The Kite on the Tree

Every day,

Shyamal would walk by the field

And stare up at the row of pines.

The last one, in particular

That had a stuck-up kite -

Black, shiny in plastic,

With a pink lotus

And a long golden tail

As any kid would have yearned

But it saddened him,

That the kite could not free itself

From the gnarly branches of the evil pine

‘Is this what is to be of your purpose?’

And he would think of the trapped munias

He had at home, many years ago

They dropped in winter’s cage

Until Shyamal freed the last

Never knowing who felt

The greater redemption

Days passed by,

The kite never earned its freedom,

Entrapping the young man too

Who looked with forlorn dreamy eyes.

Then, the clouds of monsoon rolled in

And the small town preferred

To stay indoors

After the first petrichor

The lakes swelled,

The fields overflowed

The Jacobin cuckoos had long passed by;

But in the retreat of monsoon

Came a white envelope

Asking Shyamal

To swap small town

For big city

The lad knew his answer,  

He was not meant for the hullabaloo

But the image of the kite came by

All night, he stayed up

Thinking not of his job

But of three strange friends -

One destined never to move

One shackled but meant for the skies

And one that chose an open cage

The next day,

Shyamal knew his heart’s adventure;

The papers were signed and sent

On his way back

From the post office

The whole town seemed to stare

Traitor in their eyes

And a once-familiar world

Kept asking ‘why?’

Melancholy stabbed his heart

And he decided to meet his old companions

That would not judge -

But the kite was no longer there

Was it freedom in the monsoon winds

Or death in the rains, he wouldn’t know

Perhaps it was the same,

He consoled himself

Until the sage tree whispered

In the leaves of the pine,

That the kite had served its purpose

It was time,

He fulfilled his…

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Inspired by a kite stuck on a Bunya Pine nearby and by the small-town tales of Ruskin Bond that inspire wherever you go