There is an old, worn city in India called Ahmadabad, which is known for its festival of kites. Each year, for as far back as anyone can remember, the residents go up to their rooftops on the appointed day, ready to battle. The sky seethes with kites, slithering like eels. Flapping like butterflies. Jerking like bats. On that one day, everyone is equal. Rich or poor, it makes no difference. What matters is how long you can keep your kite afloat, and how many of your neighbors’ kites you can cut down.
Aakash Maherya, the son of a postman, learned to fly kites as a young boy, when the master-flyer in the neighborhood let him hold his spool of string. The master taught him to let the string, coated with razor-sharp ground glass, spill out just enough to send those paper hunters into sky.