Perhaps, I Need to Be a Little Unaware

Perhaps,to fly a kite,one needs to be a little unaware—
unaware of time,unaware of people,unaware of how silly you might look,just aware enoughof the windand the thread in your hand.
Because now,I sit inside my roomand make pages fly.
I turn them,fold them,fill them with words—and somehow,I have spent yearswriting about freedomwithout once asking myselfwhat it feels like to be free.
To fly a kite,you have to go to the terrace.
You have to sit there for hours,your neck tired from looking up,your fingers busy with a thread,your eyes followingone tiny piece of colouragainst an endless blue.
And perhapsthat is the beauty of it—
to spend hoursdoing somethingthat gives you nothingexcept a reason to look up.
I don't knowhow that feels.
I never got to know.
As a child,I wanted to fly a kite.
Not once.Not twice.
So many timesthat the wish almost becamea part of me.
But I was too small.
Then there were books,exams,homework,things I “should” doand things I “shouldn't.”
And sometimes,there was just one reason—
“You are a girl.”
Four words.
Four ordinary wordsthat somehow knewhow to make a child's skyfeel smaller.
So I stopped asking.
I learned to keep my wishes quiet.
I learned that some desiresare easier to burythan to explain.
And perhapsthat was my first lessonin growing up—
learning how to say“I don't mind”when I did.
Today,for a little while,I went up to the terrace.
And the city was different from there.
Little childrenwere standing on little rooftops,with little handsholding enormous skies.
Kites everywhere—
red, yellow, blue,some dancing,some falling,some fighting the windas if losingwas not even a possibility.
Their laughtertravelled from roof to roof.
Someone shouted,“Look! Look how high!”
Someone else was runningwith a spool in their hand.
And I just stood there.
Watching.
Smiling.
And somewhere betweenone kite and another,
my childhood came back.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
It simply stood beside meand whispered,
“You still remember, don't you?”
And suddenly,
I wanted a kite.
Not because I needed it.
Not because it would change anything.
Not because I had time.
I just wanted one.
One foolish afternoon.
One useless hour.
One little piece of paperbetween my handsand the whole skyabove my head.
But then—
that old voice.
That sensible voice.
The one that has followed mefor years.
“Priya, you're grown now.”
And I wondered—
when did being grownbecome a punishmentfor having a childish heart?
When did we startmeasuring our happinessby how useful it was?
When did we become so carefulthat even our dreamsbegan asking for permission?
Perhaps,to fly a kite,you don't need courage.
Perhaps you needa little carelessness.
A little madness.
A little “who cares?”
The kind of foolishnessthat lets you sit on a terracefor three hoursand call it a good day.
The kind that lets you lose a kiteand still smile.
The kind that lets you runwithout knowing where you're going.
Maybe that is the “unawareness”I have been missing.
Not forgetting who I am—
but forgetting, for a moment,who the world expects me to be.
Because the same awarenessthat kept me safealso kept me still.
The same sensethat taught me what to dotaught me what not to dream.
And I thinkI have been sensiblefor far too long.
Sensible enoughto postpone joy.
Sensible enoughto outgrow play.
Sensible enoughto miss my own childhoodwhile calling it maturity.
Maybe someday,
I will stop thinking.
I will buy a kite.
I will take it to the terracewithout an excuse.
I will sit thereuntil the sun movesand the evening arrives.
I will let the windpull at the thread.
I will let my hair become messy.
I will let the kite risewithout askingwhether I am old enoughto fly it.
And if someone laughs,
let them.
If someone says“I thought you were grown up,”
I will smile.
Because perhapsbeing grown updoesn't mean killingevery childish desire.
Perhaps it meanshaving the courageto return to the onesyou were forced to leave behind.
And when my kite finally rises,
I don't thinkI will look at itas a kite.
I will look at itas the little girlI once was—
the girl who stoodat the edge of someone else's terrace,watching the sky,wondering what it would feel liketo have something of her ownup there.
And maybe,
for the first time,
I will not tell her,
“Not now.”
I will not tell her,
“Later.”
I will not tell her,
“Girls don't do this.”
I will simplyput the thread in her handand say—
“Go.”
Go where the wind takes you.
Go where you were once toldyou could not.
Go without askingwhether you deserve the sky.
Because you were nevertoo young for it.
You were nevertoo much of a girl for it.
You were nevertoo busy for it.
You were only taughtto keep your feet on the ground.
And perhaps,
perhaps that is whyI still cannot fly a kite.
Not becauseI don't know how.
But because somewhere inside me,that little girl is still waitingfor someone to say—
“It is okay.You can be a child today.”
So perhaps,to fly a kite,I don't need to lose my mind.
I only need to losethe voice that keeps saying,
“Be sensible.”
Just for one afternoon.
Just for one sky.
Just long enoughto become the girlI was beforethe world taught mehow to grow up.
And maybe then,
when my kite is high enoughto disappear into the blue,
I will finally understand—
some dreams don't diewhen we grow up.
They simply wait.
Quietly.
Patiently.
With their thread still in their hands—
waiting for usto come backand fly them.