City Skies, Flying Kites
A Jog Down The Memory Lane
Driving back from a workout this morning, I hopped on a thought train. It’s great weather to fly a kite, especially on the beach. But the beach is such a letdown compared to my kite-flying days in the city as a kid. My childhood days were in Bangalore in the mid-eighties. I basked in reminiscing on fond memories for a bit.
Rooftops
Kite flying was not just fun. It was also fiercely competitive — certainly not for sissies. It turned into this obsessive sport, with unexpected twists as more kites crowded the urban sky on any given day. On such days, it was a sly game of outwitting your opponents. Most homes in the neighborhood were matchboxes with roof access, which was a perfect spot to launch and maneuver kites. For many a young lad or lass, it was also a place of heartbreak, sweet revenge, hard-fought victories, and battle scars. There were hardly any houses taller than two storeys except a few wannabe scrapers aspiring for the sky.
Hometown
Our neighborhood especially, and our hometown in general, was renowned for its greenery — with neat rows of trees, shrubs, and flowering bushes lining every home on its streets. One could behold the Broccoli from a high rise — usually an apartment complex. Being India’s Garden City, the locals meant business trying to live up to its reputation. Its manicured botanical gardens, mirror-like lakes, and maintaining all-around greenery were a proud tradition and a legacy of the British colonial heritage. And the crowning jewel was the iconic festival of Lalbagh Glass House, showcasing the city’s biannual horticultural heritage.
Obstacles
Kite flying got intense in a city setting. The dense foliage posed a nuisance. Especially with the reel getting stuck or the kite nose-diving into the brush. But there were graver obstacles. For one, crowded skies meant fierce competition in the sky. Though it never deterred us from flying them, it meant the survival of the fittest — all vying for airspace. And when a gentle breeze turned stiff, it brought other pressing concerns to young kite-flying minds. I have never gone fishing or sailing once, but their insider-lingo applies remarkably to kite flying. Keeping the reel taut, reeling in or out, maneuvering through sudden wind gusts, loop-the-loop, or nose-dive avoidance — the list goes on.
Detecting an imbalance or a small tear in the kite while flying is a skill. And if the kite were to break free, sentries from kite patrol placed in strategic outposts would track it down. If rivals claimed a wayward kite before us, the consequences would get ugly. If a lost-and-found kite were remotely salvageable from treetops or housetops, we would, even breaking the occasional bone in trying. And lastly, there was mischief. Opponents got busy gaining an edge by resorting to dirty tricks with kite construction, flight strategy, and street smarts. It would get dirty, but all in the game.
Tools
Most kites were homemade. Trade secrets got passed down. So did the hands-on training, getting dispensed down the ranks to newbies. Making kites sturdier, more aerodynamic, symmetric, stable, and resilient were valuable skills to pick up to outdo the competition. The humble kite started with newspaper, twine (the twisted jute-fiber variety), broomsticks, and glue. Brooms, back then, were made of dried spines of coconut/palm fronds stripped of the leaves. But competition forced an upgrade in the design born out of sheer necessity. The kite got fancier — from wax-treated paper to nylon cloth foil (a sail), stabilizers and cleverly placed knots on the frame, sleeves on knots, and side-frills. Then there was the cotton line (twine) and the spool. It was something else. Kids mixed a powdered glass with a glue-like substance (Manja) and carefully coated the line. This abrasive lining would either survive or yield with two kites vying to cut each other’s lines. It also posed a grave danger to the bare palms or any skin that came in contact with the line. Handling the spool and the line was not for the faint-hearted.
Fond Memories
As a jumble of childhood memories from various kite-flying incidents flooded my mind, I couldn’t imagine being that reckless and carefree as a kid. But there I was recounting exploits with other neighborhood kids, our friendships, kite-making experiments, broken bones, blood and tears, and fierce skirmishes for city-sky dominance. It’s all but a distant memory that I fondly recollect. My experience is hardly unique but a snapshot of life growing up in a place and time — a glorious past growing up in the Indian subcontinent. For that, I have no regrets, only gratitude and fond memories.
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© Dr. VK. All rights reserved, 2022
