Kaya the Little Tiger and the Counting of the Stripes
Deep in a warm and leafy jungle, where the moon threw silver stripes of light across the ground, there lived a little tiger named Kaya. And tonight, Kaya was much too wound-up to sleep.
All day she had played. She had chased butterflies through the ferns. She had splashed in the cool river with her brothers. She had practised her pounce on a big soft leaf, and learned to climb a little higher up the old fig tree. It had been the best kind of day — so full and so exciting that now, curled up beside her mother, Kaya's mind was still racing and racing.
"I can't sleep, Mama," she said, wriggling. "There's too much buzzing in my head."
Her mother, a great and gentle tigress, drew Kaya close against her warm striped side. "Then let's do something quiet together," she purred. "Let's count your stripes. And for every stripe, we'll remember one good thing from today."
"Count my stripes?" said Kaya.
"Every tiger's stripes are special," said Mama. "Let's begin." She touched the first soft stripe on Kaya's back with the tip of her paw. "One… the butterflies in the ferns."
Kaya smiled, remembering. "Two," she whispered, "splashing in the cool river."
"Three," hummed Mama, slow and low. "The warm sun on your fur."
"Four… learning to climb the fig tree."
Stripe by stripe they counted, slow and gentle in the dark — and with every good thing they remembered, Kaya felt a little warmer, a little heavier, a little more still. The buzzing in her head grew quiet. Her racing thoughts settled down, soft as falling leaves.
"Five… my brothers…" Kaya murmured. "Six… Mama…"
But before they reached the seventh stripe, little Kaya's eyes had closed, and her breathing had gone slow and deep. Wrapped warm in her mother's stripes, with a whole day full of good things gathered gently around her, the little tiger was fast asleep.