Aarav came home from the Puri market grinning, a bright plastic kite under his arm and an empty pocket where his week's pocket money used to be.

"Look, Dadu! It was the last one. The man said if I didn't buy it right away, somebody else would. So I had to."

Dadu was mending a real kite on the veranda — paper and split bamboo, the kind he had flown as a boy. He looked at the shiny new one and smiled gently. "Had to," he repeated. "Tell me, beta. When the man said hurry, what did your stomach feel?"

Aarav thought. "Kind of… nervous. Like I'd lose something."

"That nervous feeling," said Dadu, "is a little trick. A clever seller can push that button, and your hand reaches for your money before your good sense wakes up." He held up his half-finished kite. "Now look closer. Yours has no proper spine. The first strong wind off the sea will fold it in half. It looked like a kite. It was really just paint."

Aarav's grin faded a little. "So it only seemed good."

"Here is the most useful thing your grandfather can teach you," Dadu said, setting down his glue. "Before you act, your mind should ask four quiet questions. Should I really do this, or should I wait? Is this worth being afraid of, or is the fear just a trick? Will this tie me up later — like an empty pocket all week — or will it leave me free? A mind that stops to ask is a clear mind. A mind that just grabs is a foggy one."

Aarav turned the plastic kite over in his hands. "Next time," he said slowly, "I'll wait one minute before I buy. Just to let the clear part wake up."

"One honest minute," Dadu agreed. "That is where wisdom lives, in the gap between the wanting and the doing." He patted the bamboo frame. "Come. The wind is good this evening. Let us fly the one that was built to last, and I will show you how to tell, by the pull of the string, what is truly holding and what is only pretending."