Go fly a kite
PUNJAB’s conditional decriminalisation of kite-flying a week ago came as a breath of spring air, albeit with some concerns.
As someone who grew up in a city where kite-flying was not only fairly ubiquitous but almost de rigueur among youngsters across the socioeconomic spectrum, the ban imposed by legal and legislative measures almost two decades ago always seemed like overkill. Understandably, though, it was welcomed by families that had lost loved ones, particularly through decapitation by fortified string while riding motorbikes.
By any standard, this was unacceptable. Tragedies incurred by falling off a roof, or ignoring the traffic while chasing a free-floating kite across a busy road, can generally be avoided by applying common sense (which can only be learned, rather than legislated). But the potential lethality of unbreakable (and invariably invisible) string tautly stretched across a road is both indisputable and unconscionable. It shouldn’t have proved impossible for the authorities to respond by outlawing all varieties of lethal twine, and strictly policing the ban. Instead, they opted for overkill.
For Lahoris of a certain generation, it’s all but impossible to imagine the city without its speckled autumn and winter skies, leading up to the advent of spring signified by Basant, usually in February. We annually celebrated the festival with close family friends who owned a derelict haveli inside the walled city. The rickety stairs led to a rooftop that revealed an enthralling vista: a sky rendered almost invisible by kites of every description. My parents informed me much later that I was utterly gobsmacked by what I witnessed the first time they took me there. I don’t recall that, but do more clearly remember the unmitigated joy of subsequent Basants at the same venue.
In the interim I had evolved from a tiny wannabe into a more substantial enthusiast with better than rudimentary skills in flying kites and tackling rivals — not always successfully, but that was part of the experience. The fun lay in taking part; triumph in a clash in the skies inevitably kindled joy, but losing wasn’t traumatic. It was par for the course, and the remedy was to try again. A useful life lesson.
The answers we need might be blowing in the wind.
Although my fascination with kites emerged almost in infancy — I was informed that not long after starting school (at the age of four), I announced one morning that it was a holiday that day, simply because the idea of flying kites seemed far more attractive than learning my ABCs; my mother had the good sense to check with the school, which confirmed her suspicions — I entered the big time (at least in my imagination) only between the ages of seven and 11. For those four years, I lived with my parents in a house in Gulberg that offered an easily accessible roof for nefarious pursuits.
From roughly the months of October to March, I could be found up there pursuing my passion and improving my techniques. Back then, average kites could be purchased for annas – a fraction of a rupee. An adequate pinna of dor (a ball of twine embellished with a mixture of paint, glue and powdered glass) cost Rs10 or less. Diamond-shaped guddis and guddas (the same words apply to female and male dolls) were the go-to option, while the fancier double-winged patangs cost a bit more. The average ‘dor’ came in Nos.8 and 12, depending on whether you wanted to attach it to big or small kites. Standard glue sufficed to patch up torn kites; starchy flour mixed with water was useful as an alternative.
I’m not sure how, but I went cold turkey as far as kites were concerned once we shifted back to a house surrounded by trees, and without an accessible roof. I can’t remember whether the deterrence was practicality, or simply because I’d had my fill. Either way, I’ve hardly ever touched any kite or string ever since, except in (invariably futile) efforts to impress younger family members. I have no regrets on that score, but what lingers on is the cherished memory of how the spirit soared as a kite caught the wind.
The adults don’t matter all that much, but I can’t help hoping that current and future generations of children will experience the same joy.
Trying to lock them out is as pathetic as the controversial constitutional amendments that relegate the nation to a mockery of a democracy. My advice would be to go fly a kite before the window closes, and teach your children to do the same.
In the present circumstances, we cannot know what horrors lie ahead. But perhaps the best way of challenging a status quo that entraps Pakistan in a lopsided hybridity might be to reach for the answers that are blowing in the wind.
Published in Dawn, December 10th, 2025