It took me a long time. For the first few times, I had no idea how to tie the thread to the kite. A generous help from an uncle in my apartment got that problem sorted. I remember how he had caressed my hair when he had assured me that that was the right way of tying the knot.
Even then,
I was not able to fly the kite by myself. I lay it on the floor and pulled the
string. I let it hang off the terrace and tugged. I rested it on a water tank and ran
around. Nothing worked. Countless kites tore, threads snapped, and I lost count
of how many times I cried.
One day, a
boy of my age came to the terrace. While I sat staring at the torn kite, he
offered to hold the kite for me, while I pulled the string. We tried a few
times – I still had doubts about the string being tied improperly. But after a
while, it worked. The kite flew! As I said, it took me a long time. I even
offered the boy to hold the string and he seemed to enjoy it.
Every
evening, the boy and I flew our kite. Then, one day, the boy’s (possibly a
friend by now?) family decided to leave our apartment. I was sad then. It wasn’t
just about the kite anymore. He had been a good company.
I think it
must have been the practice. I could now fly the kite by myself. But the thrill
had somehow vanished. It wasn’t just about the friend. There was no novelty left.
Then, I had
an idea. I found my own thrill. Once the kite soared high in the air and looked
like a tiny dot, I used my teeth to cut the thread. It was fun to see the kite
travel far as it glided down from its pinnacle.
Once, a few
relatives were at our home for a family event. In the evening, my parents brought
them all to the terrace. They all cheered while my kite soared higher and higher.
The kite became a dot. Impulsively, I bit into its thread and the kite became
its own master.
“Why did
you do that?” somebody asked.
“Isn’t it
fun?” I said, staring at the kite.
“Who in his
right mind gets rid of his own kite?” I heard another voice.
“This is
fun too,” I replied, pointing at the kite.
I remember
nobody talked to me much about this incident that night. The next day, my
parents suggested that I am not supposed to fly the kite anymore – well, not if
I am going to cut the string myself.
“What’s
wrong in it though?” I asked.
“It’s not right,”
they said.
“But it’s
my kite and I can decide what I want to do with it,” I protested.
“Let’s get you to adulthood and see if you agree to it,” they said with a smile.
I couldn’t
get it. What’s wrong with cutting your kite off if one is not enjoying its
flight?
