An hour back, when the television had gone quiet and I was settling into my familiar hush, I was doing the small, ordinary rituals that end my day — switching off gadgets, straightening the hall, moving towards the bedroom. And then came a sudden, heavy bang against the window.

Xena stirred. Zuri woke up.

I turned back.

Perched on the railing of the hall window was a black kite — one of those great, ubiquitous birds of Mumbai that I have watched all my life, usually from far below, their silhouettes cutting slow, elegant arcs across blue skies and white clouds. But this time it was here. At my window. Close enough to meet my eyes through the glass.

It did not panic. It did not shy away.

It simply stood there.

As a child, I had always watched them — from the balcony of our Bandra home, sometimes beside my grandmother, sometimes alone. I would follow their flight for long minutes, losing myself in their effortless gliding, riding invisible thermal currents with a grace that felt almost unreal. Wings, feathers, sky — they became symbols long before I had the language for symbolism.

During difficult school years, when things were unkind and heavy, the song Wind Beneath My Wings found its way into my life. The idea of being held aloft by something unseen lodged itself quietly in my imagination. As a Gemini, an air sign, I always felt strangely attuned to flight — to movement, to the freedom of altitude, to the idea of rising above without force.

And now, at this juncture of my life — nearly fifty, standing on the edge of leaving this house to return to my mother’s home, with both my kids, Xena and Zach, very unwell — this bird arrived.

I have been holding myself together with a very thin, polite front. Loss, I understand. I have learned how to sit with it. What weighs heavier these days is the world itself — its cruelty, its relentless hunger for power and money, its refusal to soften. None of this is new, and yet I feel it more keenly now, as if the volume has been turned up.

The kite remained there while I took photographs and videos, its feathers ruffled slightly by the morning air. When I opened the door, Zuri rushed out, spotted the bird instantly, and froze — then barked in sheer terror, her bravery collapsing into panic. I had to shepherd her back inside; Xena had already checked out the hall and finding nothing amiss had retreated. The bird stayed, unbothered, watching.

Eventually, I stepped away. The kids wouldn’t stay in the room if I was out, after that.

I do not know how long it remained after that. But the fact that it stayed at all — that it did not flee even reminded me of something I had long forgotten: stillness can also be a form of courage.

In many mythological traditions, birds of prey carry layered meanings. Eagles are often seen as messengers of the divine, symbols of power, vision, and transcendence — creatures that bridge earth and sky. Kites and hawks, closer cousins, are associated with watchfulness, adaptability, and survival. In Indian folklore especially, birds that circle high are sometimes seen as guardians — not saviours, not omens, but witnesses. They see the whole picture from above.

In ancient symbolism, such birds appear not to predict events but to remind. To lift the gaze. To suggest perspective when the ground feels unbearably close.

I do not want to romanticise this too much. I am wary of assigning meaning where there may be none. Nature does not owe us messages. Sometimes a bird is simply a bird.

And yet.

This has never happened to me before — not like this. Kites have landed on pipes on terraces, have watched me from heights, have shared space from a respectful distance. But never like this: eye to eye, separated only by a pane of glass, unafraid.

Whether I communed with nature, or nature briefly acknowledged me — or whether this was nothing more than coincidence — I cannot say. But it left me calmer than I have felt in days. Not hopeful, exactly. Just steadied.

As if something ancient had paused, looked in, and reminded me that even in a world obsessed with conquest and noise, there are still beings who know how to glide — who expend no unnecessary energy, who trust the currents, who wait.

And perhaps, for now, that is enough.