I remember this day every year of my life until eight years ago. I remember waking up to an array of noises; each one brought along with it excitement and a promise of a joyous day. I remember waking up with the warm sunlight on my face that would enter through the open balcony door and cover half my body as I lay on a mattress on the floor in the bedroom. I remember waking up to the noise of paper fluttering in the wind, a noise unique to that particular paper pulled in tension between two thin sticks held in place only by tape which more often than not matched the colour of the paper. I remember waking up to noises of cheer, to the battle cry of boys and men shouting, “kaaypo che!” or, “lappet!”
This was a day that came once a year, but the joy lasted for at least a week. This was a day that had a lot of careful preparation around it. I remember walking from home to Parle Market, down that station road which would be consumed by the festivities of Makar Shankrant, with kite shops cropping up almost everywhere along the length of the street from S.V. Road to station. The vibrant colours of the kites invited me to go and select my kodi or pack of twenty kites. Yet, I remember travelling to the very end of the street with my firki or spool in the hand to an old man whose shop was bustling with activities. I remember going there only because my elder cousins used to purchase their maanjha and patang from him as he apparently got it from Surat, which implied the highest standard in quality.
I remember running up to the terrace in the morning with my kites and spool, only to be blinded by the sun in full display. I remember hurriedly tying the kanna to a formula 0-1 or 1-2, and getting it wrong every time and redoing it. I remember hurriedly tying the end of the manjha to the kanna and flying my first kite of the day!
When I was younger I remember making attempts, and failing. That is how you learn. I remember waiting for one of three elder cousins to find their way to the terrace so that they could fly the kite and hand it to me once it was up there, one with the sky, steady in the wind, ready to take on others that would dare cross its path. I remember my kites getting entangled in the lovely aasopaalav trees in the front of the building or the badam tree at the back.
I remember going to Dhiraj in the evening to collect a parcel of thirty vada-paavs, I remember my mother and aunt putting together jugs and jugs of neembu paani for the evening when all my cousins, their friends would gather on our roof top, at 14, Prasad, K.D. Road, for the biggest party of the year. I remember at least seven kites being flown from the terrace. I remember kite-fights breaking out with the Jhasanis across the street and the Bhagats diagonally across. I remember sitting on the parapet walls with my sisters admiring the kites in the sky, and tapping our feet to music that was being blasted on two large speakers on our terrace while enjoying the Mithibai vada pav and neembu paani. I remember staying there till the sun disappeared, only to watch the kandils that were put on the manjha, one of the most fascinating images of those times.
This day has faded into a memory.
Maybe it because the people who were central to it are no longer around. My grandfather who was my partner, who always held my spool or that white ceramic hand wash basin on the terrace where I could put my spool and fly my kite solo.
Maybe it is because 14, Prasad, no longer exists.
That terrace that was my territory for a week was broken down in front of my eyes about eight years ago.
Maybe it is the fact that all the people who made the day what it was can no longer come together the way they used to.
I haven’t flown a kite in eight years now.
It is as though shankrant ceased to exist along with the building and the people.
All have become a memory.
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