therine Goh 
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