Child of Spring by Farhana Zia Page A

way around,” Hari said. “
Dhushoom! Dhushoom!
Quick jabs to the chin and shoulder and Paki was flat on his back!”
    I turned to Lali. “Thanks a lot!” I snorted.
    Lali held up her hand. “What?”
    “You should have come for me a lot sooner, that’s what!”I ran to catch up with Paki, now dodging his mother’s stick.
    “Hey!” I called to him. “I heard you got beat good and plenty!”
    “Get lost!” he shouted.
    I ran up to Bala next. “Say! I heard you got thrashed good and plenty!”
    “Beat it!” he growled.

    When it was nearly time for the kite battle, Lali, Nandi, Pummi, Dev, Hari, and I formed a tight circle near the rim of the field. We each readied our stash of tamarind seeds to place our bets.
    “Bala, 6 to 1!” I declared. If he won, I’d make a tidy profit of six tamarind seeds for each one I wagered. I tossed twenty seeds in the center of the circle.
    “Are you sure?” Lali asked. “Did you forget he lost to Paki last year?”
    “He’s going to win,” I said with a burst of confidence. “You should back him too.”
    “Bala, 3 to 1!” Lali cautiously added her modest share of ten to the seed pile.
    Nandi followed suit, but she only had six seeds.
    Twenty plus ten plus six. That was not even remotely close to the one hundred and twenty I had counted on winning. Pummi, Dev, and Hari had enough seeds in their bulging pockets to ensure me my win, though. They werewhispering fiercely amongst themselves and I could tell they too were favoring Bala. So I did some fast talking. Soon I had the silly things nodding in agreement, and now I was one step closer to a big win.
    “Paki, 20 to 1!” they declared. They emptied out their pockets, making our collective pool very large!
    “
Shabaash!
Bravo!” I cried. “I’ll guard these because I am the bookie.” I swept up the last of the tamarind seeds—all one hundred and fifty of them.

    The two rivals entered the field to loud cheers and catcalls. Bala and Paki were each armed with five brilliantly colored kites and large spools bulging with line. They also carried smaller spools of
manja
thread, the dangerous fighter string coated with powdered glass.
Manja
was as sharp as a razor, and the winner would use it to slice the opponent’s kite away from its line.
    Like warriors in a fighting ring, both boys strutted like roosters. Each made a show of tying the
manja
to the harness of his kite and then securely attaching the longer line.
    If Amma were here, she’d cluck her tongue. She didn’t understand kites. “
Tcha!
That Bala!” she would mutter. “Never enough money for food but always plenty for his precious kites!”
    Bala waved to the crowd and took his bows like a champion kite master. I was rooting for him all the way. Therewas a big pile of tamarind seeds at stake!
    He was at a disadvantage because of his defeat last year, but I didn’t care. I was 100 percent certain that Paki had cheated in that contest. The kites had been locked in a deathly embrace. Bala had backed up the length of the field. Raju had slyly stuck out his leg, and Bala had gone down. That’s how Paki had won.
    I was determined to make up for that this year.
    I ran to Paki’s corner. “Do you have a strategy in place?” I asked.
    Paki was securing the
manja
thread to the harness of Jhansi-ki-Rani, a garish pink kite. Paki named his kites after important and heroic persons. The greater the importance of the person, the greater the power of the kite—or so he claimed. He was saving Maharani, his finest kite, for the decisive final round.
    “Hoosh!”
He waved me away. “Only a fool would divulge secrets to a spy from the enemy camp!”
    I moved in closer, faking an interest in Jhansi-ki-Rani, but Paki shuffled sideways like a crab. “Stay away from my kite!” he growled.
    “Are you sure she’s a match for Shivaji-the-Mighty? Bala’s sending up Shivaji first, you know. It’s a brilliant strategy, if you ask me.”
    “A fat lot you know about