Child of Spring by Farhana Zia Page B

kites!” he said. “Get out!”
    Paki was good and riled up now, just the way I wanted him. If he lost his focus, he’d be more likely to lose the battle and I’d win a huge pile of tamarind seeds.
    “I hear the Milk Man is planning a celebration party,” I went on. “And guess who the guest of honor will be? Not you, I’ll bet!”
    My taunts made Paki so mad that he spun around on his heel to lunge at me. Before we knew what was what, his fingernail had gouged an ugly tear right down the middle of the pretty Jhansi-ki-Rani.
    “Oops!” I said. “Now look what you did!”
    Paki’s jaw dropped. “Oops? Look … look what
I
did?” he sputtered. “It was all your fault!”
    “Yeah, you horrible,
badmaash
girl!” Raju added.
    “I was just making conversation.” I backed away quickly.
    “I paid good money for this kite, and you ruined it!” Paki yelled.
    “It was your fingernail!” I said.
    “You’re a spy and a destroyer of kites!” Paki shouted.
    “Your dirty fingernails are longer than the dirty nails on a sadhu,” I said. “Why don’t you do something about that?”
    “Why don’t you pack yourself up in a jute bag and go far, far away and never come back!” Raju roared.
    “
Oi!
What’s the ruckus?” Bala called from the other end of the field. “Are you ready for battle or not?”
    “Change of plan!” Raju announced. “Change of plan! We are using Akbar-the-Great!” He held up a majestic new kite, as green as a glossy guava.
    “No fair! What happened to Jhansi-ki-Rani?” Bala asked.
    “It’s Akbar-the-Great, okay?” Paki yelled back. “Take it or leave it!”
    “Bring him on!” Bala shouted. “Akbar-the-Great, Jhansi-ki-Rani—it’s all the same to me!”
    I ran to join Lali waiting on the sideline. She moved over to make room for me. “What was all that about?” she asked.
    “Oh, just a teeny mishap,” I replied. “I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you.”
    I crossed my fingers and waited. Paki was still hopping mad, and that meant wouldn’t be at his best during the contest. I was counting on that.
    The battle of kites lasted the better part of the morning. Akbar-the-Great went up against Shivaji-the-Mighty, fierce black against brilliant green. They made a fantastic spectacle in the sky, whirling, swirling, dipping, and soaring. Paki and Bala tugged, gave slack, and maneuvered their kites into spins and loops to wild roars from the crowd.
    Paki’s Akbar-the-Great emerged victorious at the end of the first battle, but Bala didn’t appear worried. Cool as a cucumber on a hot day, he pulled out the kite he called General.
    I watched entranced, biting on my fingernails, every part of me quivering.
    And so it went. Akbar-the-Great versus General; General versus Dilip Kumar; General versus Mahatama Gandhi. On and on the war raged, battle after battle, to jubilant cries of
Bo Kata!
from the victors.
    “Wah! Wah!”
shouted the spectators, each time a vanquished kite drifted sadly away, tail fluttering and severed line trailing.
    Two hours later, the score was dead even. Bala’s Lodhi had just defeated Mahatama Gandhi. Paki had brought out the fierce Maharani for the final round. Bala would fly Lodhi again. This was the moment everyone was waiting for.
    “Get him, Bala!” I screamed.
    Paki! Paki! Bala! Bala!
The crowd was going wild.
    The combatants rolled up their sleeves and prepared for the decisive thrust. And when the wind was just right, Paki and Bala nodded. Raju and Dev got the kites into position and let go. Maharani and Lodhi rose majestically and fearlessly skyward.
    I held my breath.
    Up the kites climbed, goaded by the rush of wind. Soon they were mere specks, ready for the strike. Lodhi and Maharani dove at each other like fighting cocks, circling, sometimes teasing, sometimes enraged. They jabbed and pecked at one another, now wild and erratic, now determined and purposeful. The kites would fly close enough for an embrace, then dart away and hover at a