🪁 A Kite of Dreams, A Thread of Hope ✨

✉ Dear Readers,

❄️ Winter lingers softly in the air, carrying the quiet joys of the festival season. And if there is one delight that belongs entirely to these days, it is the sight of kites dancing freely across the sky. 

🏃‍♂️ As a child, I would rush home from school, brush away the dust of the day, and set my bag aside with a sigh of relief. My little friends and I would scamper up to the terrace, hearts lighter than the winter breeze. On village holidays, the moment felt even more magical. All my cousins and I would climb to the top of our old house, carrying bright kites and bundles of thread, laughter spilling from us like sunlight. 

🪁 Flying kites was never just a game. It was a mix of thrill, teamwork, and gentle rivalry. Whose kite would soar the highest? Whose would linger longest in the sky? Often, two of us would work as one—one guiding the kite, the other slowly letting out the thread, coaxing it to ride the wind. 

⏳ Time often slipped away unnoticed. Sometimes the thread would loosen or snap, and the kite would drift far from our sight. In those moments, everything paused. Friends, neighbours, and even strangers would join in the search for a fallen kite. And quietly, I learned that when someone falls, a helping hand can lift them higher than before. 

🍽 Many a time, we forgot to eat while lost in our kite-flying. Parents and grandparents would soon come looking for us, and before long, join the fun. The terrace would hum with laughter—mothers, aunts, uncles, and cousins teasing over lost kites, sharing stories from their own childhoods—while above, the sky, bright with kites, seemed to smile softly, holding our colorful dreams and whispering hope. 

📜 Kites were once handmade from bamboo and light paper, held together with homemade paste. The thread was wound on a wooden spool, and for fighter kites, coated with paste and fine glass. Holding one felt like holding a small piece of tradition, ready to soar into the sky. Even today, this tradition lives on in many places, especially during Makar Sankranti. 

🌞 My grandmother used to say that Makar Sankranti marks the time when the sun begins its northward journey. She believed it was the daytime of the gods after their long night. Flying kites, she said, was a gentle way of greeting them and offering thanks. 

📖 Some stories are never written in books; they live on in memories, shared by elders, and carried forward with belief. And today, when I look back, I understand something deeper: life, like a kite, moves with the wind. There will be strong pulls and sudden falls. But if we hold steady, adjust our direction, and help one another when the thread slips, we rise again—higher, stronger, and wiser. 

💛 What a beautiful way our elders taught us to understand life. If something as small as a kite can hold so many lessons, why not give ourselves a moment of rest? Why not loosen our worries for a while and find simple happiness in flying kites with friends and family, letting the wind carry our smiles along with the kites? 

😊 And don’t forget to share your laughs and little victories from the days you flew your kites. I’ll be flying mine, smiling as I wait to hear your stories.

With warmth and love,

✍️ Raasi