On the fourth floor of the half constructed Plaza hotel, the two boys huddled together in the dust and discussed their plans like two generals on the eve of battle. The walls of the building had yet to be bricked up and so the open spaces served as a 360 degree viewing platform, giving them a panoramic view over Quetta’s rooftops: Perfect for their needs.
At their feet lay the weapon they hoped would see their enemies fall before them and lead them to a glorious victory. It was nearly complete, just a few final adjustments and it was ready for war. Now they only had to wait for the enemy to reveal himself.
Both boys scanned the rooftops from their vantage point above the city and patiently waited. Neither spoke nor barely breathed. Nothing; until…. There! One of the boys spotted it; a tiny black square dancing in the distance, barely visible above the hazy smog of the city. He gave a shout and pointed: “I see him”.
His friend squinted into the distance, searching the rooftops, looking for their prey. “Yes! There! There she is”. That little dancing postage stamp was their enemy, patiently searching for them. Its presence was silently mocking them, challenging them, daring them, to come out and fight. They accepted the challenge.
Both boys sprang into action. They knew exactly what to do; their moves were precise and well-rehearsed. They had fought this battle a thousand times before. Together, they carefully raised their weapon and launched her off the building where it immediately caught the wind and soared into the sky. “What a beauty”, the older boy thought. The paper kite was hand painted just last night with a fearsome eagle across her back; beautiful but lethal.
Concentrating hard, they gradually edged their kite towards the enemy, hoping to avoid detection until the last moment. Closer and closer, they skilfully guided their kite across the city rooftops. With the hands of seasoned experts, they tugged on their kite string, aiming to position their killer kite for that first contact.
A sudden change in the enemy kite’s movements signalled that they had been spotted. It went into attack mode; moving swiftly to intercept the incoming threat. The two kites were now on a collision course, both edging towards the other. It was only a matter of time; battle was now inevitable.
The boys knew their tactics; come up from below and slice across the enemy kite with their glass encrusted string, cutting his string with their own and sending his kite hurtling towards the ground. That was the battle plan. Once it was grounded, the boys would then race to the scene, hoping to collect their prize before the defeated owner could retrieve it. If they captured it, it was theirs; the spoils of war. That was the rule of the game.
Somewhere, down there in the maze of city streets, was a boy, probably about their age, at the end of his own paper kite with his own glass encrusted string, manoeuvring his kite towards them with the same killer intent.
The battle was on as the two kites danced around each other. Both groups of boys skilfully manoeuvred their kites with precise tugs on the kite strings, each trying to get an advantage, each trying to drive their kite across the enemies string ; each trying to cut the other’s throat. The wind pulled them apart briefly and, for a moment, the two kites sat in the sky as though nodding at the other in mutual respect, before diving back into the battle, spinning and diving and falling and rising around one another; each skilfully using the air currents to dance around one another, each trying to guide their kite into landing that killer blow.
Then, suddenly; the tension on the enemy’s string seemed to visibly wane and slump. His kite, caught in an updraft, hung limply in the air for a moment before turning and gently fluttering down towards the ground like a dying bird. They had done it. They had killed the enemy. The day was theirs. Both boys cheered and high fived one another before racing down the stairs and through the streets to the crash site to try and retrieve their trophy. Somewhere in the city, a boy, the owner of the defeated kite was doing the same.
Notes From Nowhere 