How Old Am I?

আমার বয়স কত? 

A beautiful poem by Ms. Rama Sengupta. Shared by a dear friend, thank you. My poor attempt to capture its essence follows the original. Posted here, with Ms. Sengupta's kind permission (and maybe, with gracious forgiveness 😇 for the translation.)

সঠিক জানা নেই তা

বয়স আমার রোজ পাল্টায়। 

আজ যখন নাতনির সাথে গল্প করছিলাম-

তার প্রথম প্রেমের গল্প-

আমার বয়সও সেই উনিশে। 

ছোট্ট চড়ুইটার সাথে কথা হোলো- কিচিরমিচির করে। 

তার আমার বয়সের ফারাক

পেলাম না তো খুঁজে। 

ভাসান দিতে যাবার বেলায়

তাসার তালে নাচে যখন সবাই

আমিও নাচি তাদের মতো

নিজের ঘরে, আপন মনে-

নড়বড়ে শরীরটা আমার তখন

অষ্টাদশীর। 

বন্ধুর অসুস্থ বিছানার পাশে

তার হাত ধরে যখন কাঁদি

তখন আমি হয়ত তার বয়সী। 

ঝরনার জল, চাঁদের কিরণ

আমায় বলে -

বয়স বলে কিছু নেই। 

যতদিন বাঁচবে আনন্দে বাঁচো-

যখন আসবে সে

অন্ধকারের ওপার হতে

আলোর প্রদীপ নিয়ে

তোমার হাতটি দিও তার মুঠিতে, 

ভাবতে চেষ্টা করো

এতদিন যে আনন্দে বাঁচলাম

তার হিসাব কি বয়সে করবো!! 

          © রমা সেনগুপ্ত

---

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆 

I dare not ask the calendar.
Age, she is a wanderer,
Anklets chiming softly with each step, 
Measured, hesitant, at once a tumult and quiet surrender.

This afternoon, my little granddaughter
unshackled her heart, shy, quivering, her first love.
And Time, disarmed me, I bowed low.
I was her, fearful, toes curled, wet upon its shore,

Bright, uncertain, breathless. Nineteen once more.

The young song sparrow and I exchanged tales,
Our chirps braided, quick, bright scales.
We searched far and wide, in our songbooks' pages,
Found no real differences in our ages.

When immersion’s hour finally arrives,
When tasha gongs peal the hearts into motion,
I too begin to sway 
Alone, inside my home, within myself,
Enthralled in my private devotion.
My frail body in a tight embrace 

With my eager eighteen year young face.

At a friend’s bedside,
where each fragile breath is weighted
and hope wears thin as thread,
I hold their hand and let my tears say the unsaid.
No more, no less,
I am their age instead.

The waterfall’s unceasing beat,
The moon’s long spill of silver flame,
Lean close and whisper the same refrain:
There is no Age. Again and again.
Live, they say,
As long as joy will open its door to you.
And when the hour comes,
When from the farther shore of darkness
A figure moves in view,
Bearing a lamp of flickering light,
Place your hand within theirs.
Ask then, ask, with due reverence.
These years lived in wonder, cherished, treasured bright,
By what, if any, yardstick 
could they ever be measured right?

Winterludes - III

der Kuckuck

© by 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

(with a humble bow to Paul Simon & Art Garfunkel)

Hello darkness, my old friend... this morning has taken me meandering, and I have come to talk to you again about my childhood hometown where winter enveloped one like an intimate "full" sweater (or a "half" sweater depending on what was handy). It reeked of napthalene balls from its storage chest, with a scratchy scarf wrapped around the neck or a monkey-cap jammed on your head by loving moms or neighborhood maasi's. It would be just a slow opening of eyes, peeping from underneath the covers, nothing abrupt or sudden to disturb the warm cocoon you had built overnight. You were ready to spring into action but the universe wasn't ready yet, was it? The world was like a silent era movie, waiting to be transformed with a soundtrack full of familiar hisses and faint whispers. 

The overnight cold mists may have drifted up and out slowly, lingering on forever. The sun, hesitantly peeking out from behind the fog, slowly made up its mind to grace us with its warmth. The usual small-town noises would start - the creak of compound gates, the low rattle of tin roofs shedding overnight dew, the leaves of eucalyptus trees rustling. Occasional roosters reminded us loudly about the arrival of the day while clucking purposefully, chasing the hens. The tring tring of pedal-pushed carts of street hawkers bringing fresh winter vegetables to your doorsteps, effusively being welcomed by the neighborhood canine sentries who would challenge each other to stay ever vigilant. Just enough to remind you that the day was waking without hurry.

There was the domestic quiet: the whisper of coal glowing in the kitchen stoves started earlier, the large kettles hissing getting ready for chai, the rhythmic scraping of a brooms sweeping courtyards, the soft creaks and loud squeaks of doors with rusty hinges. Every sound felt laid-back, deliberate, painted into the morning fabric, stitched into its core rather than superimposed upon it. These true sounds of silence were punctuated twice a day by an anticipated interruption: the drone of Fokker Friendship engine breaking through the fog, arriving from Calcutta and departing for Delhi with a hop, skip and jump through Patna and Lucknow, the other later in the afternoon on its return route. We would wait for it and discuss how late would it be because of the dense fog and smoke from the cold and open fires from household chulhas and street-corner fire-pits belching smoke from whatever scraps were thrown in. It was the aroma of winter mornings, no one knew what the AQI was. We would watch for that metallic bird's glint, heralded by the flutter of real birds that rose up, startled from their perches. The honk from little air-horns punctuated quiet mornings as solitary rickshaws rode past carrying early commuters on their way to some important mission. Each intrusion vaguely registered and was absorbed back into the morning, leaving silence richer rather than emptier. 

Unlike the stark, reflective hush of the Midwest, that winter silence was warm with presence. It was a quiet that anticipated conversation, shared understanding and the slow unfolding of life. Our laughter lingered on, a reminder that silence here was never emptiness. That Mother Nature was and is the ultimate of the Old Masters, the universe its canvas on which life revealed itself carefully, patiently, relentlessly with no explanation, without apologies. 

Silence on a winter morning in the Midwest is not quite empty either. Mother Nature still writes the script and the sound-track score, layered, textured, alert, the world is still listening to itself. There is the silence of fresh snow, the way it absorbs sound, softening edges, obliterating lanes, ironing the landscape flatter. Footsteps don’t echo; they sink. Distance collapses as a concept, and even familiar landmark and streets feel far away, muffled into anonymity. The absence of highway traffic noise is not felt, nor its gradual build-up. Like a conversation that ended long ago, no one noticed when the last word was spoken between intimate friends but one would pick up the threads exactly where one left off.

Outside, the natural quiet carries its own subtle signals these days. Deciduous trees have shed all their leaves. Evergreens shrug, shifting under the weight of ice and snow. Wind drags the drifting snow across the frozen driveway. Occasionally, a lone cardinal calls out, sharp, brief, almost impolite, cutting through the stillness, making it deeper once it passes. The distant snowplow one cannot yet hear, is busy elsewhere. The click clack of a train miles away whose horn is muffled by the cold. A larger world temporarily muted. Neighbors are getting busy with their shovels, snow blowers. I may have to bundle up and venture out soon. Our felines press their noses against the windows or doors, sniffing disapprovingly at the cold, disdainfully watching the neighborhood canines, who are bundled up like their owners shivering outside, doing their business outdoors.

There is the interior silence, the one that settles in your chest. You feel it. It arrives with the first look out the window, when the light is dim, skies are greyish blue, and sun is undecided about its arrival, and the day hasn’t claimed one yet. This silence isn’t necessarily lonely or peaceful, it’s anticipatory, hopeful. It hums quietly, waiting for motion, for warmth, for someone or something else to speak up and prove that the world is still there.

The coffee pot that started early on a timer has since stopped gurgling after its dutiful brewing is done, awaiting further instructions after the first two steaming mugs of the dark elixir of life. My feline companions are now busy munching their morning chow, purring contentedly. Their zoomies around the living room chasing each other around the house hasn't started yet. Beneath it all lies the mechanical hush. A furnace clicks on in the basement, forcing warmth through the ductwork in the walls, then settles into a low, patient hum. The younger feline finds and sits on each of the vents, as if to ensure proper distribution of warm air. The house contracts and expands with faint pops as wood and pipes adjust to the sub-zero cold, tiny noises feel amplified because nothing competes with them. The clocks, once mechanical that went tick-tock loudly are now all digital, very quiet, and blink from every appliance, each defiantly displaying a different time, never seeming to sync no matter how much you tried. All clocks, except for one.

It’s a large, ornate cuckoo clock - Handgeschnizt Original Schwarzwalder Kuckucksuhr (Hand-carved Original Black Forest Cuckoo Clock) by Hönes, as the original tag says. It was advertised as an 8-day Clock, a Hüsli (little house) style. Three decades ago, it cost us a small fortune. But we loved how it looked in the picture, we wanted it, we got it. Once operational, we observed it more accurately to be a 5-day clock. Other than that, the rest of the claims were fairly accurate. Every half hour, the little attic door popped open, a tiny bird came out, cleared its throat and delivered a piercing cuckoo. Every hour it announced itself more thoroughly: with the appropriate number of cuckoos followed by familiar melodies - Edelweiss or Der Fröhliche Wanderer (The Happy Wanderer) alternatively from its music box. A miniature Tyrolean chalet otherwise only seen in movies. The tunes became part of our household rhythm, alongside the pitter-patter of the little feet, woven into lullabies and naps, toddler tantrums, sibling fights, late night home-works, and the hasty mornings getting ready for school and for work. It has witnessed many noisy birthday parties and family get togethers over the years. Tirelessly ticking, not resting, through the noisy stomping of little feet arriving back from school and the many "witching hours", those evenings when everyone was tired, cranky, hungry, impatient, emotional. It once played the VIP role in its heyday, was the guest of honor when the baby birds were younger. Their friends would assemble to watch with fascination, as the bell-ringer pulled the bell, the Oompah band musicians swung around and played, the dancers rotated to music. And the cuckoo that sprang out from behind the closed door to announce the hour with full-throated warbles was the pièce de résistance, with everyone keeping count with the cuckoo, having learned their numbers recently.

The cuckoo clock has traveled with us all over - packed carefully, unpacked anxiously, surviving several cross-country moves. It has adorned different living room walls, in our different homes, and under different lights. It has endured the thumps and bumps of many toddlers and several kittens racing past, the casual experimentation conducted by small hands, the judgmental swipes of our cats who believed gravity was optional. Through all of it, it has kept faith with time, approximately rather than precisely, needing minor seasonal adjustment to its wooden pendulum due to the expansion and contraction. Physics, it reminds us. The last time it was in a repair shop many years ago, an elderly horologist had listened to its irregular ticks and murmured, "Ve haf vays to mek you toc." He has since retired, his son hasn't picked up the trade that was once passed down from father to son; now we are hunting for a reputed clockmaker locally.

Three plus decades later, der Kuckuck seems... a tad tired these days. It waits patiently in its empty nest, behind its little door, perhaps for the baby birds to come back, at least for a visit, wishful, hoping, expecting. It still ticks, stubborn and dutiful, but the songs often lag, slip, losing steps. The musical notes arrive late, as if catching its breath, sometimes overlap, at other times skip, or repeat. The internals are weary and worn-out, needing repair. Yet even in its faltering state, its rhythmic tick-tock feels honest. Time is still marching forward, but the ornamentation doesn’t always keep up. It has done its job faithfully for years. It doesn’t feel broken, just overdue for a little tender loving care, a caressing touch, a kind word and perhaps the graceful acceptance to keep going imperfectly, still marking the hours as long as it can. Can't quite figure out what this reminds me of, a disquieting déjà vu, as I listen to Paul & Art. And the vision that was planted in my brain... Still remains.. Within the sound of its silence.

Rang De Basanti! 

(Color Me Spring!)

© by 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

Ah, another Vasant Panchmi is here.

The day once used to arrive like my best friend Babul who would barge in, without any formal friendly knock. Then, we didn’t even know the word "meteorologist" with many acronyms, no experts were needed to tell us spring was on the way. Mother Nature would let her dupatta flutter in the light warm breeze. Mornings warmed just enough to make you shed your layers. It came with a faint, sweet, smoky smell, part blossoms, part dust, part promise. The cuckoos would begin their cooing early. Pigeons and other members of the Aves class would also get busy, chirping, twittering, prancing, courting, building nests, foraging for food and dropping guano on the unsuspecting. That je ne sais quoi which told you winter had begun to lose the argument in the celestial parliament of the universe.

This was the season for wardrobe re-negotiations. The monkey cap was hurled away with gleeful force first. Heavy jackets shed, the scratchy woolen sweaters and scarves discarded as soon as parental gaze had shifted. There was always one or two holdout uncles who hung on until after Holi, but the rest of us abandoned the winter garb like prison duds. Sunlight felt real, not something filtered through morning fog.

Vasant Panchmi meant Saraswati Puja, which in my memory glows permanently yellow. Yellow genda flowers, tart, yellow berries, yellow laddoos, yellow dreams. Yellow saris worn by neighborhood young ladies, borrowed from their moms, suddenly looking alluring and enchanting. Textbooks and journals were rediscovered, dusted and placed reverently before the goddess, never touching bare floors. Belief that invoking the divine would compensate for chicken-scrawls, gender confusion of Hindi nouns, incomplete home-works. Creaky harmonium accompanied bhajans, incense mingled with the smell of mango blossoms. On that day, learning felt glamorous. Even Sr. Carmella at school would choose to ignore any religious aspects of Puja, focusing on its educational underpinning, considering herself an acolyte of the Veena Vadini.

Memory is unreliable these days, except for one less than basanti episode, more bruise-purple. I was by now almost a middle-schooler, still basking in the memory of benevolent despotism of Sr. Carmella whose discipline used to come wrapped in kindness. However, that year, my school did what institutions sometimes do. It replaced it with The Rule of Law. Enter the new Headmaster, a youngish Belgian priest, brimming with moral superiority and an unyielding belief that laws were meant to be applied evenly, endlessly, without nuances, contexts, weather, age, gender, religion or any other factors that might lead to ambiguity. He appeared convinced that non-Catholics were already halfway down the express elevator to hell and but should at least be punctual about it. Tardiness was intolerable, absenteeism a cardinal sin.

On that Vasant Panchmi morning, we arrived at the school to find... Nothing. No teachers. No staff. No authority figures lurking ominously in the hallways. No bell-ringer to announce the start of the school-day. A blank blackboard in front of Headmaster's Office which would normally have the daily quote, scrawled in chalk with excellent calligraphy, exhorting all to follow the righteous path, informing all that Cleanliness is next to Godliness or shushing us with Speech is Silver but Silence is Golden.

We waited for a while, confused. We whispered excitedly. We waited some more. Finally, logic of the ten-year-old's prevailed, we high-tailed it home, planning how to fully exploit this once-in-a-lifetime miracle of an unscheduled holiday. Freedom had endless possibility. Wherever, whatever gathering the school authorities were engaged in causing their absence en masse from the school premises, alas, they eventually returned, only to find the campus populated by a sparse, unruly bunch, resentful about the lost opportunity of a day off. Other unlucky boys who lived nearby, or whose parents had somehow gotten the word of the delayed start, had physically hauled them back to what now felt less like a school and more like a correctional facility for the spiritually suspect.

The youngish Headmaster seized the moment to flex his disciplinary muscles. Rather than blaming themselves, he identified the true villain. "Puja!" he hissed in heavily accented Hindi as each kids was hauled in his office the next day. Vasant Panchmi itself was declared the cause of everyone's “unexcused absence.” Monetary fines were issued. I still can't figure out the convoluted logic behind a sum of 35 paisa being the punitive tariff for me but we were each notified in person, one at a time. He hounded us daily for a the next week or two. His demeanor was grave, terrifying, of possible further fines and unspecified consequences that loomed large in our small, rule-bending brains.

By one mid-afternoon next week, my quiet panic had fully bloomed into a full-blown crisis. Faced with escalating threats, I did the only thing I could think of. I left school in the middle of the day and went home. Only to find the house locked. My father wasn't back from the university. My mom was out doing some shopping. Fortunately, I ran into my friend Babul’s pishi next door who found me bawling, pieced together the story, and without ceremony raided her own and her sisters' piggy banks. She handed me some coins, less than one rupee in total, including the 50 paisa needed for the rickshaw rides each way, from and back to school.

I paid off the fine to an equally gruff Bursar, under the narrowed eyes of the Headmaster. The martinet priest loosened his proverbial grip on our psyche. Relief arrived, shaky but real. What we didn’t know then, but appreciate deeply now, was that several of our parents were outraged when they learned about it and by now quietly working behind the scenes. Conversations happened in the right places. And after the end of that school year, we welcomed a new, more benign, rational Headmaster, one who understood that children missing school was not, in fact, a theological crisis, not even a venial sin.

Fast-forward to today, Vasant Panchmi in the Midwest. Outside, the cold is feral. Inside, the bed is a moral argument you keep losing. The cats stand guard by the door, staring at the frozen universe, drafting a formal complaint to the weather gods. On TV, meteorologists are in full celebratory mode, breathless with joy as they juggle phrases like polar vortex, bomb cyclone, dueling jet streams, arctic blast, El Niño and La Niña, jargon interspersed with dueling computer models and other techno-babble like snowballs hurled with professional glee. There is winter storm brewing with a foot of snow on the way.

And then, a ping! Enter Unkillasaurus, that majestic, ever-forwarding WhatsCrapp creature who roams freely through the alumni groups. He emerges from the digital underbrush, thumping his chest and clearing his throat. He reminds all the batchmates, in many posts, Vasant Panchmi is here. Thanks, bud, we would never have noticed. No, no, no. It is, in fact, a deeply esoteric cosmic alignment involving sound waves, planetary vibrations, and ancient vedic wisdom, with deep spiritual reawakening, only recently unearthed from the bowels of YouRube. A video, eleven minutes long, the thumbnail features a man in saffron robe smiling in front of at an AI-generated petroglyph. Surely, those mustard fields are not merely that, they are symbolic of something deep, not shambolic. Saraswati’s veena, of course, is an ancient frequency modulator. Yellow berries that made your teeth feel funny? Obviously, the aayurvedic detox, anti-oxidant. A conspiracy against spiritual airflow. How did we survive seasonal changes all these years, in an uninformed state, a world without such profound gyan? No YouRube scholar to interpret it, none to forward it. ALL CAPS captions, The SCIENTIFIC TRUTH BEHIND VASANT PANCHMI THEY DON'T WANT YOU TO KNOW. Forwarded many many many times. Must watch. Till the end. Profound. Must Share.

So while the Midwest anticipates this looming snowcaplypse, and meteorologists polish their frozen thesauruses, Vasant Panchmi lives on, here not as a gentle warming but as a sarcastic calendar reminder. Outside, no spring knocks; the weather mocks. Lurks like a mugger in a dark alley. Bone-chilling cold, sapping all motivation, zapping your brain, insisting you return to the cozy cocoon of the bed. 

Meanwhile, I sit wrapped in layers my childhood self knew so well, a steaming mug of coffee, dreaming of golden-yellow mornings, before hay fever and spring allergies entered our lexicons, of the bare-headed, bare-feet afternoons, and the quiet excitement to come. Of spring that didn’t need colorful TV graphics or ominous theme music. Back then, Vasant Panchmi warmed the world gently, and we warmed with it. Now, it survives mostly in memory, the deep blue skies, warm, funny, and faintly bittersweet. Outside, reality bites hard, the Midwest winds howl here this morning. The felines remain unconvinced about venturing out, hover by the door, stare out accusingly, clearly questioning the weather gods’ qualifications. Their tails flick back and forth in annoyed disbelief. I agree. Surely this is a clerical error. Meow? I tell them earnestly that Spring still comes, will come. Sure of the fact now with experience of age, not necessarily wisdom, that even the strictest winters, institutional or otherwise, does end. Though not, alas, before extracting 85 paisa and a lifetime of perspective. 

Kati Patang

© by 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

Ah, Makar Sankranti is here again. In our childhood homes, the day was celebrated with chuda (flattened rice), dahi (homemade yogurt) & tilkut. Only these and nothing but these. Simple and solemn. However, outside the home, the skies were crowded, competitive, and mildly dangerous - to fingers, egos, and unsuspecting neighbors’ laundry, hung-out to dry on the various clotheslines.

Me and my chaddi buddy and partner in crime Babul faced this day from two different viewpoints. Babul believed firmly and with unshakable confidence that he could fly a kite better than anyone else, certainly myself. His conviction came from our last few attempts when his kites stayed aloft more than 30 seconds while mine could never overcome the attraction of nearby trees, power lines or gravitational pull of Mother Earth. With that as his sole evidence or proof, all previous attempts erased from our collective memories, he sailed forth jauntily, rubbing it in my face. I faced the day with firm convictions and quiet determination, vowing to overcome. That this time, for sure, this was the day I would acquire, nay, master such critical knowledge and finally fill the gaping hole in my "cool" self, something that I could not learn from textbooks, on how to fly a kite.

For the uninitiated, the no-nonsense kite (patang) was just a toy; for us, it was just designed to enjoy life, pure, simple, no frills. Everything about it was practical. affordable, and quietly joyful, what really mattered to us who flew it. The typical patang was small to medium in size, diamond-shaped, and unapologetically simple. Its frame was made from two thin bamboo sticks, one a straight vertical spine across one diagonal and the other, a curved bow across the other diagonal to give it the structural integrity. This curvature was crucial; too much and the kite fluttered like it’s nervous, too little and it dove like it has given up on life. No apps, no controls, no annoying electronics beeps or buzzes. Ours were homemade, we were always short of funds and our parents did not believe in "pocket money" nonsense.

The covering was light paper, usually glossier on one side, because that’s what the shops had. It was like tissue paper usually found in a gift bags, felt deceptively flimsy but surprisingly strong. Colors were primary, bold and uncomplicated: red, yellow, green, blue, the more ornate ones with a contrasting borders or a crude sun, star, or stripe printed in the middle. No long tails. Tails were for decorative kites and weak-minded children who didn’t trust physics. And they cost extra.

The string hole at the crossing of the two bamboo sticks was reinforced with a tiny patch of paper, carefully glued by someone who had done this a thousand times and never wasted an extra drop of glue. This kite was designed to respond instantly, in theory, something I never mastered: pull, it climbed quickly; release, it glided gracefully; hesitate, it betrayed you and crashed. That was the no-nonsense patang which turned the skies into a festive arena where skill, stubbornness, and joy and agony were equally airborne.

Attached to the kite was the real weapon, the manjha. Cotton string coated with glue and finely powdered glass, it looked innocent but behaved like a quiet, lethal assassin aloft. It hummed in the wind, sliced rival strings, and punished careless fingers. Every serious flyer had small, cuts on their hands, same scars and scabs formed over previous scars and scabs. Quiet proof of experience, respected by the novices and experts alike. Adults called it “dangerous,” mothers called it “forbidden,” and we boys called it “absolutely necessary.” The manjha was not obtained in shops legally. The coarse cotton thread was given its sharpness surreptitiously in backyards or on rooftops, hidden away from the watchful eyes of adults. I suspect they knew but ignored the fact that we were assembling, furtively with homemade paste made from flour, crushed glass and the reckless optimism of youth. Fingers were often sliced during the process.

Makar Sankranti was The Day the Sky Belongs to Everyone. Kite flying stopped being a casual hobby and became a public event. Forgotten was the fact that the festival marked the sun’s northward journey, uttarayan, the sky becomes a shared battleground and celebration space. From early morning, rooftops filled with people, children, uncles, grandmothers supervising snacks, and someone’s cousin who claimed they knew someone flew competitively somewhere once in some faraway land. The kite and the spools of manjha were getting ready to soar, duel, conquer the skies. Dueling transistor radios blared Bollywood film songs. Someone was always shouting unnecessary, unsolicited advice, unheeded by the kite-flying maestros.

The dueling kites would meet in the sky like sworn enemies. Experts screamed instructions that made no aerodynamic sense: Dheela de! Arre nahi, kheench! Ab kaat! KAAT! A few seconds later, someone always shouted “Wo Kaataa!” five seconds too early, only to watch their own kite wobble, panic, and dive heroically into a tree. The victorious kite would then drift away anyway, because nobody actually knew how to control it after winning.

Kite-flying followed an unspoken timetable. Mornings were for practice and warm-up, with light breeze. Afternoons, when the air warmed up from the sun and the breeze was strong, were for duels and dominance, punctuated by chasing cut kites through lanes, ignoring traffic, dignity, and any parental warnings. Cries of “Kaat! Kaat!” echoed across neighborhoods as strings crossed in mid-air. When a kite was cut, the kati patang drifted freely. Some of the children sprinted after it like it was a lottery ticket with wings. Catching one was considered an achievement of fate, not skill. A prize, a treasure, the loot deemed worthy of skinned knees and elbows and occasional shouting matches or fist-fights to settle who saw it first.

By sunset, the sky emptied slowly, some roofs, treetops and power lines looked like battlefield littered with skeletal remains, paper scraps and tangled string from the day's aerial combats. Our hands smelled of glue and dust as we went indoors vaguely dis-satisfied that the day was over, slightly sore, and already arguing about who really cut whose kite. Fingers were wrapped in bandages of questionable cleanliness.

There were no instruction manual, no Standard Operating Procedures. Skills were passed down by watching, copying, failing, and trying again. Fingers burned, strings tangled, kites crashed, but no one stopped. The kite was not just flown; it was negotiated with. The wind was not measured; it was felt. Oneness was needed - Fly the Kite. Feel the Kite, Be the Kite. Unfortunately, Babul was perhaps not a good teacher for this critical life-skill. More likely, I was not a worthy pupil, impatient and unwilling to be tutored by a frenemy. I still wake up from time to time, vowing, “Kal pakka seekh jaunga.” (Tomorrow, for sure, I’ll learn.) Anyone willing to tutor this kid?