The Makar Sankranti kite festival turned the sky above Bhopal into
a war.
Hundreds of kites — red, green, saffron, blue — jostled and dove
and climbed, their glass-coated strings glinting like spider silk
in the January sun. From every rooftop and terrace in the old city,
children and grandfathers leaned back, arms extended, feeding line
to the wind, pulling sharp when an enemy kite drifted close.
The object was simple: cut the other kite's string. Send it
spiraling down.
Nandu stood on Baa's terrace with a diamond-shaped kite the color
of turmeric. Kabir was beside him, hopping from foot to foot,
shouting instructions that contradicted each other every three
seconds. "Pull! No, release! Left! No, the other left!"
Nandu ignored him. He was watching the wind.
His kite rose steadily, climbing above the rooftop water tanks
and television aerials until it was a bright yellow dot against
the pale sky. A green kite from the neighboring terrace came
swooping in — Nandu pulled hard, his kite dipped under the attack,
and his manja caught the green kite's string. A snap. The green
kite tumbled away, and Kabir screamed with joy.
Then a gust hit. Nandu's kite lurched sideways, the line went
slack, and before he could react, a red kite from somewhere above
sliced through his string like a hot knife through ghee. The
yellow kite drifted free, spinning slowly, getting smaller and
smaller until it was just a speck.
"No!" Kabir grabbed the empty spool. "We lost! We need another
one!"
But Nandu just stood there, watching his kite float away over the
rooftops of the old city, and he was smiling.
Baa, sitting in her plastic chair with a cup of chai, noticed.
"Why are you grinning?" Kabir demanded. "We just lost."
"I flew the same way when we were winning," Nandu said, surprised
by his own words. "I was pulling and watching the wind and feeling
the line — it felt exactly the same. The cutting and the getting
cut. The only difference was what happened to the kite."
Baa took a sip of chai and said nothing for a moment. Then, almost
to herself: "That is the secret. Do the thing the same way whether
you are winning or losing. Let the result be the result. You
just fly."
Kabir stared at both of them as if they had lost their minds.
Then he grabbed a fresh kite from the pile, shoved it into
Nandu's hands, and said, "Fine. Be philosophical later. Fly now."
Nandu laughed and tied the line.
