It was kite-flying season, and the colourful flying toys danced in the sky as kites, the majestic birds, circled with wingspans covering the sun.
As I came out in the morning for my exercise and breakfast in my portico, my carer drew my attention to a magnificent bird perched on a pot, seemingly alert yet slumped with feathers, standing up in fear as it suspiciously looked at me. I often see these kings of the sky fly over our extensive campus and always look up in admiration of their mighty wingspan, enabling them to either soar with ease high above or glide gracefully in descent, perhaps to snatch some rest, forage for food on the top of a tree, or spy something on the ground. Many a time, one or two would be pottering around, using their legs to walk as comfortably as their expertise in motion when they flew.
But this bird was different. It sprang a pang within me when I realised that this avian was helpless because of an injury. Careful to avoid getting pecked by its beak, as it maintained its stiff upper look, stoic in its suffering, we managed to place a pot of water near enough for it to sip from, and it did. Thereafter, it magically did a u-turn, and the ruffled feathers settled down. However, it was grounded in one place and still unable to move.
Keeping an eye on it as well as the litter of cats prowling around was quite a task, but I was determined it should be rescued and treated so it could fly again. I sent out an SOS on social media to ask for information on a contact to help the bird in distress; I honed in on one named Bird Rescue, and believe you me, the volunteers from the organisation arrived post haste to check the situation. By then, the kite was breathing comfortably, which assuaged my anxiety about its condition. The volunteer skillfully whisked out a cloth from a cardboard carton and covered the bird, which he then scooped up from the pot and carefully placed into the container to carry it off to the care centre.
I heaved a sigh of relief while hoping all would go well with the bird’s recovery. I heard nothing about it again. However, from the next morning and since, whenever I see a kite flying, a sense of satisfaction descends on me, believing that it was the one in whose rescue operation I had a hand.
I don’t know how long the bird had squatted in the pot, but I did spot dangerous maanja—kite flying twine gummed with powdered glass used to ‘cut’ the competing kite down to the ground—dangling among my bougainvillaea bushes and a paper kite not far away.
Was it the kite that hurt the kite?