The Kite That Knew the Wind

As the sun rose over the tiled rooftops of Saroornagar, the sky blushed orange with the promise of festivity. It was Makar Sankranti—and the rooftops were ready for war.

Twelve-year-old Rishi clutched his brand-new kite—bright red, sharp-tailed, and bearing the name Vayu Viraat. His grandfather, Appachchi, quietly handed him the spool of thread, his fingers calloused from years of kiting glory.

“You’ll win today,” Appachchi said, with a smile only half in this world.

The rooftop soon became a battlefield of colors. Kites clashed mid-air, their strings slicing the sky like invisible blades. Rishi, drunk on victory, yelled with each kite he cut down.

But then came Arjun—the seasoned 14-year-old from the next lane.

With a few swift moves, Rishi’s kite dipped, danced, and was cut loose.

Appachchi didn’t react. He simply laid a hand on Rishi’s shoulder and said, "A true warrior doesn’t shout when he wins, or sulk when he loses. He watches the wind."

Later that afternoon, Appachchi brought out a faded old kite—its colors dim, but string still firm.

“Your father made this one,” he said. “The year we didn’t even have curd rice for Sankranti. But he flew it with joy.”

Rishi flew that kite as the sun dipped low, and for the first time that day, he wasn’t chasing others—he was dancing with the wind.

Moral of the Story:

Festivals aren’t just for celebration—they’re for learning. Pride must bend like bamboo, and real victory lies in grace, not noise.