There was but just a big Shimul tree on the bank of a grand pond in Nootanpally. And that was enough to play spoilsport with kite-flying. Whichever direction a kite might fly, the barren branches might catch its string and make the kite its own! The helpless kite-flier would find out to his dismay that he was no longer in control of kite. It was the Shimul tree that snatched away the right to fly. So unjust of it!
So it was the turn of a promoter to be unkind to tree! He employed a band of cutters who stealthily first lopped off the branches. Then Nootanpally woke up to a morning when they saw the whole tree had vanished completely. Years later a high-rise stood up pompously almost challenging the height of sky on a place where once the Shimul tree existed. In spring, the tree would break out to red wonder. After the tree was done with blossoming, fine silken cotton pulps would take to wings and fly across the locality. Flower followed by flying cotton — all was gone with the tree.
On the day of kite fair, Sunil mama would catch kites that floated away overhead by giving a hard chase. He carried a long bamboo pole that was attached to bristles. Whenever a cut-off kite glided away with the string twirling beneath, he would use his experience to move the bristles around the string and drag down the truant kite. He was a steady supplier of kites when we were short of them. ‘Won’t you fly kites yourself, Sunil mama?’ Someone would ask taken aback by his philanthropic zeal. Sunil mama would not give any reply. He would give a look-I-am-so-happy smile at the question maker. The kites of childhood had gone with Sunil mama as he succumbed to a sudden heart failure.
This morning I found a rain drop on a blade of grass. The sun light made it look a shining emerald. As I became very eager to acquire it, I tried to hold the rain drop in my hands. The water fell away. A yellow butterfly that so far sat contented over a Sheeuli flower beside, flapped away.
From nowhere a black and white petkatti swooned down on a grassy land in front. It might have been cut away from a far-away land. I thought. I ran down to pick it up. I felt the kite carried the felled Shimul tree and its festoon of kites, the colourful animated sky of kite fair, the chase of kite-runner Sunil mama as a chorus distantly shouted out “Bho-Katta” of my childhood.