Growing up in Jaipur, Makar Sankranti was never just another winter festival - it was the day of kites. The preparations would start weeks before, with trips to the local patang shops to stock up on kites and manjha. The excitement would build up as the festival approached, with practice sessions on the terrace becoming more frequent. The day of Sankranti transformed our usually quiet neighborhood into a battlefield in the sky. From sunrise to sunset, everyone - kids, adults, even the elderly - would be on their terraces. The morning would start with the ritual of setting up our kite-flying station. A comfortable spot would be chosen, usually near a wall for back support, and the manjha would be carefully arranged to prevent tangling. The early morning sky would already have a few kites, like early birds testing the wind. By mid-morning, the sky would be dotted with kites of all sizes and colors. The familiar calls of "woh kata" would echo across terraces as kites were cut and fell from the sky. Lunch would be eaten hurriedly, often on the terrace itself, to not miss any action.
The real thrill was in the aerial battles. Each cut kite was a victory celebrated with shouts that would carry across terraces. The afternoon sun would make the manjha glisten as it caught the light, creating an almost magical effect. There was an unspoken code among kite flyers - certain challenges couldn't be refused, and winning or losing was part of the game. Sometimes, entire afternoons would be spent trying to cut one particularly skillful opponent's kite. The community aspect was strong - neighbors would share kites, give tips, and celebrate victories together. Even those who didn't fly kites would come to their terraces to watch and be part of the festival.
This year in Gurgaon, Makar Sankranti feels different. The sky here remains empty of kites, and the festival passes like any other day. The absence of kite-flying culture in this city is striking, especially for someone who grew up with it being such a significant part of life. The festival marks the sun's northward journey and the start of longer days, but without the kites, it loses its special charm. While Gurgaon has its own culture and celebrations, the missing sound of kites cutting through the wind and the absence of that familiar anticipation of aerial battles leaves a noticeable void. It's these moments that make me realize how deeply rooted some traditions are in specific places, and how moving to a new city means adapting to different ways of celebrating the same festival.