Keeping dying kite-flying traditions alive

Dilip Kapadia looks like a formidable businessman in his fifties, but the deep cuts on his index finger tell a different story. A kite-flyer will recognise them immediately — it is the work of the brutal glass-coated manjah. Amongst the 2000 odd kites stacked in metal boxes at his home — some that have been preserved since before independence and few others from countries across the world — Kapadia pulls out his favourite, the ordinary patang.

Once outside his home, with a quick flick of his hand he tugs on the manjah and as it takes flight, he narrates the story of the ‘Indian fighter kite’. The labourers, mostly Muslims from Uttar Pradesh, come down to Mumbai months in advance, he begins.

The bamboo that makes the thaddha, or the spine of the kite is ordered from West Bengal; the manjah from Bareilly, Rajasthan. Once the material reaches the workshop only the ustaad is allowed to cut paper; his subordinates only attach the thadda and poonch (tail). Later a huge number of kites make their way to the temples as offerings during the festival of Makar Sankranti that is held in January every year. “A kite made by Muslims is offered in a Hindu temple. This festival transcends all religions and classes,” he says.

Kapadia also happens to be the president of the Golden Kite Club, one of the city’s oldest clubs. For the past few years the increasing high rises, billboards and cable wires have made it difficult for the members to practice. These days they meet up every Sunday in a place far away from the city of Navi Mumbai for a kite-fighting match. “A few years ago I would just climb to my terrace,” he says.

When he started the club 35 years ago the response was overwhelming. Shehzade Abbas, a local kite wholesaler, was one of their first few members. The year 1996 was their best yet, he recalls. “Our club captain, Abbas, won the second place in the International Kite Flying World Cup held in France,” Kapadia says.

Abbas remembers going there as an underdog, lost in a crowd of over 2 lakh people from 24 nations. But once his manjah was set, his confidence started soaring. Abbas managed to cut 25 kites with barely two Indian fighter kites. “Nobody expected us to win,” smiles Abbas. From 30 odd members few years ago, the club today is down to eight consistent members. The club sees no point staying around the city during the festival. Along with a team of three, they pack their kites and make their way to Ahmedabad’s International Kite Festival.

The real problem started, says Kapadia, when a ban was put on holding kite-flying workshops and matches on the beaches and open spaces in Mumbai four years ago. “Kite matches on beaches were banned to avoid manjah injuries. In most countries abroad, kite-flying festivals take place on the beach. There are ways to avoid the injuries, rules can be put into place, and precautions can be taken. This hobby of many need not be banned,” argues Kapadia.

The Abbasi Kite Club is facing similar issues. Sayed Manzar Hussain, the captain, says when the kite club was started 20 years ago, the members used to assemble in a ground near Chembur, which was later taken over by slums. Soon they moved to Vikhroli, and now they meet way off in Dahanu. The club has always been small in size but these days it has only six members. But that is not Hussain’s major concern.

“The youngest member in our club is 30. The younger generation is just not taking enough interest. They need to take their eyes off the idiot box to notice these finer things in life,” says an agitated Hussain.

Kapadia has been making efforts to keep the tradition alive. Every time he finds an opportunity he convinces people to come for a match on Sunday. “It is free of cost. All you have to do is tag along,” he smiles. His son Deepak Kapadia argues that if schools and colleges take interest this tradition will flourish.

“Every year when we go abroad for an international festival we are invited to teach the skill to the students there. There should be more initiative from the schools here,” he adds. Ashok Shah, a designer kite manufacturer, seconds this. His Shrushti Kite Club is flourishing primarily because of the interest he takes. Frequent visits to festival organisers to hold exhibitions and workshops, floating an interactive website, and holding free of cost workshops for street children is his way of making sure that people stay tuned.

Four years ago, the Mumbai Kite Festival, an initiative by the tourism industry, was discontinued.  In 1996, he stood first in the festival after ravaging every other kite that came his way. “These festivals need to be brought back. We can’t do without them,” says Shah on the phone from Ahmedabad. Like many other enthusiasts, he is now in Gujarat to attend the International Kite Festival. Mumbai, it seems, is just not the place to fly kites anymore.