In a small temple garden in Bangalore, there lived a crow named Kavi. He was sleek and clever, with feathers black as monsoon clouds. But he was always alone.

Every morning, the priest scattered rice and dal for the white doves that nested in the temple’s eaves. They cooed softly to each other, moving like a single white cloud across the courtyard. Kavi watched from the branch above, his stomach empty, while they ate their fill.

One day, Kavi couldn’t bear it anymore. He flew down to join them. But the moment the white doves saw him, they scattered. “You don’t belong here,” one called out. “You’re not like us.”

That night, Kavi found something shining behind the temple—a can of white paint left by workers. Without thinking much, he dipped himself in it, emerging bright white. His own feathers, buried.

The next morning, he returned to the courtyard. The doves didn’t chase him away. They welcomed him with soft calls. For the first time, Kavi ate as much as he wanted. He felt like he finally belonged.

But when evening came, he flew home to his family in the old neem tree. His mother was there, waiting like she always did. The moment she saw him, her call stopped mid-way. His father cocked his head, confused. His sister turned her face away.

“Who are you?” his mother asked, her voice small.

“It’s me, Kavi,” he said. But his voice sounded strange in his own ears.

His father didn’t answer. His family flew away, leaving him alone on the branch.

Kavi looked down at his white feathers, still wet with paint. He thought about the temple courtyard—how the doves had welcomed him, but how their welcome had meant nothing when his own family couldn’t recognize him. He thought about his mother’s confusion, his father’s silence, his sister turning away.

He flew to the rain that was coming. The drops began to wash the paint away, feather by feather, until the black returned. It was messy and gradual, not clean like the painting had been.

When he returned home, his mother called out before he even landed. “Kavi! Where were you?”

He didn’t answer with words. He just sat with them, in the evening light, among the branches that had always been his.

The doves in the temple courtyard didn’t call for him anymore. He didn’t mind. He had learned something the paint couldn’t teach him—that being seen by strangers is not the same as being known by those who love you.