He’s losing and he knows it. The look of fear and frustration can be seen on the operator’s face as he wrestles for position. Left, then right, rolling and weaving in a deadly dance for an edge over his adversary. He can feel his controls becoming sluggish and unresponsive. Soon it’ll be over, but he continues until the very end.
Snap! That’s the last bit. He pulls his controls furiously but to no avail. Helpless, he watches on as his view turns from blue sky to brown earth. A few final rolls make it seem as though there’s still some fight left in the old girl, but it soon ends with a splash into the Ganga.
A black craft flies over head, circling and watching his victim plunge into the water. Then silently, it turns back towards the sky, gaining altitude as it waits for its next opponent. It’s pilot laughing maniacally with satisfaction.
Rikesh has been flying since he was a young boy, which isn’t that long considering he’s only 16, going on 17. You wouldn’t know it by the way he carries himself working in our guesthouse, but Rikesh is an ace kite pilot.
All along the Ganga river, these diamond shaped kites can be seen flying and twisting in the sky over the water. At first they seem quite unstable, but that’s exactly what makes them perfect for fighting. At about 1 or 2 rupees each, these kites battle each other by trying to cut the cable of their opponent’s kite with their own. In Varanasi, there are few computers and fewer arcades, so instead of World of Warcraft, the kids spend their time challenging each other from the shore to matches of aerial skill.
Sanjay, another boy, shows me the difference between his ‘battle line’ to my fishing line. He crosses them in his hands and then pulls. Immediately, my line is cut. I feel his thread and find that it feels more like sandpaper than a kite line.
“I’ve got another one!” cries Rikesh. He’s on fire today.
Meanwhile, Gaell, a traveler from Paris, and I are struggling trying to just get our kites to fly.
“Fuck!” he says as his kite accelerates directly towards the ground. We’re standing on the roof of our guesthouse, which should be a great place to fly, except that we’re having a very hard time.
Between us, we’ve already broken 5 kites. These fragile craft are nothing more than tissue paper and thin strips of balsa wood. They can only take so many crashes into the side of the building or brutish pulls of the string before they give up and tear.
We’ve been at this for about 20 minutes now but finally I catch a decent gust. I take what I’ve learned in the last few minutes and pull and release like a madman, desperate to escape the unstable winds near the buildings and get to the sweet winds over the Ganga. In a few minutes I’ve made it, and it’s smooth flying from here on.
“Sir, don’t fly too high or someone might think you want to fight,” warns Rikesh.
I thought that was the idea, I think to myself. “Let them come.”