Mid-January in Hyderabad. A sharp winter chill. Long before dawn, the Shamshabad estate was already awake.
It was 5:00 AM. Bhogi—the first day of Makar Sankranti. The day of clearing the old and lighting the fire.
In the master suite the curtains were still drawn. Siddanth Deva stood by the bed in a thick grey sweater and cotton track pants. He adjusted the duvet.
Krithika sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes. At six months the bump was clear and heavy. She wore a wool shawl over a cotton maternity tunic.
"Take your time, Krithi," Deva said, offering his hands.
"I am awake," she smiled, letting him pull her up. She rested a hand on her stomach. "The baby is awake too. Doing somersaults."
"Must be excited for the bonfire," he said, kissing her forehead. "Are you warm enough? The wind is sharp."
"I am warm. Let's wake the monsters. Athamma and Mama are probably already in the courtyard."
Ten minutes later the family stepped out into the cold.
Aadhya and Rishi were bundled in puffy jackets, beanies, and mittens. Aadhya in neon-pink and yellow, Rishi in navy. They walked into the open courtyard.
In the center stood a large pile built over the past week: dry banyan branches, old wooden crates, leaves, and farm waste. Around it stood Vikram, Sesikala, and the security team in heavy jackets, the cooks, the gardeners, the farmhands. Breath showed white in the dark. On this morning there was no hierarchy. Only a community waiting for the fire.
Vikram, in a wool sweater over a white pancha, stepped forward with camphor on a brass plate. He chanted a short Telugu prayer and touched the flame to the dry leaves at the base.
The Bhogi Mantalu caught. Leaves flared. Flames climbed the wood until the pile roared. Heat rolled over the circle. The chill lifted. The air filled with the smell of burning wood and dry leaves. Firelight showed every face.
"It is so warm!" Aadhya pulled off her mittens and held her hands out.
"It's huge!" Rishi stared up at the flames, hopping from foot to foot. "Look how high it is going, Nana!"
"Big one this year, buddy," Deva said. He stood behind Krithika, arms around her, chin resting lightly on her head.
Sesikala walked the circle with a woven basket of dry twigs and dried cow-dung cakes. She handed a few to the children.
"Throw these in. We throw away the old things and ask for good ones this year."
Aadhya wound up and threw hard.
"Goodbye, bad things!"
Rishi stepped forward, placed a small twig carefully at the edge, and watched it catch.
"Goodbye." He ran back to Krithika and buried his face in her shawl. "Amma, the fire smells really good."
"It does, my sweet boy."
A few feet away Ronny lay on the stone, white muzzle on his paws, eyes half-closed, taking the heat into his stiff joints.
Deva watched the flames, the staff laughing, his wife in his arms, the children warm and loud. Here he was only a father.
As the fire settled into red embers, the first pale light reached the estate.
The swept concrete in front of the veranda was ready for the Muggu.
Krithika could not bend for long. A cushioned chair was brought out. She sat with ginger tea and directed.
Sesikala and three of the women staff held bowls of white rice flour.
"Make the dots even, Athamma," Krithika said. "A large sixteen-dot lotus for the center."
Sesikala worked from memory. The flour slipped through her fingers into a clean grid, then the looping lines of the border.
"I want to help! I want colors!" Aadhya dropped to her knees, jacket already off as the sun warmed the air.
"Me too! Green!" Rishi knelt beside her.
Krithika pointed them to a small floral pattern near the edge.
"You fill the flower. Aadhya pink, Rishi green. Stay inside the white lines."
Within four minutes the lines were forgotten. Aadhya dumped fistfuls of pink into the middle of a petal. Rishi, hands bright green, smeared color across the concrete and into Aadhya's pink until the flower became a muddy, happy mess.
"Aadhya! Pink on my side!"
"It looks prettier with pink!" She smeared green on his nose. He answered with yellow on her cheek.
"Okay, artists," Deva said, lifting both by the collars and pulling them clear. He wiped their faces with a wet cloth. Their hands stayed stained.
Sesikala and the staff finished the main Muggu—white lines sharp on the concrete, filled with red, yellow, and blue. Sesikala brought a brass tray with Gobbammalu: small cow-dung balls decorated with turmeric, kumkum, and marigold. She placed them at the center and the four corners.
"Since you two like dirty hands," Deva said, "time to feed the cows. Sankranti breakfast."
They ran down the dirt path to the gaushala.
The shed was clean, thatched, smelling of hay and cattle. Gir and Ongole cows stood in the enclosures, chewing. The farmhands had prepared buckets of green fodder mixed with jaggery.
Deva broke off a piece of jaggery and set it on Rishi's open palm.
"Hold your hand flat. Do not curl your fingers. Let her take it."
The white Ongole lowered her head. A long rough tongue swept the jaggery clean.
"It tickles!" Rishi wiped his hand on his pants, grinning. "Like sandpaper, Nana!"
"My turn!" Aadhya shoved forward. She did not wait for flat hands; she pushed the jaggery toward the cow's mouth, then grabbed both floppy ears and patted them hard.
"You are a very good cow. Happy Bhogi."
They spent the next hour feeding the calves. One eager brown calf tried to chew Rishi's jacket hem. They laughed until their sides hurt.
By mid-morning the chill was gone. Clear blue sky. A steady breeze off the hills—good kite weather.
Deva carried a flat cardboard box onto the back lawn and opened it. A dozen paper patang in pink, purple, green, and black. Two wooden charkhis wound with glass-coated manja.
"I want the pink one with the black eyes!" Aadhya claimed the cartoon-face kite.
"Blue and yellow, please," Rishi said, pointing to a geometric one.
"Hold on," Deva said, taking them back. "We tie the kanni first or they spin and crash."
He sat cross-legged. The children watched. He pierced the bamboo, threaded the bridle, and tied the center knot.
"Hold it by the bottom stick. Do not let go until I say."
He walked back thirty yards, letting the manja run.
"Ready… GO! Throw it up, not forward!"
Aadhya launched. Deva pulled sharp and rhythmic. The kite climbed with a hard thrum, tail fluttering.
"IT'S FLYING! NANA, IT'S FLYING!"
Rishi's turn took longer. Once he ran the wrong way and tangled the string around his legs, then fell over laughing. Eventually both kites were up.
Deva handed Rishi a spool.
"Hold the wood tight. Do not touch the string when it runs. It will cut."
"I've got it, Nana! I'm flying it!"
Aadhya grabbed the other side. For an hour they yelled, laughed, and nearly lost both kites in the trees. Deva caught them in time.
By 1:30 the hunger hit. They wound the kites down and went inside for lunch.
The table held banana leaves loaded with Chintapandu Pulihora, Garelu, Chakkara Pongali with ghee and cashews, and stacks of Ariselu.
In the living room the television showed live kite festivals. Rooftops of old Hyderabad packed with people, the sky thick with fighting kites. Then the International Kite Festival in Gujarat: fifty-foot nylon dragons, giant inflatable shapes, spinning rings, tiger kites flown by teams on the ground.
Aadhya stopped mid-bite of Ariselu. She stared, swallowed, and ran to Deva's chair, tugging his sleeve.
"Nana. Look at the giant dragons. I want to see the giant kites. I want to go there."
Rishi looked up from his rice. "They are very large. They look like they touch the clouds."
Deva looked at the screen, then at the two faces.
"You want to see the giant kites?"
"YES!"
"Then it's a promise. Tomorrow is the main day of Sankranti. We drive into the city and you see the dragons up close."
Aadhya threw her arms around his neck. Rishi clapped sticky hands. The next day was set.
Dusk settled. The house grew quiet for the last ritual of the day: Bhogi Pallu—blessing the children, long life, abundance, and protection from the evil eye.
Two small wooden peetas were set side by side on the living-room rug. Rishi wore a maroon silk kurta with gold at the collar and a white pancha. Aadhya wore a yellow and green pattu pavadai, jasmine in her hair. They sat and waited.
Krithika came from the kitchen, one hand supporting the bump, the other carrying a polished silver bowl. Inside: regi pallu, marigold and chrysanthemum petals, chopped sugarcane, and dozens of new one- and two-rupee coins.
Vikram spoke first.
"Let the blessings begin."
Sesikala took a double handful and let it fall over Rishi's head. Berries bounced. Petals settled on the kurta. Coins clinked on the floor.
"May you always be healthy, happy, and protected."
"Thank you, Nanamma!"
Vikram did the same for Aadhya. She squeezed her eyes shut and laughed as the berries tickled her neck.
Deva took a handful and poured it carefully over Rishi, making sure a few extra coins slid down his back.
"Be good, be strong, and be happy, Rishi."
Krithika leaned over and poured hers over Aadhya.
"May you always shine bright, my fierce little warrior."
Vikram clapped once.
"The blessing is done. Collect the coins!"
The quiet ended. Both children dropped to the rug on hands and knees.
"That is my coin!" Aadhya snatched a two-rupee piece from under Rishi's nose and shoved it into her skirt pocket.
"That was on my side!" Rishi grabbed three from under the petals. "I have four! I am winning!"
"I have five!" Aadhya crawled under the coffee table after strays.
Deva stood with his arm around Krithika, watching them fight over ten rupees of change on the floor of the farmhouse, laughing until it hurt.
Dinner was quiet: hot dosas and coconut chutney. The children were exhausted from the fire, the kites, and the scramble, eyes heavy, still buzzing about the giant kites tomorrow. Under the tablecloth Ronny slept with his muzzle on Deva's foot.
Deva looked around the table—parents, pregnant wife, two children still sticky with coin-hunting. Outside, international cricket waited. Inside these walls, on Bhogi, the harvest was good, the evil eye was sent away, and the house was full.