Makar Sankranti marks the transition of the sun into the zodiacal sign of Makara (Capricorn) on its celestial path, representing one of the few Hindu festivals that follows the solar calendar rather than the lunar one. In Jaipur, this day transforms the entire city into a massive open-air celebration where the sky becomes a canvas of vibrant colors and the rooftops turn into strategic battlegrounds for kite flyers of all ages. The tradition of kite flying on Sankranti in Rajasthan, particularly in Jaipur, is deeply rooted in the region’s cultural fabric and represents a collective acknowledgment of the winter solstice’s end and the beginning of longer, warmer days. The festival coincides with the harvest season, when farmers celebrate the fruits of their labor and offer gratitude to the sun god Surya for a bountiful yield. The practice of flying kites on this day is said to expose the body to the early winter sun, which is believed to have therapeutic properties that help ward off skin infections and provide much-needed vitamin D after the colder months.
The spectacle of Sankranti in Jaipur is unmatched in its scale and fervor. From dawn until well past sunset, the sky is dotted with kites of every conceivable shape, size, and color—from the traditional diamond-shaped patangs to elaborate designer kites that resemble birds, butterflies, and mythological figures. The rooftops of houses in old city areas like Johri Bazaar, Chandpol, and Tripolia Bazaar become crowded with enthusiasts who spend weeks preparing for this single day. The preparation involves selecting the right kites, testing the strength of the manja (the glass-coated string used to cut opponents’ kites), and establishing one’s position on the terrace for maximum visibility and wind advantage. The air is filled with the war cries of “Kai Po Che!”—a Gujarati phrase meaning “I have cut!”—which echoes across neighborhoods whenever someone successfully severs another flyer’s string. This competitive yet celebratory atmosphere creates a sense of community that transcends age, class, and neighborhood boundaries. Street vendors appear at every corner selling kites, spools of manja, and traditional sweets like til-gur ladoos made from sesame seeds and jaggery, which are considered auspicious for the day. The energy on the streets is palpable as families gather on rooftops, children run with reels in hand, and the collective gaze is directed skyward in a shared ritual that has been passed down through generations.
The sensory experience of Sankranti in Jaipur is something that remains etched in memory long after the day has passed. The sound of strings cutting through the air with a sharp whistle, the sight of a freed kite drifting away as someone shouts in triumph, the smell of til-gur being prepared in kitchens, and the taste of warm bajra rotis with ghee and gud served as a traditional meal—all of these elements combine to create an immersive cultural experience. The festival also has its quieter, more introspective side, where people take holy dips in rivers and tanks, offer prayers to ancestors, and engage in charitable acts like donating blankets and food to the less fortunate. In rural Rajasthan, women sing traditional folk songs dedicated to the sun god while drawing intricate rangolis at their doorsteps. The evening brings another layer of celebration with the lighting of bonfires, around which people gather to sing, dance, and share stories. This holistic celebration of nature, community, and tradition is what makes Makar Sankranti in Jaipur not just a festival but a lived experience that reinforces cultural identity and collective memory.
In stark contrast, Makar Sankranti in Gurgaon passes by with barely a whisper of acknowledgment. The corporate landscape of the National Capital Region does not pause for regional festivals, and January 14th arrives and departs as just another working day marked by meetings, deadlines, and the usual urban grind. The skyline here is dominated by glass-and-steel towers rather than colorful kites, and the rooftops—where they are accessible—remain empty and devoid of the festive energy that characterizes smaller cities. The few who remember the festival might exchange a quick “Happy Sankranti” message on WhatsApp or buy a token box of til-gud from a supermarket, but the ritual of actually flying kites, of standing on a rooftop with manja-cut fingers and a competitive glint in the eye, is entirely absent. The urban migration that brings people from all over India to metros like Gurgaon often results in a dilution of regional festivals, as the logistics of city life—high-rise apartments with no terrace access, lack of open spaces, restrictive housing society rules, and a schedule dominated by office hours—make traditional celebrations impractical. The cultural homogenization that comes with metropolitan living strips away the regional flavors that make festivals like Sankranti meaningful, reducing them to calendar dates acknowledged more in memory than in practice.
The sense of loss that accompanies this absence is difficult to articulate but deeply felt. There is a specific kind of nostalgia that surfaces when you remember the thrill of your kite soaring high, the strategic maneuvering to cut an opponent’s string, the disappointment when your own kite is severed, and the joy of reclaiming a fallen kite from a neighbor’s terrace. These experiences are not merely recreational; they are formative moments that connect individuals to their community and their cultural lineage. The absence of such traditions in a city like Gurgaon is not just a matter of missing a festival; it is symptomatic of a broader disconnection from the rhythms of life that are governed by seasons, harvests, and communal rituals. The corporate calendar recognizes no such cycles—there is no pause for the sun’s transition, no acknowledgment of the harvest, and no space for the collective joy that comes from a shared cultural practice. The only constants are quarterly targets and fiscal years, which have no relation to the agricultural or astronomical markers that have guided human societies for millennia.
This contrast between Jaipur and Gurgaon highlights a fundamental tension in contemporary Indian life—the pull between tradition and modernity, between rootedness and mobility, between community and individualism. For those who have grown up with festivals like Makar Sankranti as integral parts of their identity, the transition to a metro where such festivals are invisible creates a quiet but persistent sense of displacement. There is a recognition that something valuable has been traded for the economic opportunities and conveniences of urban life, but the trade-off is not always a comfortable one. The question remains whether it is possible to retain the essence of these traditions in a fundamentally different environment, or whether they are destined to become relics of a past that can only be revisited through memory. On this Makar Sankranti, as Gurgaon goes about its business and Jaipur’s skies fill with kites, the distance between the two realities feels more pronounced than ever. The festival continues in its heartland, vibrant and alive, while in the metro, it exists only as an echo—a reminder of what once was and what, for many, will never quite be again.