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, swoopi...