Pakistan 1985
As the days grew warmer, winter lost its hold on the village, and the sky became filled with colourful kites, like exotic birds in flight. Farah rejoiced as these inanimate birds swooped, darted, and flitted across the sky. Kite season was her favourite, especially the darker art of kite cutting. There was an unwritten rule across the village: if anyone cut a kite or if it landed on someone else’s veranda, then the owner lost their claim. Farah had a stack of kites hidden behind the massive grain pot in the store room. All of them, she had claimed. It had become an obsession.
Farah’s father, Baba, had regaled her with tales of the exuberant Basant festivities, a tradition that originated in Punjab in the 19th century. The stories of Maharaja Ranjit Singh and his queen Moran, dressed in glorious yellow and flying kites from their palace on Basant, had captivated her. The fairs were a kaleidoscope of joy, with rides, food, and kites swaying in the air. Farah longed to be a part of a world of wonder, filled with yellow and marigold hues, heaving tables laden with treats and the air sweet and rich.
Farah looked down at her dust-covered salwar kameez and laughed at the stark contrast between her reality and the Maharaja residing in his palace all those years ago. Her village had no fairs; the nearest one was Lahore, an hour away. However, the arrival of Basant was still marked as spring began to seep through Pakistan, bringing with it new life.
Today, Farah focused not on flying a kite but on the thrill of hunting for fallen kites. This required a different kind of skill, patience, a virtue Farah had in abundance. She was alone today. There had been a time when her sister Razia would have joined her, but marriage had changed her priorities. As she ascended to the rooftop, her eyes scanned the village. She laughed as children rolled down sand dunes and watched the bustle of the chowk. There it was, a bright, blue kite, flying low in the sky, her next conquest. Setting off on her mission with a resolute stride, her determination radiating from her every step. Her gaze fixated on the kite as she manoeuvred the village streets, leading her to run right into Balkise, the village gossip.
Balkise prided herself in being aware of every scandal or news that littered the village streets. She could be found in the village Chowk, regaling tales of lust, lies and larceny. However, what people often failed to see was that Balkise used the petty demise of others to distract from her deep sorrow. Balkise had been sold to an older man by her late parents, who in turn had died a decade ago, leaving her destitute and childless. In her solitude, Balkise often mourned the child she’d never had and a great love she’d dreamed of when growing up.
“Watch where you are going, Farah!” she scolded. “It’s not suitable for a girl to run around like this; where is your Mama?”
Farah tried to dart past her. She was not interested in Balkise’s lectures. But Balkise was quick and grabbed Farah by the cuff of her kameez.
“I asked you a question: where are your manners?” She sneered in disgust.
Farah sighed impatiently, “She’s at home, and I’m going to help Baba at the farm.”
Balkise looked at her in confusion, loosening her grip, “But your farm is in the opposite direction.”
Taking advantage of her confusion, Farah pulled away from her and darted away, shouting over her shoulder.
“You’re getting confused in your old age, Auntie- ji,”
Farah slowed down as she rounded the last corner. The street was quiet and ran alongside cane fields harvested for their delicious, sugary syrup. Children would sometimes play hide and seek amongst them or be caught red-handed stealing a sugar cane to suckle on later.
At the end of the street stood a boy and girl, who Farah determined were similar in age to her. As she ran up to them, she recognised the boy from her sister’s wedding. She’d defended him when the village children had ganged up on him.
“It’s you!” she shouted excitedly, “Do you remember me from the wedding?”
The boy stood quietly watching her, refusing to return her pleasantries or answer her questions. The girl leant in and whispered something into his ear, staring at Farah with a stony gaze.
“What did she say to you?” Farah demanded, annoyance clear in her voice.
“She said you’re known as the kite stealer,” he smirked.
Farah laughed; she’d had no idea she was renowned all over the village. She wondered if they told stories in the dark of night, over campfires, about the treacherous Farah, who stole kites from unsuspecting victims.
“Does it bother you?” asked Farah with a determined glare.
“No, not particularly, and I do remember you,” he replied, watching Farah and the other on the kite.
“I’m Farah, and you are?”
“Karim.”
The girl stepped forward, almost resentful for being excluded from the conversation. “What brings you here?” she asked Farah.
“Just enjoying the scenery. It’s a nice day for a stroll.”
“Why, you’re a cheeky little worm, aren’t you?” the girl uttered angrily, moving towards Farah.
Farah watched her in amusement. There was something comical about the girl; she looked like a mix between a giraffe and a weasel.
Farah looked at Karim and whispered, “You know you shouldn’t hang around with her; she belongs out in the wild.”
“What did you say?” demanded the girl.
Karim shrugged in response.
Farah looked at her squarely, “I asked him your name.”
“My name is Sobia, and the kite you’re after is mine.”
“How about you race me for it, Sobia?”
Sobia looked uncertainly at Farah; some of her arrogance vanished from her face.
“I hurt my ankle the other day,” Sobia replied, looking flustered. “Race Karim instead.”
Farah glanced over at Karim. He had long legs and a lean body. It would be challenging, but when had she ever shied away from a challenge?
“You’re on. Winner takes the kite, fair and square?”
“Agreed,” answered Karim, shaking Farah’s hand.
While they were all debating, the alley had filled with children. A boy detached himself from the crowd and walked over.
“What’s going on?”
Sobia informed him of the race for the blue kite. The boy ran back to the crowd, and the children laughed at how funny it would be when he lost to a girl.
Farah ignored the comments, focusing on winning the race. Sobia instructed a girl wearing a pink scarf to run towards the end of the road to act as a marker. As Sobia began her countdown, Farah’s muscles tensed, and she focused on her breathing.
Sobia shouted, “Go!”
Farah darted off down the road. She had purposely suggested a race. She knew she could be almost at one with the wind, to tread it quickly and lightly. Sometimes, when she was running effortlessly at great speed, she imagined herself flying amongst the birds and kites, free to roam the land as she pleased.
Some of the boys began to shout from the crowd.
“Bastards going to lose to a girl.”
Farah stole a glance behind her. Karim was running steadily, but his pace was slower than hers. The realisation hit Farah at once. She was going to win. Farah ran faster, her muscles moving effortlessly, her calf muscles protruding from her legs, the gap between her and Karim widening.
“His father wasn’t man enough, and neither is he,” came another shout from the crowd, followed by laughter.
A voice whispered in her conscience that she couldn’t do this. She couldn’t win. The boys would never let Karim live it down if he lost. Another voice interceded, asking why she should give up her kite for a stranger.
Farah remembered flashes of Karim’s story as she ran—his mum (Saima) in love with the charming Hasan, who sold everything under the sun at the local bazaar. False promises, virginity lost out of wedlock, giving into momentary passions, the betrayal when Saima found herself with child, and Hasan’s refusal to take responsibility. The din of instruments as Hasan celebrated his wedding day to someone else and the sound of gunfire as Saima shot him and then herself. The cries of Karim left an orphan in his cruel and unjust world. Farah had often heard the story when adults around her thought she wasn’t listening.
Farah slowed her pace as she remembered Baba’s weathered face and his undying belief that she could do anything she wanted. Her Mama’s stories about kindness and empathy, her love that Farah basked in every single day. Farah remembered her life filled with joy, ease, sibling rivalry and contentment.
She grabbed her side, pretending that the run was taking its toll and that she was winded and struggling. Farah let out a wheeze, giving into the drama of the moment, which played to the exhaustion of the race.
Karim, who had shortened the gap, darted forward and ran swiftly towards the finish line to win the race.
Some of the children cheered as Kasim was crowned the winner. His trophy would be the elusive blue kite.
Farah approached him and graciously shook his hand, muttering, “Well done.”
The boys looked disappointed and jeered as she walked past them, shouting, “I bet he couldn’t win a race against a proper man.”
Farah couldn’t help herself and shouted back, “Well, he is going to struggle, isn’t he? Because all I can see is a bunch of whiny little boys.”
Before the boys could retaliate, Farah hurried out of the way and ran to her Baba’s farm. She arrived out of breath, and when Baba asked where she’d been, Farah told him tales of the slippery blue kite, the weasel girl, and the race. Baba, as usual, played the part of the audience well and laughed and gasped at the right moments.
As they finished their chores and left the farm, he turned to her, winked, and said, “Let’s not mention this to Mama, though.”
Even though Mama loved her, she always conformed to social norms, as that had been the way of the world ever since she had gained consciousness.
When they arrived home, Mama told them that Razia and her husband were coming over for dinner and instructed Farah to wash and change.
“But why, Mama?” Farah moaned, “It’s not like they’re royalty! Does it matter what I wear?”
In response, Farah got a light smack and walked to her bedroom in a sulk.
As Farah entered the bedroom, her breath caught in surprise. She wondered if she was dreaming or possibly hallucinating. She ran over to the bed, and there in all its glory was the blue kite she’d lost during the race. A crumpled note was lying next to it, and she opened it to read it.
“You could have taken me during that race, and I know you slowed down to let me win. The kite belongs to you, fair and square. Thank you for your kindness.”
Karim.
Farah grabbed the kite in delight, screaming, “Baba! Baba! Look, it’s the kite!”
“How did you get it, Monkey?”
“Karim gave it to me; he left me a note. Isn’t that kind?”
As Baba read the note, Razia, who had just walked through the door, looked across at Mama.
“Who is Karim?”
Mama took a deep breath before replying, “It’s Siama’s son.”
“The bastard son of the girl who killed herself?”
Mama nodded at Razia.
Taking Mama’s hand, Razia stared at her intensely.
“This has to stop, Mama. No good can come of this.”
Mama shuddered as black crows screeched overhead, and she imagined Balkise cackling somewhere.