Kites

See this consistency, Kanu?” I said, lifting up a spoonful of the thick, dripping paste, whilst the scrawny mop-headed face bobbed up and down vigourously. “This is what you want. It’s how the thick manjha can cut down the other kites. We’ll put this, here, on this nylon string....like this...”

I carefully spread the sticky paste all over a taut string of nylon. The paste was made of crushed glass powder and tree-sap gum, which made it extra sticky and extremely trying to work with. Even I got annoyed with the wiry paste that simply flopped around from my fingers, refusing to touch the string.

So, you can imagine why I was impressed with the perseverance of my young protege, who worked cheerfully despite the exasperating paste. Kunal (or Kanu as we called him) had moved to Rampur from Amber and fell in love with the fascinating preperations for the upcoming Makar Sankaranti Kite-Battling Tournament.

Being the youngest “medium sized” boy in the village(at the unformed age of nine), he was a favourite target for the town bully, Charan, who had incessantly taunted his kite flying skills as he pathetically flung a ripped yellow kite into the stong eastern winds.

When the shy urchin bravely requested me to train him, I was pleasantly surprised and immediately consented to the likable grin with missing teeth.

As I came down for lunch, I was shocked to fond away my older sister Anandi (Di for short) giving away her most prized possesion, given to her by our favourite late aunt. The recipient of this most precious treasure was, dissapointingly, the wailing brat from next door. She ceased to wail alright, but I was flabbergasted. I told her so, too. In fact, I vented out a furious eruption of exasperation, to which her calm reply was,” I know what I’m doing, bhai. Sometimes, you can sacrifice your joy...for someone else’s bliss...maybe when your older, you’ll understand. Now lets talk about something else.”

So she enquired about Kanu’s progress.

“Very good! He’s a little master!” I beamed. “I feel so much-what’s that word they use in the Mahabharata?- Garv!”

Di threw her head back, laughing. Garv was an old fashioned wors that meant pride in something or someone. “Hanh ji, hanh! So much garv!”

Just then, my best friend, Deep, walked in, looking very grim, and dragged me out for a stroll.

“Kya bhai?” I playfully punched his shoulder. “You don’t look festive.”

“Look,“he sighed heavily as we hauled ourselves up an aging stone wall. “it’s nice how your teaching the new kid...but I’m worried.” I frowned as he continued. “I’ve seen him fly the kite...and he’s good...too good for his age and experience.”

“So?” I kicked the wall nonchalantly.

“Look Amar... You know that you, me and Charan are the best kite-fliers in Rampur and...I don’t know about you, bhai, but I can’t take being beaten by an urchin. If it was you or Charan, then Salaams! But if that thing takes me down...” He fiercely thrust a finger-gun to my temple.

“So what do you want me to do, bhai? I laughed. “I already said I’d teach him.”

“There’s that ‘wounded little finger trick’(Chotti ungli), na? Bas! Don’t teach him that.That’s a master trick. Everything else is okay. Bas! Just don’t teach him Chotti ungli!” he said, tightly gripping my hand.

It indeed was a master-trick. It was a trick where you twisted the majha to a certain angle to cut the kite and often times than not, you slit your little finger in the process. But the wound was worth the outcome.

I sighed my consent, but something dark stirred in the gloaming within the crevices of my mind.

A medley of a thousand colours rise up to the vast blue sky. Mine is up there, too - a bright scarlet battle kite. The first cheers and jeers errupt as the first kites fall to the hands of the whooping kite-runners.

Now, I quickly start to cut the surrounding kites.

“Kanu’s doing preety well, bhai!” Di smiles at me. “I notice he didn’t use Chotti ungli, though!”

My stomach begind to churn into labrynthian knotts as I reply in a husky voice, “I didn’t teach him.”

As I spill out Deep’s request, I feel sick. My head reels. I can feel the wet beads trickling down my shoulder blades and running down my brows. I taste its salt and grimace. I should have taught him all...It is true - he is too good...but was it fair to him? He could win...Imagine the pride for a nine-year-old!

Suddenly, a blue battle kite swoops down upon mine and I have no choice but to use that trick that I’m suddenly growing to dread. I jerk the string, wound my little finger, tackle and the blue kite comes hovering to Deep, who Salaams me with a grin.

There are three kites left-Red, Yellow and Green. Green stealthily attacks Yellow, circling like a hawk before suddenly snapping the string...the yellow kite sinks to the feet of the defeated, crestfallen and ashamed kite-flier - Charan!

The knotts are back in my stomach as I see the flier of the green kite - a scrawny mop-headed face, beaming woth excitement. My heart sinks. I couls win! It’s a year since I won. I want my title back! But my conscience savagely rebukes my greed...now that Deep is out of the picture, I’m only thinking of myself...is it fair to him? I didn’t teach him the master trick, yet I’m about to use it against him! It isn’t fair to him! Niether is it fair to me. It’s cheating on my part. And I don’t want that kind of a victory. My lips run dry and my hands tremble as the prancing green kite circles mine like a hawk. My little finger trembles. The green kite swoops upon mine. I jerk the strings, my little finger idle... A scarlet battle-kite floats down to the dust. The scrawny mop-face is speechless as I Salaam him with a grin.

“You did that on purpose!” Charan and Deep hiss furiously from either side of me as I roll up the manjha onto its cob. “Why?”

“Sometimes, you can sacrifice your joy...for someone else’s bliss.” I reply glancing at my sister.

She smiles and mouths three words-“Mujhe garv hai-I am proud...”