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?