The paper leaps like a wild horse in the wind. Saravanan tames it — he holds down one edge with his left hand and folds the corner of the other with his right. A slice is torn off to make a perfect square. “ Semma kaathu — what wind!” he exclaims, as he struggles with the paper. His friend Ajith comes to his rescue; he holds the paper, while Saravanan tears it along the fold. The 14-year-old from Nochi Kuppam is making a kite to fly by the beach. Kite-flying is a yearly ritual for the kids who live by the Marina. They start right after Pongal and go on for a couple of months.
While a lot of kids buy readymade kites sold in petty shops in the kuppams, some, such as Saravanan and Ajith, prefer to make their own. This is because handmade kites are sturdy and reliable. “The ones sold in the shops rip off on their first flight,” explains Ajith. With one of the pockets in his shorts bulging with a spool of thread and a disarming grin on his face, Ajith represents the typical kite-flier of the Marina.
During the kite season, these kids head to the beach after school for kite matches or to fly a kite by themselves. Look closely, and you can see that no kite-flier is on his own — he is always trailed by a bunch of boys who are either fans of his kite or his kite-flying skills.
Saravanan drizzles glue on one of the sticks he pulled out of a broomstick at home. He sticks it vertically across the diamond shape and tapes the edges. “Suresh kaathaadiya paathiya da — did you see Suresh’s kite the other day?” asks Ajith. He lifts his hand from the kite to cut tape and it threatens to tear. “Hold tight,” orders Saravanan. The most important requirement for kite-making is concentration — for, even a small mistake could mean starting all over again.
Kite-flying is serious business for these kids. “If I ‘base’ a kite, (cut off the opponent’s kite during a match) I get to ‘deal’ (keep) it,” says Saravanan, his eyes focussed on the next stick that he places like a half-moon over the first one. Saravanan is an expert kite-flier — there are times he has ‘dealt’ with over 10 kites a day. Ajith assures that they don’t use maanja nool , thread covered with powdered glass, that’s been banned by the city police owing to its potential danger to motorists.
The kite’s frame is ready; Saravanan now pierces two holes diagonally opposite each other on either side of the intersection of the sticks. “This is very important,” says Ajith. “Otherwise the kite might tumble in the wind and tear.” Saravanan pierces two more holes at the bottom edge of the kite on either side of the vertical stick. He runs thread that’s used to string flowers through the holes.
“Do you want a tail?” asks Ajith. Saravanan goes on to add one — what fun is a kite without a tail? Once it’s done, he gives it a test flight. He holds the knot at the centre and lifts it to the wind — it flutters to life.
He attaches the knot to a spool of thread and steps onto the sand. Saravanan is firm that the kite is not flown close to the road.
As if on cue, a gust of wind from the sea hits them hard. Saravanan nods and the two boys gently release the kite. The moment it escapes his grip, the kite whizzes into the grey sky, its tail flapping madly behind it. The boys release more thread; the kite flies higher and higher till it looks like a phantom against the sky. Saravanan grins: “Namma kaathadi tharamana kaathadi,” he says. “Our kite is the best.”
