Of Flying Kites and Broken Hearts

One humid afternoon I was perched up on my usual spot in our balcony, reading this book that I recently bought (The Great Cities/Tokyo, from Time-Life Books) and it had a centerfold about kites and their significance to the Japanese culture. Considered as more than just a toy, their traditional kites had symbols of good omen painted on and are used as a way of communicating with the gods, specifically for giving thanks.

In the centerfold was a photograph of the late master kite-maker Tako Hashimoto and his wife at work in their living-room. Like a child whose fondness for color overcomes any sense of reason, I became absorbed in the photo’s myriad of hues and my mind drifted to the old kite-maker that we also had back in our hometown village. His name was Danggay. When the school year ended and the rice fields begin to turn into the golden yellow of summer, the children at our village and the nearby barangays would always look for him in his house near the river, offering him all sorts of payment just so he’d make them a kite: packs of cigarettes, a can of sardines, bags of guavas, ridiculously false flatteries. The children’s smiles, however, were enough for him and he was only too glad to oblige just so he could watch their faces light up when he hands them their personalized kites.

Danggay was also hopelessly in love with a village resident’s household maid. Perhaps she was always in his mind while he was whittling away at the bamboo sticks during those endless summer afternoons, while shaping and measuring the wax paper, while giving form, all painted and colorful, to the empty frame. Perhaps whenever those children smile, it was her smile that he sees, winding and dancing its way into the longings of his heart. Perhaps it was really for her every time he made his beautiful kites, for ever since that time when she chose the coconut farmer over him, he never made kites again.

Seeing kites flying always gives me mixed emotions: a part of me cheers up for it always reminds me of those hot summer days of childhood, yet another part of me turns melancholic, somewhat longing for another chance at those days when everything had been easy and uncomplicated and beautiful. Had Danggay been Japanese and shared similar beliefs, he probably would have made himself the biggest kite he could ever make and, in that wide span of paper, poured out all his sadness and asked the gods for the household maid’s love. If I could have my way, I would make one for every Danggay in the world and fly them all at the same time so that, in their vibrant crowding of the skies, the gods won’t have a reason to overlook them. Love could burn stronger than the sun itself, but there will always be the kites to ease the twinges so that love could still glow for the gods to see. Perhaps one day, the household maid will see it, too.