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in the trenches the night before a major battle。 And that wasn t so far off。 In Kabul； fighting kites was a little like going to war。
As with any war； you had to ready yourself for battle。 For a while； Hassan and I used to build our own kites。 We saved our weekly allowances in the fall； dropped the money in a little porcelain horse Raba had brought one time from Herat。 When the winds of winter began to blow and snow fell in chunks； we undid the snap under the horse s belly。 We went to the bazaar and bought bamboo； glue； string； and paper。 We spent hours every day shaving bamboo for the center and cross spars； cutting the thin tissue paper which made for easy dipping and recovery And then； of course； we had to make our own string； or tar。 If the kite was the gun； then _tar_； the glass…coated cutting line； was the bullet in the chamber。 We d go out in the yard and feed up to five hundred feet of string through a mixture of ground glass and glue。 We d then hang the line between the trees； leave it to dry。 The next day； we d wind the battle…ready line around a wooden spool。 By the time the snow melted and the rains of spring swept in； every boy in Kabul bore telltale horizontal gashes on his fingers from a whole winter of fighting kites。 I remember how my classmates and I used to huddle； pare our battle scars on the first day of school。 The cuts stung and didn t heal for a couple of weeks； but I didn t mind。 They were reminders of a beloved season that had once again passed too quickly。 Then the class captain would blow his whistle and we d march in a single file to our classrooms； longing for winter already； greeted instead by the specter of yet another long school year。
But it quickly became apparent that Hassan and I were better kite fighters than kite makers。 Some flaw or other in our design always spelled its doom。 So Baba started taking us to Saifo s to buy our kites。 Saifo was a nearly blind old man who was a _moochi_ by profession……a shoe repairman。 But he was also the city s most famous kite maker； working out of a tiny hovel on Jadeh Maywand； the crowded street south of the muddy banks of the Kabul River。 I remember you had to crouch to enter the prison cell…sized store； and then had to lift a trapdoor to creep down a set of wooden steps to the dank basement where Saifo stored his coveted kites。 Baba would buy us each three identical kites and spools of glass string。 If I changed my mind and asked for a bigger and fancier kite； Baba would buy it for me……but then he d buy it for Hassan too。 Sometimes I wished he wouldn t do that。 Wished he d let me be the favorite。
The kite…fighting tournament was an old winter tradition in Afghanistan。 It started early in the morning on the day of the contest and didn t end until only the winning kite flew in the sky……I remember one year the tournament outlasted daylight。 People gathered on sidewalks and roofs to cheer for their kids。 The streets filled with kite fighters； jerking and tugging on their lines； squinting up to the sky； trying to gain position to cut the opponent s line。 Every kite fighter had an assistant……in my case； Hassan……who held the spool and fed the line。
One time； a bratty Hindi kid whose family had recently moved into the neighborhood told us that in his hometown； kite fighting had strict rules and regulations。 You have to play in a boxed area and you have to stand at a right angle to the wind； he said proudly。 And you can t use aluminum to make your glass string。 Hassan and I looked at each other。 Cracked up。 The Hindi kid would soon learn what the British learned earlier in the century； and what