The making of kites is a delicate yet taxing process, often entrusted to those with the supplest of fingers and the ability to endure working in small, unventilated rooms.
Mohammad Arif and his mother are thankful for kites: despite a daily routine of working in claustrophobic conditions from dawn to dusk, making kites has helped them eke out a living for their family. With a good dozen years and much blood, sweat and tears already spent, the mother-son duo have perfected the art of kite-making: “The lighter and more evenly-balanced your kite, the higher it’s going to fly.”
Arif and his mother work out of their small home in Karachi’s Bizerta Lines. The house is carefully partitioned between a workshop and private space; the workshop is set up on the ground floor, where artisans arrive early in the morning to begin their assigned jobs. The first floor is a more segregated space, where Arif’s mother and sisters usually work. Most rooms on the first floor are for the family’s use, but double up as storage areas.
“It is a cottage industry responsible for several livelihoods,” Arif explains.
The first step is to have sheets of coloured paper cut into the right shape; the most popular and traditional design for fighter kites is diamond-shaped. Much of this work is done early in the morning.
As the first artisan enters the workshop, he is appointed to chopping pieces of wood into thin splinters, which he then smoothens for flexibility and balance. “The wood is imported from Myanmar,” explains Arif, as he walks me into a small room with wood shavings scatted all over the floor, and a bundle of small wood logs stacked in one corner. “One bundle has 100 pieces of wood and I pay around $3 for each bundle. But each piece of wood in that bundle makes many splinters,” he says.
In another fan-less room, a few boys are busy sticking the flexible splinters on the paper to give it a spine and a bow with homemade lai. The glue is prepared from maida (white flour) and neela thotha (copper sulphate) — very strong once dry. The boys work tirelessly and speedily, almost like automatons.
That done, the women of the house — led by Arif’s mother — get busy fixing the bridle lines on the kites to attach the fly line or manjha to. “This is a craft usually mastered by women as they have delicate and supple fingers,” Arif points out.
Once completed, stacks of kites are finally driven to Arif’s shop, where he sells each kite for a minimum of Rs15. “Not a bad bargain, considering the work that goes into kite-making,” the man smiles.
