Flying Kites

The boy jumps up the stairs,
Two at a time, intent on
Getting to the roof in less then
Five seconds—the remaining
Fifty-five to be used 'constructively'...

He reaches the roof in record time—
Just over four seconds!
Panting ever so slightly,
Puts his kite on the granular
floor, attaches the new,
super-sharp kite-string—
a wealth acquired for a
little less than five rupees.

Satisfied with the strength of
The string, having
Determined the flow of
The breeze, he jumps to his feet
And puts the kite in the air--
applying just the right amount of
Jerks required to catch the wind.

Now an expert, having learnt
This ‘art’ last summer,
Having practiced dexterously
In all kinds of winds,
Now manages to fly
Even in still air.
He maneuvers the kite proficiently,
Changing its trajectory deftly,
At the least sign of ‘danger’…
He brings down thirteen kites
before losing his own in
a hard-fought battle with the fourteenth.

This ritual is repeated
Ardently over the next few
Weeks, till Rakhi approaches
And the time to wind up arrives…

~

A few years have passed, days have turned
Into everlasting nights—
Seasons have lost their sheen,
And have been ruthlessly replaced…
The climate has changed but
The weather remains untainted.
The world has changed—
Yet its unpredictability is the same.
People have altered,
But their thoughts are
pivoted on the same axis—
of money.

This is how things change
and yet remain the same.

Those cemented steps
Are cemented, they still
Lead to the roof;
The only difference is
Four years’ wear and tear—
Smothered with moss
And dried tears.

The boy now climbs slowly—
Has he matured?
He takes care not to slip
on the moss:
He has changed…
There is no kite in his
hands, no kite-string, nothing…
He gave up kite-flying
Two years ago…

Overhead, kites still fly,
Neighbouring roofs are full
Of small children eager
To learn the ‘art’.
Of their elder siblings
expertly flying kites.

The boy today notices
Not the bright colours of
The kites, the sharpness
Of different kite-strings.
He now recognizes the
Three-dimensional motion
Of the kite, the tension in
The string, the elasticity,
The upthrust, pressure,
Einstein, Newton, Planck…
He has forgotten the cause.

But the kites cannot forget
The cause, they still
Soar in the sky according
To their flyers’ wish.
They oppose everything
To do their masters’ bidding.
Some kites still descend
Onto the roof, their strings
severed by contact
With sharper strings, greater beings.

The essence of kite-flying rains
Down on the roof.

But today, the boy climbs
Onto the roof with
Pen and paper in his hands…