The kite caught in a dead tree

In a world of so many sorrows and so few pleasantries, flying kites is great fun to kids. The kites swipe, loop, hoop, droop, dive and rise, refreshingly riding the crests and troughs of their papery existence. It’s zoom, boom, doom altogether, in fine fettle, in timeless simultaneousness. And when the kites get entangled in the trees, wires, balcony railings and terrace cloth-lines, a fun game of higher degree starts. It’s the game of retrieving the kite and salvaging as much of string as possible. An entangled kite is not the beginning of suffering. Egged on by their carping spirits of innocent adventurism, the kids take it as another game. The same is with life. The entanglements in one phase are just the start of another phase; just a shift. So keep playing your game. Like the kids doing the same with their itsy-bitsy amusements.

The neem tree in front of the house is probably dead. Well, I fondly remember its full green branches swaying to the shravan winds and it opens nostalgic floodgates. Most probably the termites have chucked out the roots. The tree being young, it gives a sad look. Its wood scruffily silhouetted against the background of still alive trees. An old dead tree still gives a dignified look but a young dead tree is a melancholic sight. Its bone-dry, dead branches now ricketily shake to the winds. The trees that are alive sway to the winds. They have juice of life, they have playful suppleness. The dead tree but is a skeleton. It may not be giving oxygen now but there is still a purpose for its existence. Let’s not commit the mistake of considering it an unproductive deadwood altogether. A leafless dry dead tree serves as a nice perch point for lonely birds calling out to get a partner. They can look in all directions. A nice place for love calls. With a willy-nilly quiescence to the instinctive tug of love and desire, they send out their love songs to attract some lonely partner somewhere. Further, its rickety joints are into mischief as well. Its crooked wood seems to plunge and clutch at the tails of the kites flying overhead. The majority of falling and diving kites get caught in it. Then it proudly flutters its takeaway as a triumphant token of life that may still be lying buried in its dry bulk waiting to sprout forth and thus give a surprise to all. I think it has become a master kite-snatcher. Still holding the strings of unrelenting enthusiasm, the children gather under it and play their game of retrieving the snared kite. It gives an impression as if they have gathered under it to collect fruits. A salvaged kite, even torn, is nothing short of a fruit to the little ones.