The Wait  

           a loose thread
         I choose  
         where to belong
 

As a child, Makar Sankranti was my favourite festival. Preparations for the kite flying season started in October or November of the previous year and entailed making several important decisions, including the quality of the thread we were going to use, the number of kites that needed stocking, creating a playlist of songs to blast from our terrace, and, most importantly, the mouth-watering foods and sweets we would require for the entirety of those two days.

Even in the coldest of winters, when temperatures hovered close to 3 degrees, we were ready for the yearly battle. In multiple layers of clothing, our first kites would be sent up into the sky at 5:00 a.m. It was a futile exercise, as the heavy dew ensured that the kites came down in a soggy heap. The point of this failed attempt was akin to blowing a war horn of sorts. After laying down the marker in our neighbourhood for being the first to scale the sky, we waited with bated breath for sunrise.

Colourful kites in different patterns and sizes dotted the vastness. I used to crane my neck and check the breeze to judge which way the wind was blowing. Armed with medical tape around my fingers and the sharpest of threads, I was ready to take the battle into the aerial enemy camps. Everything was fair game: you could cut the kites of inexperienced fliers, preen your skills unashamedly and shout “vo kata” at the top of your lungs, or jump from terrace to terrace to get the highest vantage point. My stock of kites would eventually dwindle when the opposition increased with time. The hostilities continued until the skies darkened. It was a wrap. My friends and I exchanged scores and licked our wounds. Before retiring to bed, I would vow to myself that I would come back stronger next year.

But things change with increased awareness. Once I realized the amount of injury we were collectively causing the birds by using the sharp manjas, I decided to shelve kite flying for good. Yet the memories linger to this day, fresh as a daisy.

   coming of age the barriers I am yet to cross

 

Haiga