I leaned on the granite rock under the checkered shadow of the neem tree. The smell of lantana was strong and the book in my hand, unending. I was distracted by a fluttering noise, of paper against the wind. I looked up and saw a yellow kite, with big pink eyes, staring down at me. It was tangled in the mistletoe and struggled to break free with every little wind. A tailorbird looked at it with its head tilted. Chirping loudly, mocking it as it sought the sticky berries. Ignorant of how high the kite flew, or how it yearns to be among the hawks. It will struggle to break free, to fly again and to fight the wind. The sun will fade its vibrant colors. The twigs will shred it. And one day, it will untangle and fall to the ground. The termites will build its sepulcher. To dust will turn its dreams. Never will it fly again. No one will remember it. Next season, there will be another kite, yellow, with big pink eyes.