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Journalism of Courage
When you want to own the sky and soar in abandon, to slice through air and tame the wind, what you need is a spool of string and a paper diamond. In short, you need to fly a kite. So here I am, on the rooftop of a six-storied lodge in old Delhi, ready to make my bid. At least I am at the right place—this is patangbaazi battleground. On the terraces sprawled around me, masters of the game have crossed strings, snapped the spirits of the proudest kite and whispered the secret of the sharpest manjha to their successors. My aim is humbler—to coax my indigo beauty to reach for the sky.
For inspiration, I have history and for help, a slightly grumpy 14-year-old, Munazir. No expert in flying kites, but he can hold the spinning roll for me. On the roof nearby, a group of children are flying small plastic kites. Mine is a full-size paper kite, I note smugly. I bend the spine to the right degree (it helps it float) and tie the string on its two ends. With the next knot, I tie her to the string. Now, which way is the wind blowing? I sneak a glance at the children’s kites. Ok, we are good to go.
I gently ease off my kite from the edge of the roof and get ready to pull the string. She swooshes and swerves and, for a fraction of a second, noses towards the overcast sky. I tug at the string and she lifts higher. It works, it works. My heart soars and I tug harder. Too soon. She’s lost her bounce. Down she plunges like a coin into a pool.
I look at Munazir behind me, clear my throat and try again. This time, she ventures a little farther. I let loose more thread, coaxing her to go higher. But the grey sky has dampened her spirit. She flaps listlessly. I dare not look at Munazir. I let her go one more time. Enough of gentleness. One forceful jerk and she’s up, up and away. I unspool more thread but gravity wins—my kite is down again. “Hold it properly, Munazir,” I snap. “Theek hi to pakda hai,” he mutters. Before I could try again, a cheeky voice comes from the nearby roof. “Main udaaon kya?,” sniggers a slip of a boy, deftly holding his kite aloft with one hand and the spinning roll with another. Ignore, ignore, I tell myself.
By now, I am desperate enough to jump and fly myself instead of this insipid kite but I try again. My kite drifts off and impales herself on an iron rod on the roof. Peals of laughter from the nearby roof and Munazir has given up on me. “I am going,” he stomps off, leaving the spinning roll on the floor.
I pick the roll up and look at the Jama Masjid for a sign. The grand minarets and the dome stare back with impassivity. Time to take stock. Torn kite, ditched by Munazir and night about to fall. The sky (sigh) is not going to be mine.
