​The Aftermath: Kite and Makar Sankranti

 

The wind atop the terrace didn’t just howl; it whispered. For Madhav, Makar Sankranti had never been about the til-gul sweets or the transition of the sun into Capricorn. It was about the string—the manja—and the fragile tension between holding on and letting go.

​Madhav stood at the edge of the roof, his fingers calloused from years of these silent wars. Below, the city of Ahmedabad was a mosaic of color, but for him, the world had narrowed to a single yellow kite dancing against the blue.

​Psychologically, the kite was an extension of his own ego. As long as it soared, he was in control. Every tug on the line felt like a heartbeat. Beside him, his father’s empty chair sat in the shadows. His father had taught him that the secret to winning wasn't strength, but the ability to sense the "give" in the wind. Since his father’s passing, Madhav had struggled with the "give." He only knew how to pull.

​A crimson kite entered his periphery. It was aggressive, swooping with a predator’s instinct. Madhav felt his chest tighten—the familiar surge of cortisol, the "fight or flight" response triggered by a piece of paper and bamboo. To anyone else, it was a game. To Madhav, it was a confrontation with the inevitability of loss.

​He engaged. The strings crossed, a microscopic friction occurring hundreds of feet in the air. He could feel the vibrations through the wooden spool. In that moment, the kite wasn't just a toy; it represented his career, his grief, and his failing grip on the things he couldn't change. He gripped the string tighter, the glass-coated thread biting into his skin.

​"Let it breathe, Madhav," he heard a ghost of a voice say.

​He realized he was suffocating the kite’s movement. By trying to control the wind, he was ensuring his own defeat. He took a deep, shuddering breath and, for the first time in a year, he loosened his fingers. He stopped fighting the crimson kite and started moving with it.

​The tension vanished. With a sharp, rhythmic flick of his wrist—a movement born of muscle memory and newfound surrender—he felt the sudden lightness. The crimson kite faltered, its line severed.

​As the red kite drifted away, a "right of passage" for some child in the alleys below, Madhav didn't cheer. He watched his own yellow kite continue to fly, bobbing peacefully. The psychological weight that had settled in his shoulders since the funeral finally dissipated. Makar Sankranti was the festival of the "turning" sun, and Madhav realized he had finally turned a corner of his own.

​The kite was still tied to him, but the string was no longer a leash. It was a bridge.