The Kite String - By Tenuli Perera

Written By: Tenuli Perera

Category: Short Stories

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Tenuli Perera, through her evocative short story "The Kite String," explores the intricate interplay of memory and loss. Submitted as part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this piece takes readers on a journey through the past's gentle pull and the resilient spirit that endures in the face of life's upheavals. Perera's narrative is a testament to the power of ordinary objects to evoke profound emotions and memories.

About the Work

"The Kite String" captures a moment of rediscovery and reflection, unfolding a poignant narrative of family bonds and the enduring shadow of loss. Perera masterfully uses vivid imagery and a nostalgic tone to weave a tale that resonates with universal themes of memory and yearning. The story's atmosphere, imbued with the gentle rhythm of everyday life, serves as a backdrop for the characters' emotional journey, leaving a lasting impression on the reader.

The Kite String

Original Submission by Tenuli Perera

The Kite String

By Tenuli Perera

The old kite spool fell out of the cupboard on a rainy afternoon.

Nethmi had been looking for a tablecloth when it rolled across the floor and came to rest against her foot. For a moment she simply stared at it. The wood had darkened with age and the thread wrapped around it had become brittle enough to break at the slightest touch. It should have meant nothing. It was only an old spool of kite string, forgotten among piles of unused things.

Yet as she picked it up, she found herself sitting on the floor for far longer than necessary.

Outside, rain tapped steadily against the roof. The mango tree in the garden swayed beneath the monsoon wind, scattering leaves across the wet earth. Somewhere in the distance, a temple bell rang, its familiar sound drifting through the grey afternoon.

It was strange how memory worked. Years could pass without a thought, and then suddenly one small thing would pull an entire lifetime back to the surface.

The kite spool did exactly that.

Before she knew it, Nethmi was no longer standing in her kitchen. She was ten years old again, sitting beneath the mango tree while her brother laughed at the tangled mess she had made of her kite string.

It had been a Saturday. She remembered that because Saman had promised to help her fly the kite after lunch. The sky had threatened rain all morning, but she had insisted on preparing everything anyway. By the time Saman found her, she had somehow managed to transform an ordinary spool of thread into a knot so complicated that even she could not understand how it had happened.

He had taken one look at it and burst out laughing.

"I don't think this can even be called a kite string anymore."

"It can."

"No, this is something entirely new."

"I didn't ask for your opinion."

"You clearly need it."

She threw the spool at him. He caught it easily, still grinning.

Amma, who had been cooking parippu in the kitchen, appeared at the doorway.

"What are you two arguing about now?"

"Nethmi murdered her kite string." (CHECK AGAIN- murdered is a foreshadowing, plus with the times they’re in, the sudden strong vocabulary is good. But is it sudden? Would it be out of place and loose its impact?)

"I did not."

Saman examined the knot dramatically before shaking his head.

"This one is beyond saving. I'll go buy a new one."

The smell of rice and parippu drifted through the garden. Looking back, Nethmi could remember every detail of that afternoon with painful clarity. The damp air before the rain. The sound of crows in the mango tree. The way sunlight slipped through the clouds in brief flashes.

Perhaps ordinary days remained in memory because nobody realised they were about to become important.

"Don't be long," Amma warned.

"It's only the shop near the bus stand."

"Still."

"I'll be back before lunch."

Then he tucked a few rupees into his pocket and headed down the lane.

Nethmi watched him disappear around the bend.

She never saw him again.

At first nobody worried.

The rice was almost ready by the time Amma glanced at the clock.

"That boy," she muttered.

Another half hour passed.

The rain arrived.

Lunch grew cold.

Saman did not return.

By evening, irritation had become concern. By nightfall, concern had become fear.

Nethmi remembered waking several times that night and finding Amma sitting awake on the verandah. Sometimes she would be staring down the road. Sometimes she would be praying quietly. Once, Nethmi saw her gripping Saman's school photograph so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.

The following morning brought rumours.

Rumours always travelled faster than truth.

Kusuma Nanda appeared before breakfast carrying a basket of laundry and enough gossip to fill an entire village. Nobody knew how she learned everything before everyone else.

"I heard from my amma's malli's podi nangi's putha..."

Amma immediately sighed.

"...that he saw a truck near the junction yesterday."

The room fell silent.

Even Kusum Nanda seemed to realise the weight of her own words.

"They were taking boys."

Nobody said anything after that.

The silence was worse.

Days became weeks.

Weeks became months.

Everywhere people seemed to have stories.

Someone claimed Saman had been seen at a checkpoint.

Someone else insisted he had crossed into another town.

Others whispered darker possibilities.

Nethmi listened to them all.

She hated every single one.

Because every story ended the same way.

Without Saman.

A week after he disappeared, Amma handed her a cloth bag and told her to buy rice from the shop.

The request filled her with dread.

The rice tin was almost empty and there was nobody else to go, but that did not make the journey any easier.

The shop stood at the end of the very road Saman had taken.

The same road he had walked carrying a few rupees and a promise to return before lunch.

By then Nethmi had already heard the whispers.

Children were not supposed to hear such things, but children always did.

Heads on spikes.

Bodies left beside roads.

Warnings.

Messages.

Whenever adults spoke about them, they lowered their voices. Somehow that only made the stories more frightening.

As she walked, Nethmi kept her eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead. She would not look anywhere else. The village itself seemed different now. Conversations stopped whenever strangers approached. Doors remained half-open. People glanced over their shoulders before speaking.

Fear had settled over the village like another season.

The shop was already in sight when she stumbled over a loose stone.

It happened in an instant.

Her head turned.

Only slightly.

Only for a second.

Years later she would struggle to remember exactly what she had seen. The mind had a habit of blurring things it wished to forget. She remembered dark hair. She remembered blood.

Most of all, she remembered an eye.

Wide open.

Staring at nothing.

That was enough.

She looked away immediately and hurried towards the shop, her heart pounding so loudly that she could barely hear the temple bell ringing somewhere beyond the trees.

The old shopkeeper recognised her the moment she entered.

"You're Saman's sister, aren't you?"

Nethmi nodded.

For a moment the old man simply looked at her. Then he sighed and began measuring rice into a paper sack.

"I'm sorry for your loss, duwa."

Loss.

The word struck her harder than she expected.

She hated it immediately.

Loss sounded certain.

Loss sounded final.

It sounded as though everyone else had already accepted something her family still refused to believe.

The shopkeeper remained silent for a while.

Then he spoke again.

"Your brother was here last week."

Nethmi looked up so quickly that she almost knocked over a jar of sweets.

"He bought some kite string."

The old man smiled sadly.

"And some chocolate biscuits."

For a moment, Nethmi felt the air leave her lungs.

Chocolate biscuits.

Of course he had.

Whenever Amma gave him money, some part of it always disappeared on sweets.

She could picture him so clearly that it hurt.

Standing exactly where she was standing now.

Leaning against the counter.

Laughing.

Perhaps joking with the shopkeeper.

Perhaps already planning to tease her about the tangled kite string waiting at home.

Her brother had been there.

Not in a rumour.

Not in somebody's story.

There.

Right there.

Alive.

Smiling.

Buying chocolate biscuits.

Completely unaware that he would never walk back down the road he had come from.

The shopkeeper tied the sack and handed it to her.

Before she left, he leaned slightly across the counter.

"Keep your eyes on the road when you go home."

She frowned.

His expression tightened.

"Don't look at the spikes."

Nethmi nodded.

Neither of them mentioned Saman again.

Years passed.

The war continued, then ended. The village changed. Roads were repaired. Children grew up. New families moved in. Old ones moved away.

Life carried on because it had no choice.

Nethmi finished school. Then university. Then found work.

Yet inside their little house, time seemed strangely unwilling to move forward.

Every New Year, Amma washed Saman's school uniform and folded it neatly before placing it back inside the cupboard.

His cricket bat remained beside the front door.

His favourite glass stayed on the kitchen shelf.

Nothing was ever thrown away.

Nothing was ever moved.

At first Amma spoke about him often.

Then less.

Eventually she stopped speaking about him altogether.

Yet silence was not forgetting.

Sometimes Nethmi thought it was worse.

The village eventually stopped asking about Saman. New tragedies replaced old ones, and people learned to continue with their lives. Yet inside their house, the waiting remained, settling quietly into everyday routines until it became impossible to separate grief from habit.

Even now, years later, Amma still glanced towards the gate whenever footsteps sounded outside.

Even now, neither of them could bring themselves to remove his photograph from the wall.

Outside, the rain continued to fall.

Nethmi looked down at the old kite spool resting in her hands. Beyond the garden wall came the laughter of children. Curious, she stepped onto the verandah and watched them flying kites in a nearby field. One soared higher than the others, pulling eagerly against its string as though determined to escape the earth itself.

For a moment, she could almost imagine him there.

Not older.

Not changed.

Simply running down the lane in his faded blue shirt with a roll of kite string tucked beneath one arm.

The way he had looked on that final afternoon.

The image disappeared as quickly as it came.

The road beyond the gate remained empty.

"Duwa," Amma called from the kitchen. "Dinner is ready."

Nethmi went inside.

The smell of rice and parippu filled the room. Rain tapped softly against the roof. As she sat down, her eyes settled on the table.

Three plates.

Not two.

Three.

Exactly as there had always been.

For a moment she looked at Amma.

Amma looked back.

Neither woman said a word.

There was nothing left to say.

Outside, the temple bell rang through the gathering darkness. Inside, beneath the warm yellow light of the kitchen, the third plate remained beside the others, waiting as patiently as it always had, as though somewhere beyond the years and beyond the silence, a boy who had left to buy kite string was still trying to find his way home.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, is an esteemed platform celebrating the diverse voices of writers worldwide. This competition provides a unique opportunity for participants to share their creative works, engaging with an international community dedicated to the art of storytelling. Each submission contributes to a vibrant tapestry of global literary talent.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Tenuli Perera for sharing "The Kite String" in this year's Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition. Your insightful exploration of memory and familial bonds enriches our collective understanding of life's complexities. Thank you for your contribution to our creative community.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.