Threads that Bind
January 17 2013
The kite swirled, looped and spiraled, a speckle of pink against the bright silver-blue mid-January sky, becoming smaller and smaller. On the terrace, I squinted and arched back, trying not to get my eyes off our kite. It was fighting hard to remain ahead of the others – green, yellow, blue. Each kite-flier that day, without a doubt, was thinking the same thing – how to `cut’ the other kites out of the competition. But we had the one thing that no one else did - the best Manjha (kite flying thread) in town.
That year, I learnt to fly kites. I held the spool of Manjha, gingerly between the loop of my thumb and index finder. I rocked on my heels as the kite pulled at the Manjha hungrily climbing higher…higher. “Dheel de Choti… Dheel de (loosen the grip, little sister),” My brother, Bhai, instructed, without turning his head, focused on controlling our patang (kite).
“Kaata… kaataa…. (It’s a cut! Its’s a cut!),” Bhai yelled. It was the beautiful yellow one that swooped and descended downward.
I ran downstairs to catch it before it hit ground. The kite rightfully belonged to us; we had `cut’ it. Unless someone else got there before me, it was ours to keep and fly.
“Bhai, what if someone cuts our kite?” I had asked, worried.
Bhai had smiled reassuringly,” Don’t worry Choti, our Manjha will be very strong and nobody can cut our kite.”
To prepare the Manjha, Bhai had a secret formula. Making it required patience, glue and glass. The glass had to be first ground to a fine powder and then mixed with the glue. Its strength depended on the proportion and the grain of the powdered glass and the skill of the maker in coating ordinary thread in the glue mixture.
Wanting to help, I hung around the yard, watching him. “Choti, this is a secret formula. I want our Manjha to be sharper and stronger than anyone else’s,” Bhai said. “Besides, you don’t want to cut your hands, do you?”
Only Bhai knew how exactly he got the Manjha right.
“Ok Bhai, I will not tell this secret to anybody… promise… ”, I nodded, taking Bhai’s words very seriously. “But I want to help,” I persisted.
“Ok, go buy us a kite for tomorrow.” Bhai said, finally, giving in. He turned back to the task and I skipped to the shop. The tin shop was lined with kites and I picked one in the best shade of pink.
On Makar Sankrant the next day, we woke early. My stomach was in knots. Mom had prepared snacks and sweets in honor of the Sun god. Makar Sankrant marked his ascend into the northern hemisphere. I took a stashed some snacks up on the terrace, just so a food break would not interrupt us. Our kites were fanned out and the Manjha was crackling dry – we were set for the day.
That year, Dad had bought a new stereo. Bhai carried it up to the terrace and played a Bollywood film cassette. By mid-morning, kites were jostling for space in the sky.
“Don’t worry,” Bhai said. “It’s still early in the day.”
The ringing phone got me out of the reverie to the sounds of suburbia. Sure enough, it was my brother calling me on the day of the year that for me is tinged with nostalgia and reminds me of the glorious haze that is childhood.
Bhai’s voice was just the same as it had always been, strong, steady and kind. “Choti, remember, we have the strongest Manjha. It still binds us to each other.” He said half-jokingly as my eyes turned misty.
The kite swirled, looped and spiraled, a speckle of pink against the bright silver-blue mid-January sky, becoming smaller and smaller. On the terrace, I squinted and arched back, trying not to get my eyes off our kite. It was fighting hard to remain ahead of the others – green, yellow, blue. Each...
The kite swirled, looped and spiraled, a speckle of pink against the bright silver-blue mid-January sky, becoming smaller and smaller. On the terrace, I squinted and arched back, trying not to get my eyes off our kite. It was fighting hard to remain ahead of the others – green, yellow, blue. Each kite-flier that day, without a doubt, was thinking the same thing – how to `cut’ the other kites out of the competition. But we had the one thing that no one else did - the best Manjha (kite flying thread) in town.
That year, I learnt to fly kites. I held the spool of Manjha, gingerly between the loop of my thumb and index finder. I rocked on my heels as the kite pulled at the Manjha hungrily climbing higher…higher. “Dheel de Choti… Dheel de (loosen the grip, little sister),” My brother, Bhai, instructed, without turning his head, focused on controlling our patang (kite).
“Kaata… kaataa…. (It’s a cut! Its’s a cut!),” Bhai yelled. It was the beautiful yellow one that swooped and descended downward.
I ran downstairs to catch it before it hit ground. The kite rightfully belonged to us; we had `cut’ it. Unless someone else got there before me, it was ours to keep and fly.
“Bhai, what if someone cuts our kite?” I had asked, worried.
Bhai had smiled reassuringly,” Don’t worry Choti, our Manjha will be very strong and nobody can cut our kite.”
To prepare the Manjha, Bhai had a secret formula. Making it required patience, glue and glass. The glass had to be first ground to a fine powder and then mixed with the glue. Its strength depended on the proportion and the grain of the powdered glass and the skill of the maker in coating ordinary thread in the glue mixture.
Wanting to help, I hung around the yard, watching him. “Choti, this is a secret formula. I want our Manjha to be sharper and stronger than anyone else’s,” Bhai said. “Besides, you don’t want to cut your hands, do you?”
Only Bhai knew how exactly he got the Manjha right.
“Ok Bhai, I will not tell this secret to anybody… promise… ”, I nodded, taking Bhai’s words very seriously. “But I want to help,” I persisted.
“Ok, go buy us a kite for tomorrow.” Bhai said, finally, giving in. He turned back to the task and I skipped to the shop. The tin shop was lined with kites and I picked one in the best shade of pink.
On Makar Sankrant the next day, we woke early. My stomach was in knots. Mom had prepared snacks and sweets in honor of the Sun god. Makar Sankrant marked his ascend into the northern hemisphere. I took a stashed some snacks up on the terrace, just so a food break would not interrupt us. Our kites were fanned out and the Manjha was crackling dry – we were set for the day.
That year, Dad had bought a new stereo. Bhai carried it up to the terrace and played a Bollywood film cassette. By mid-morning, kites were jostling for space in the sky.
“Don’t worry,” Bhai said. “It’s still early in the day.”
The ringing phone got me out of the reverie to the sounds of suburbia. Sure enough, it was my brother calling me on the day of the year that for me is tinged with nostalgia and reminds me of the glorious haze that is childhood.
Bhai’s voice was just the same as it had always been, strong, steady and kind. “Choti, remember, we have the strongest Manjha. It still binds us to each other.” He said half-jokingly as my eyes turned misty.
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