Ravi came home with a torn kite and a face like a thundercloud.

"Aman did it," he said, throwing the broken kite on the floor. Moti sniffed it and whined. "He cut my string on purpose, then laughed. I'd spent all week making that kite, Nani. All week."

Nani wiped her hands and sat beside him. "And what do you want to do?"

"I want to break his kite. I want to break two of them. I want everyone to laugh at him the way he laughed at me."

Nani was quiet for a moment, letting the storm blow. Then she said, "You could do that. You're quick enough, and angry enough. But let me ask you something. Tomorrow morning, when the anger has cooled, which boy would you rather be — the one who broke a kite to get even, or the one who was big enough not to?"

Ravi scowled at the floor.

The next day, Aman came down the lane, scuffing his feet, not quite looking at Ravi. He had heard Ravi was furious. He was braced for a fight.

Ravi felt the anger rise again, hot in his chest. He could feel his hands wanting to push. But he remembered Nani's question. He took a long breath, the way she had taught him, and let the heat pass through and out.

"That was a mean thing you did," Ravi said, looking Aman straight in the eye. His voice was steady, not shaking. "It hurt. But I'm not going to wreck your kite back. I'd rather we just fly them together."

Aman stared, completely thrown. He had expected shoving and shouting. Instead he got the truth, spoken plainly, and then a hand held out. His face crumpled. "I'm sorry, Ravi. Really. I'll help you mend yours."

That evening Nani found the two boys on the rooftop, repairing the torn kite with paste and bamboo, laughing.

"You forgave him," she said later, proud. "And you stayed strong while you did it — you told him the truth, you didn't pretend it was fine. That bright steadiness, that forgiving without crumbling — the old teachers called it part of the divine treasure. Anyone can hit back, Ravi. It takes the harder strength to forgive."