Once again, it is uttarayan, the day the sun changes direction, the golden orb lasting a mite longer in these stark winter skies. Also the day the sky is spilling over with kites of all colors and sizes. Also the day the mighty Bhishma (in the Mahabharata), long vanquished and in repose on a bed of sharp arrows, bided his death for.
Uttarayan. And I see that young girl in her usual uniform of cap-T-jeans, prancing about on the terrace, her voice hoarse with cries of victory, even as her kite soars higher in the glorious sunlight, higher than any other in its exclusive blue sky.
And I watch closely, try to unravel the victory cheers and bursts of songs from radios from the neighboring terraces, and all of a sudden the sound predominates, and the girl’s image begins to blur, shake and dissolve into a pool of golden sunlight.