Paper Kites
January 15, 2016Today, Makar Sankrant (in Marathi मकर संक्रांत), is the day that was traditionally a celebration of harvest, and also a day marking the sun's journey towards the north (or Uttarayan उत्तरायण). Beautiful really, isn't it? I would imagine it to be a day of a good meal of the fresh harvest, decorating or cleaning the farm or garden and thanking the earth and the sun.
Reality is slightly different. No matter how beautiful the thought behind our festivals is, we manage to completely miss the point. The tradition today, is to fly kites.
There was a time I was a bit more open to the flying of kites for pleasure.
Something in me thought it was nice; a part of culture that can bring happiness. That feeling is overpowered now by the sheer number of kites; by the injuries, the sights of trees streamed and roads littered with the ugly, torn remains of paper and string, by the frantic, hesitant flying of my winged friends as they try to avoid the invisible chords hanging in the sky...
I realise now, I have long outgrown the tradition.
Reality is slightly different. No matter how beautiful the thought behind our festivals is, we manage to completely miss the point. The tradition today, is to fly kites.
Srrrrrt ssssrrtThe air is filled with sharp rustling soundsAs the paper kites cut through the air guided by their commanding stringsAnd once again the soundCuts through my very soul,breaking my heart.The kites are pretty and colourfulWeaving and twisting and soaring in the airBut I cannot appreciate their flightIt is a flight tainted with blood.Because in my heart the bat flutters again,Looks into my eyes, the struggle and pain alive once more,Clinging to life with the mangled wingDestroyed by the kite stringAnd as I relive that death in my arms,More fluttering, swerving, another torn wing…A mother bird hushes her son‘Don’t fly yet my child!’And the young bird in my mindBandages his injured motherAnd asks something profound…‘Why, mama, do they never haveA festival they can share with us?’
There was a time I was a bit more open to the flying of kites for pleasure.
Something in me thought it was nice; a part of culture that can bring happiness. That feeling is overpowered now by the sheer number of kites; by the injuries, the sights of trees streamed and roads littered with the ugly, torn remains of paper and string, by the frantic, hesitant flying of my winged friends as they try to avoid the invisible chords hanging in the sky...
I realise now, I have long outgrown the tradition.
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