Go Fly A Kite

Words: 728

On one Sunday in mid-January, the whole family gathers. And when I say whole family, I mean whole family. As in - eighty people, ranging in age from Great-Grandparents in their 90s to babies in their prams.

They're dressed in colourful clothes and some of them wear caps on their heads. The television set is carried to the upstairs landing and switched on. The cricket commentator's opening remarks fill the atmosphere.

Relays of people carry tables, chairs, piles of plates and handfuls of cutlery to the second-storey terrace. The food is brought in gleaming stainless-steel containers and the toddlers and Great-Grandparents start asking for it immediately and have to be told 'not yet, not yet'.

It is the festival of Sankrant, traditionally the celebration of a bountiful harvest, and the day of the Kite Competitions.

For, in neighbouring houses, the same preparations are being made. Families wave to each other across terraces, and shout 'Nice wind today, should be fun!'

The KITES are carried in ceremoniously by the eldest male cousin. Behind him the eldest female cousin brings the 'manja' - the string loaded on light wooden rolls with handles on each side.

Great-Grandpa's eyes twinkle as the largest kite of them all is brought to him. "I haven't lost my touch, you know," he booms, as he punctures holes in accurately so as to string the kite with the 'manja' Great-Grandma hands to him.

Great-Uncle, a 'Bambi' cap perched on his bald head, solemnly takes the kite from Great-Grandpa, and Great Aunt takes the roll of 'manja' from Great-Grandma.

All the families around the neighbourhood are following almost the same timeline, so the cheers from different terraces go to the sky in unison as the first kites of the day soar heavenward, managed expertly by family elders.

Then, all mayhem breaks loose. Anyone who can fly a kite 'loads' it with 'manja', gets a partner to hold the roll of string and shoots a kite into the air. Youngsters loading kites for the first time need Band-Aids. The 'manja' is thinly coated with glass powder, for the kite-fights to come.

In the landing, the cricket commentator's voice announces the fall of the first wicket and a collective 'Ahhhh' is heard from fans. Then the excitement they are creating themselves takes over and the commentary becomes background noise.

As kites from neighbouring terraces vie for airspace, they clash with each other. Then, it is the expertise of the flier and 'manja'-handler that determines which kite will continue to soar and which will fall earthward. A match of this sort, between kites, is called a PETCH and soon shouts of "I'm in a petch!" fill the terrace. Skillfully, each kite-flier manipulates the string, which is let off the roll in measured bursts by his partner, so as to cut-and-not-be-cut. Shouts of "KAIPOCHE" are heard (I have cut it!) from the victors. In the streets below, urchins run to grab the fanciest kites that fall to the ground. It's a matter of experience to know where a cut-kite will land, swirling in the breeze - and to be ready to receive it at that spot on the street.

Sarla was holding the string for her brother-in-law, Chandrakant, watching him cut kite after neighbouring kite. She cheered him each time, the victory was as much hers as his. This was Sarla's 37th Sankrant on the terrace. From being a child spectator to food-server to keeper of Band-Aids, glue and cellotape to 'manja'-holder, she had played all the roles. Except one. She had never actually flown a kite. Well, not on Sankrant day, not when the honour of the family was at stake. She had flown kites plenty of times informally, but hadn't the confidence to fly on Sankrant. Suddenly the urge came upon her to be in the arena.

When Chandrakant was taking a well-earned snack break, Sarla went to Great-Grandpa and touched his feet. Great-Grandpa's eyes twinkled. His gaze followed Sarla's as she looked at the red, blue, green, yellow and purple kites dancing in the air, now competing for their right to stay there. Great-Grandpa saw the wistful look in Sarla's eyes.

Great-Grandpa reached across to where a spare cap lay on the nearby table. He took it and handed it to Sarla. Then, she heard the sweetest words she had heard in years. "Sarla," Great-Grandpa shouted, "Sarla - Go fly a kite."