Her Happy Kite

I recently watched the Telugu film Patang. It tells the story of two friends who form rival teams to settle a score through a kite duel. One team knows nothing about kite flying, which leads to several humorous scenes as they struggle to learn the craft.

Those scenes felt deeply relatable.

I flew kites during my school days and, like most of my “firsts”, the learning process was a comedy of errors. I remember trying to jam a chess pawn into the base of a piece because my cousin told me the newly bought set was “too small”. My first attempts at kite flying were much the same: I would simply grab the thread and run, hoping the kite would follow. Like a playful puppy, the kite had a mind of its own — nosediving, veering off course, or simply snapping the thread and escaping.

My neighbours, who were quite skilled, eventually taught me the basics. Soon, I could fly a kite with ease. I even learned to make simple ones using nothing but old newspapers and broomsticks. Since our gate opened directly onto a playground, I could fly a kite right from home whenever the wind blew in the right direction.

All those moments feel fresh, as though they are happening now. Even though those days are long gone, I can see them more clearly today than I ever did back then. I am a grown man; I no longer fly kites. But there is something strange I can do now — I can see those moments as a spectator.

I remember her pleading with the neighbour boys to teach me, bribing them with a bunch of mangoes. I can hear her shouting, “Be careful!” as I chased a falling kite. I see her reminding me to drink water. I see her gathering fallen broomsticks while sweeping, or carefully tightening the knot of the broom I had pillaged for my kite-making. I remember her face lighting up with pride when my father brought home the colour-paper she had asked him to buy, just so I could make colourful kites. Despite her endless household chores, I see her patiently stepping outside whenever I called her to show off a new trick.

I had no camera to capture those moments, yet I see them vividly now, with her at the centre of the frame. Sometimes I wonder whether I am merely hallucinating, but I think I am simply seeing her through the eyes of an adult. The boy I was and the man I am now are not the same. Now, I can picture my mother’s reaction to almost any situation. I am beginning to understand that I am seeing her not just as a person, but truly as a mother.

She was happy, not because my kite soared high or danced like magic across the clouds. Her joy was never tied to the height of the kite, but to the boy holding the string. I realise now that while I was looking at the sky, she was looking at me — and in her eyes, I was always the one flying.