What is the story about?
Growing up in Lucknow came with perks—many of them measured not in money, but in memories. We did not wait for Makar Sankranti or Jamghat to fly kites.
The sky was our playground, the terrace our stadium. I remember climbing up with my father and brothers, arms full of colourful patangs, bowls of cut fruit, and bottles of juice sweating in the sun, all of us squinting against the scorching heat. Before a single kite went up, there was a ritual: checking the wind direction, licking the finger and holding it up, and debating whether the breeze was friendly or fickle. Then came the shouting—arguments with neighbours over tangled strings, loud claims of victory, and groans of defeat. Patang baazi was competitive, ruthless, and joyful. On some days, it felt like a sport that could have qualified for the Olympics. Today, when I look up, the sky feels empty. The absence is loud. No whirring strings, no sudden cheers, and no rooftops crowded with people craning their necks upwards. That silence pushed me to ask a question that many of us have not bothered to: where did all the kites go? To find answers, I spoke to kite makers in Lucknow, Jaipur, and Delhi. Different cities, different accents—but the same heartbreak echoed everywhere.
When a culture begins to fade
For decades, kite flying was not a hobby—it was culture. It was how friendships were forged and rivalries settled. It was romance, too. Before WhatsApp blue ticks and late-night calls, kites carried messages of love. A coloured slip of paper tied discreetly to a string, cut loose at the right moment, floating into the neighbouring terrace. A risky delivery, but unforgettable.
That world feels almost fictional now.
“Ab bachche phone aur video game mein khush hain, patang mein nahi,” said Shabbir, a kite maker from old Lucknow who has been in the trade for over forty years. (Children are happy with phones and video games now, not with kites. He laughed while saying it, but the laughter never reached his eyes.)
Another artisan from Delhi put it more bluntly: “Pehle saal bhar ka kaam hota tha. Ab sirf tyohar ke aas paas bhi mushkil hoti hai.” (Earlier, work lasted through the year. Now, even around festivals, survival is uncertain.)
Rs 120 a day, on a good day
The numbers are devastating. On most days, these craftsmen earn nothing. On good days, Rs 120. During Makar Sankranti or Jamghat, when hope briefly lifts its head, the earnings might touch Rs 300—but only for a day or two. That is the price of a tradition. Many of these men have spent four decades cutting paper, smoothing bamboo, tying strings with fingers trained to feel balance and symmetry. Yet today, their skills are priced lower than daily wage labour.
“Kabhi socha nahi tha ki itna kaam seekh kar bhi bhookha sona padega,” said a Jaipur-based kite maker quietly. (I never thought that after learning such a skilled craft, I would sleep hungry.)
The craft no one sees anymore
Watching a kite being made is to understand how much effort the sky once demanded. First comes the bamboo—split carefully, shaved down with a blade until it bends but does not break. One wrong cut and the frame is useless. Then the paper, thin enough to fly, strong enough not to tear at the first tug. It is pasted gently, stretched flat, left to dry. The string is attached at exact points, measured by instinct rather than ruler. Balance is everything. A kite that tilts even slightly will spin and crash.
“Yeh haath ka kaam hai, machine ka nahi,” explained a veteran maker from Delhi. (This is work of the hands, not machines.) He held up a finished kite, light as a thought, and added, “Isme saal lag jaate hain haath pakne mein.” (It takes years for the hands to mature.) And yet, mass-produced plastic kites—cheap, soulless—have flooded the market, pushing handmade ones to the edge.
Weddings, once painted with kites
In Jaipur, kite makers remember another lost market: weddings. Earlier, kites were woven into décor—hung in courtyards, strung across mandaps, symbols of celebration and joy.
“Ab log bolte hain modern theme chahiye,” one artisan said with a shrug. (Now people want modern themes.) Fairy lights replaced paper kites, imported décor replaced local craft. Another door quietly closed.
When survival becomes the only goal
The most painful stories are not about loss of art, but loss of dignity. One kite maker from Lucknow shared how he had to pull his son out of school because he could not afford the fees. “Beta padhai mein achha tha, par kya karta? Pet pehle bharna hota hai,” he said. (My son was good at studies, but what could I do? The stomach comes first.) There are days, he admitted, when there is no food at home. Days when he takes up labour work at a construction site, carrying bricks under the same sun that once watched his kites dance freely. “Patang banana chhod kar mazdoori karni padti hai,” he said, eyes lowered.
Technology, rules, and fear
Technology has changed leisure itself. Rooftops are empty because living rooms are full of screens. Children who once learned wind patterns now master gaming controls. Then come the rules. Kite flying in India falls under the Aircraft Act of 1934, which classifies kites as aircraft. Permits, height limits—often capped around 200 feet—and restrictions on string types exist on paper. Add to this strict bans on dangerous synthetic Chinese manjha, imposed after tragic accidents involving birds, bikers, and power lines. Fines, even jail terms, loom large.
While these rules aim to protect life—and rightly so—the enforcement is uneven, creating fear without clarity. Many families simply choose to avoid kite flying altogether. “Dar lagta hai—police, jurmana, jhagda,” said a Delhi resident who no longer lets his children fly kites. Fear has replaced fun.
Festivals and fragile hope
Makar Sankranti still arrives with promises. Kite makers stock up, fingers aching, hearts hopeful. For a few days, orders trickle in. For a moment, it feels like the old days might return. They do not. “Saal bhar ka intezaar, aur kamai sirf do din ki,” said a Jaipur craftsman. (A year’s wait, and earnings of just two days.) And when the festival passes, silence returns—both in the sky and in their workshops.
The sky remembers
What hurts the most is not just the loss of income, but the loss of recognition. Kite makers do not want charity. They want respect. They want their craft to matter again. As I stood on a terrace in Lucknow recently, the wind brushed past, playful and insistent. The sky felt ready. Waiting. Perhaps remembering.
Patang baazi was never just about kites. It was about community, patience, rivalry, romance. It taught us how to lose gracefully and win loudly. It taught us to look up. Today, the men who once filled our skies with colour look down at empty hands, earning Rs 120 on good days, hoping that someone, somewhere, will look up again—and remember them. Because when the last kite maker puts down his blade, the sky will not just lose colour. It will lose a story.
