It began with the first breeze of January, the kind that lifted more than just the air. It carried excitement. The kind that made Pinkyâs ponytail sway and her heartbeat quicken. Because everyone knew: kite season had arrived.
The night before Makar Sankranti was always electric. Scissors snipped, glue stuck to fingertips, and colorful kite tails fluttered like little whispers of tomorrowâs joy. In their home, it was a sacred trio, Vijay, Pinky, and Tinkoo, huddled around a pile of patangs(kites). Vijay would return with the prized pakko manjo, (kite flying string coated with abrasive glass dust) his face glowing like heâd brought home treasure. All three prepping kites, threading kinyas (the string triangle balancing the kite) with swift fingers and purpose, arguing over paper tails and laughing like nothing in the world could go wrong.
And then came the sunrise, the halcyon hours. Before sunrise on January 14th, the ritual began. A quick shower, a warm cup of milk, teeth barely brushed, and then a mad dash to the terrace. No one would come back down till the stars came out.
The kind of day that felt suspended in warmth and memory. Clear skies. Crisp air.
On the terrace, Pinky stood barefoot, toes gripping the cool cement as if anchoring herself to the moment. The sky was already tattooed with bold colors, diamond shapes fluttering, diving, rising. Her fingers, dusty with manja, held the spool tight, her knuckles pink from tugging, her spirit soaring higher than any kite she flew.
Harsha would call out tips from below. But Pinky was in a battle with the sky, cutting, dodging, chasing, her laughter louder than the distant dhol (Indian drum) playing on someone elseâs terrace.
The city sky bloomed. Not with clouds, but with kites. A thousand kites dancing like confetti tossed by the gods. The air was sliced with cries of âKaai po che!â and manjo flying fast and furious through the air like silk swords. Girls were expected to hold the firki (the spool with wooden handles), not fly the kite. But Pinky was never just a firki-holder. She made her brother hold for her as well and he didnât complain. After all, she was good. No, she was brilliant. Her laughter could cut through the wind better than any kite string.
Harsha, her mother, proudly joined in, cheering, holding, sometimes flying too. Harsha, ever the brief but spirited sportswoman, would fly a kite for exactly two minutes, flash a satisfied smile, and declare, âBas, enough for me!â before handing it off and returning to the snacks or music.
Vijay usually made sure Harshaâs kite got its moment. Heâd prep it, launch it, and even keep score, like she was the star player in a match that didnât need proving. Because on that day, the terrace didnât care about age or roles. It cared only about joy.
And when a rival kite lost its fight, its paper belly torn mid-air, Pinky and the neighborhood kids would run wildly through narrow lanes, eyes skyward, arms outstretched, hoping to catch it before it landed.
And there was food! Talpapdi, kachariyu, sugarcane, jamun, and guava slices with salt and red chili. Lunch didnât exist. People grazed like happy birds all day long. Dinner? A giant pot of undhiyu eaten with cold puris under the evening sky.
But the real magic began after dark.
When adults began to yawn and step down, kids came alive again. Because now came the lanterns.
When the sun dipped low and the laughter thinned, a hush would fall across the rooftops. Terraces once alive with music and cheers now shimmered under lantern light, and the wind, still playful, rustled the leftover kite paper like forgotten confetti.
Pinky sat cross-legged near the edge, her fingers sticky with sugarcane juice, her cheeks flushed with wind and joy. She watched as the last of the lanterns rose slowly, tethered to a kite, lightweight and flickering, like a secret wish taking flight.
The dayâs thrill had spun out, and Pinky, bruised fingers, sugarcane smile, and wind-kissed hair, was finally ready to trade chase for charm. She wasnât running with the wind anymore; she was letting the night unwrap its magic around her, one glowing lantern at a time. At that time the only firki Pinky didnât mind holding⊠was Milynâs, the next door neighbor boy. After all, he was shaping the magic up for the younger ones.
She wouldnât admit it easily without a smirk when Tinkoo confronted. But after Mangubaâs passing, something quietly shifted. Milyn, a few years older, had a way of making sure this spirited, defiant girl stayed within a five-foot radius of him that day. Not by force, but with the soft kind of watchfulness only someone who cared deeply could offer.
Milyn made sure her kites were ready, helped tie the kinya just right, and didnât tease her when she messed up the manjo. He tied the final one himself, careful, quiet. Ready to hold lanterns.
He handed her the firki. She didnât protest.
Maybe it was the way he smiled, without asking anything in return.
Maybe it was the way he made space for her spirit, not contain it.
He didnât hover, but he stayed close - close enough for her grief to breathe. And for once, Pinky didnât mind putting down her own kite and holding the firki, his firki, just so he could fly one high into the sky. And Milyn returned the favor by holding for her.
It wasnât about submission. It was about unspoken softness. A gesture that said:
âI see you holding everything else. Let me hold you, even if just like this.â
Of course, if anyone asked, sheâd say it was just strategy.
âSomeone had to make sure he didnât tangle the string.â
But the sky that day? It knew the truth.
And so did Pinky.
Above them, lanterns bobbed gently, stars made of paper and thread.
Below, the city softened into silence.
Pinky leaned back, head tilted to the heavens.
Lanterns glowing and delicate, floated on kites like dreams with wings. Pinky watched them in awe, her face lit by a soft golden glow.
Milyn, helped the younger kids tie theirs, laughter echoing into the night. Who could fly the most lanterns on one kite? That was the only question that mattered.
Pinky didnât always win. But she always felt like she did, because in that sky full of color and light, she wasnât just flying kites.
And for that one moment, everything felt possible.
Even healing.
Even beginnings.
She was flying.
It was the only time she didnât need to lead to feel powerful.
Sometimes, love looks like letting someone else fly⊠while you hold the thread.
Every kite had a story.
Every spool had its knots.
Every lantern, a message to the heaven.
And every cut string⊠a lesson.
Even in flight, Pinky learned to let go, to hold on, and to celebrate a fall if the ride was full of color.
Those few golden moments?
That was halcyon.
Not just the weather. But the heart.
And she carried it, long after the lanterns dimmed.
It wasnât just about kites and firkis.
It was about mastering the wind, just like mastering life. Every tug of the string, a lesson in surrender and control. Every kite that soared high was like a wish cast into the cosmos, every snap of the manjo a reminder that even joy comes with risk.
The sky that day became a living mandala: layered with color, motion, laughter, and the invisible thread between the earth and stars. Pinkyâs kite wasnât just paper and string, it was her message to the universe:
âI am here. I am joy. I am light enough to rise, but strong enough to hold on.â
And as the night lanterns floated into the deepening blue, it felt as if the ancestors were watching, smiling, catching those lit prayers, and sending quiet blessings in return.
Because for one enchanted day, the sky belonged to the children... and the stars made room.
Do you have Halcyon moment? Write to me, I want to hear all about it!
#HalcyonHearts #MangubaWisdom #GujaratiSummer #kiteflying #OneGirlTwelveHouses